It was a pleasant summer morning, and we sat in the backyard drying the raw mango slices cut by Amma and Nannama. A ritual we follow every summer so that we can enjoy the flavours of mango throughout the year.

“No, dry them on that side. This space is for the next item,” my grandmother instructed as my sister and I spread another cloth across the yard.

“What are we drying more?” I asked curiously.

Before my sister could reply, Kashappa, our farmer’s son, arrived with a heavy sack. He untied it, and a heap of vibrant red chillies spilled onto the floor.

“Ahh, the heat!” Nannama exclaimed, covering her nose to block a sneeze. “Perfect chillies! Are these from Guntur?” Her eyes sparkled as she touched them.

“Yes, Amma. My father brought them fresh from Guntur,” Kashappa said, settling down to destem each chilli.

“These will make the finest chilli powder—bright in colour, strong in flavour, and perfect for any recipe,” Nannama said, her tone filled with satisfaction.

“Can I help, Nannama?”, I rushed closer eagerly. 

“These are not like mango slices you sneak and eat while drying. Chillies need care. Observe and learn from akka —because this spice is the soul of our cooking.”, she said in her usual stern voice. 

That summer, under the hot sun, I learnt not just how to destem and dry chillies—but also how a handful of red powder carries the warmth of tradition and the taste of home.