From a sun-drenched veranda in Assam to doorsteps across the world — this is the story of a grandmother's kitchen, a daughter's dream, and a region's undying culinary soul.
It begins with a smell. Turmeric and mustard oil, mingling with the humid air of the Brahmaputra valley. An old woman sits on a bamboo veranda, her fingers working rhythmically through a clay bowl of raw mangoes, coating each piece with a mixture of spices ground fresh that morning.
"She never measured anything. It was all feeling. All memory. All love."
This woman — our founder's grandmother — was one of thousands of unsung culinary artists across North East India who spent decades perfecting the art of pickling. She learned from her mother, who learned from hers, in an unbroken chain stretching back generations into the tribal heartlands of Assam.
Her pickles were famous in the village. People would bring their own jars, hoping to leave with some of her mango or bamboo shoot achar. She never sold them. She simply gave — because in North East India, food is love made tangible.
Years later, far from that veranda and in the bustle of a city far from home, our founder realised something: nothing sold in any supermarket — not the fancy imported brands, not the mass-produced Indian varieties — tasted anything like home.
The commercial pickles were sweet when they shouldn't be. They were uniform, preserved with chemicals, stripped of the wild and alive quality that makes North East Indian pickling so unique. They tasted like a product. Grandmother's tasted like a place.
"What if the whole country — the whole world — could taste what I grew up with?"
That question became an obsession, then a mission, then PICKLLUM. With a notebook full of family recipes, a phone full of calls to aunties, cousins, and village elders, and a burning desire to bring these flavours to the world without changing what made them magical — the work began.
The first challenge was doing it right. Every shortcut was tempting — pre-ground spices, refined oils, artificial preservation — and every shortcut was refused. PICKLLUM would be made the old way or not at all.
Raw mangoes harvested at peak season. Bamboo shoots from the forest, fermented slowly. King chilli — the Bhut Jolokia, once the world's hottest — handpicked in Nagaland. Spices ground fresh by hand. Cold-pressed mustard oil. Sesame oil. No concentrates. No shortcuts.
The sun-drying process alone takes up to 21 days. The fermentation of bamboo shoots, weeks. The curing of lemons, a month. PICKLLUM operates on nature's schedule, not a factory's calendar — and the jars taste exactly like that decision.
Every jar of PICKLLUM is made by a skilled woman artisan from across the 8 sister states of North East India. They are not employees. They are co-creators. They are the brand.
A bowl of khorisa achar, a family visit, and a realisation: the world deserves to taste this. Research and recipe documentation begins.
First batch produced. FSSAI certification achieved. First 100 jars sold in 48 hours via Instagram. The community response is overwhelming.
15 women artisans from 6 states join the PICKLLUM family. Revenue sharing model implemented. A brand that empowers becomes a movement.
Pan-India delivery operational. 5,000+ jars shipped. Export-grade packaging introduced for NRI and international orders.