They are talking about people from the past. A young, male relative who one day made such delicious and evenly fried pakodas* that even the ladies of the household couldn’t stop envying him; a long forgotten neighborhood aunt whose clothesline was the embodiment of middle class organizational skills; their always grumbling mother/mother-in-law and how she was not happy with the way the young male relative made those pakodas.
They are talking about them, remembering them from their last storehouse of memories, because when they left home, their relatives and snapped ties with that old life forever, they ceased to make new memories about it. So now until they themselves cease to exist, the now old male relative will always be young, forever cooking delicacies for the extended family, freshly washed clothes will continue to drip proudly in the backyard of that neighborhood aunt and the now (presumably) dead matron of the house will continue to grumble away forever. This is the fate shared by everyone who has left something behind in a hurry, more so of the refugees of fate itself.
As if time is a river which though doesn’t stop for anyone, it is we who drop the anchors of our memories and linger on, sometimes for a moment, sometimes forever.
A *Pakora (पकोड़ा; پکوڑا; பஜ்ஜி;); is a fried snack found across South Asia. Pakoras are created by taking one or two ingredients such as onion, eggplant, potato, spinach, cauliflower, tomato, chilli or occasionally chicken and dipping them in a batter of gram flour and then deep-frying them. ...en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pakoda