Summer then: Flavours that echo through time

We would race through dusty lanes, our laughter mingling with the distant hum of cicadas. The gulmohar trees stood like sentinels, their fiery blossoms casting dappled shadows under which we would find refuge. The sun was both our companion and adversary. After hours of play, we would stumble home, dusty and dishevelled. The refrigerator was a treasure chest — filled with cool, tangy nimbu-paani and the crimson elixir of Rooh Afza, each sip a burst of relief and joy. Those drinks were more than just refreshment; they were the nectar of summer, carrying the essence of crushed ice, the tang of lemon and the sweet whisper of rose petals.

Having grown up across various cities in India, my childhood was a mosaic of summers, each region painting its own vivid palette of flavours and traditions. My paternal roots in Punjab introduced me to the sweet, creamy notes of meethi lassi, a luscious embrace of yoghurt, sugar and a hint of cardamom. On the other hand, my maternal lineage from Dehradun gifted me with the distinct, earthy charm of pallar — a fermented yoghurt-based beverage, humble yet profoundly flavourful. The mild, smoky tang of pallar was elevated with a sharp tadka of mustard seeds and mustard oil, its aroma as bold as the hills of Uttarakhand. My naani would carefully store this beverage in a clay pot, then bury it in a small hole in the backyard of her Dehradun home, letting it rest for nearly a week before Holi. The earth’s breath seeped into the pot, infusing the pallar with a rustic depth that could only be born from the union of tradition and nature.

On Holi, this earthy elixir would be unearthed, served alongside crispy, golden pakodas, lovingly dunked into the cool, tangy drink. It was more than just a meal— it was a ritual, a celebration of heritage.

When my father was transferred to Assam, we were welcomed with a summer symphony — Assam’s pride, the kaaji lebu, a variety of lemon that was as bold as the land itself. The first time I tasted ghol in Nazira, a small town nestled in the heart of Assam, it was like discovering a new note in an old melody. Made with kaaji lebu, curd, and a whisper of sugar, ghol was unlike anything I had known — refreshing, with the tang of lemon peel and the quiet, effervescent charm of summer.

In Mumbai, every street corner whis- pered stories of cultures entwined and flavours fused. From the tangy, spiced em- brace of masala chaas — a cooling, zesty buttermilk that my Gujarati friends swore by, the summer’s elixir that danced in every home like a cherished ritual, to the rich, creamy decadence of kesari piyush — a golden-hued concoction where the silky sweetness of shrikhand met the tangy freshness of buttermilk, a Maharashtrian delight found tucked away in humble eateries, serving warmth in clay glasses.

Then there was neer mor, a simple yet bold revelation, a buttermilk infused with the sharp bite of ginger and the fiery kick of green chillies. I first tasted it in the modest, welcoming home of a neighbour from Tamil Nadu, where the flavours spoke a language I’d never heard before — fresh, vibrant, unapologetically bold.

Each of these drinks wasn’t just a refreshment, they were passports to places, to friendships, to fleeting moments that stitched together the fabric of my childhood in summer.

Vernika Awal is a Delhi–based food writer