A distinct aroma settles over Delhi’s old city streets just as the autumn chill begins to brush against the morning air. It is a caramelised sweetness drifting from the bustling arteries of Khari Baoli and the narrow lanes of Chandni Chowk. As Dussehra fades and Diwali draws close, these historic markets transform into a whimsical wonderland, dominated by an old-world tradition that has persisted through generations: the humble world of cheeni ke khilone (sugar toys) and kheel-batashe.
Diwali in India is a rich tapestry of regional rituals, yet few symbols evoke such profound childhood nostalgia quite like these handcrafted sugar confections. In my grandparents’ home, the kitchen would hum with activity as everyone rolled out namak paare and shaped golden laddus. But my favourite ritual lay beyond the kitchen doors—the trip to the local market to buy delicate sugar huts, puffed roasted rice (kheel), and airy sugar drops (batashe).
In my relatives' Punjabi household in East Delhi, this tradition is enshrined in a ritual affectionately called cheeni di hatti—literally translating to a 'sugar shop.' During the Diwali puja, a tiny sugar toy resembling a rustic hut is placed proudly atop a mountain of kheel, strewn with batashe. As a child, the main appeal was simple: waiting eagerly for those sweet batashe to be handed out as the first divine prasad. But as the years have passed, I have found myself increasingly captivated by the history and deep-rooted symbolism tucked inside these fragile sugar structures.
The art of batasha making is a fascinating Indian innovation, historically intertwined with the era when sugarcane was a prized commodity along ancient trade routes. Traders and farmers once transformed golden sugarcane juices into what was essentially white gold. Because the autumn harvest aligns with the festival season, these confections became deeply auspicious. Across various communities, batashe dipped in ghee are offered to deities during Navratri to invoke prosperity, while the first harvest of kheel and batashe is offered to Goddess Lakshmi to bless the home with abundance and the communal spirit of sharing.
Yet, stepping into Batashe Wali Gali today reveals a poignant juxtaposition. Amidst a modern market flooded with artisanal, Instagram-ready mithais wrapped in velvet boxes, these simple sugar toys stand as quiet survivors.
I found myself chatting with Gurbachan Singh, a 73-year-old artisan who has spent generations crafting these edible sugar toys in a tiny, crowded corner of Chandni Chowk. When asked about how times have changed, his smile carried a hint of melancholy. "Logo ko cheeni se dar lagta hai ab, toh kam khareedte hain yeh khilone" (People are more conscious of sugar consumption now, so fewer people buy these toys), he remarked, gesturing to the gleaming sugar huts surrounding him.
Just then, a gentleman of a similar age walked up to Singh’s stall, carefully selecting a handful of treats. When I asked if the tradition still held personal meaning for him, his eyes lit up. "Humara bachpan beeta hai in meethe khilono ke saath. Inke bina Diwali adhoori hai" (My childhood was spent with these sweet toys. Diwali remains incomplete without them). When pressed about whether he worried for the future of the craft, his response was both a plea and a promise: "Jab tak hum hain, yeh hain" (These will stay alive, as long as we keep them alive).
Standing there amidst the vibrant chaos of Old Delhi—surrounded by the cacophony of vendors, and the lingering scent of boiling sugar—I realised that these sugar toys are much more than mere holiday props. They are edible heirlooms. They remind us of a simpler time, tethering our present-day adult lives to the innocent magic of our childhoods. And as long as elders like Singh and patrons who refuse to let go of the past continue to breathe life into them, the sweet soul of Delhi’s traditional Diwali will endure.
For more updates, join/follow our WhatsApp, Telegram and YouTube channels.