The subzi mandis of Delhi NCR feel like living, breathing colour palettes right now. Stalls spill over with produce, the air thick with the smell of damp earth, crushed coriander and something faintly sour that hints at change. Winter greens are still holding their ground, proud and abundant, but tucked between them are the first little plump raw mangoes, pale and promising, a sign that the season is beginning to turn.
There is colour everywhere. Black carrots, of course, are the true stars of the moment. Their arrival signals one thing in most north Indian homes. It is time for kanji. In our house, it is almost a ritual. The carrots are washed, sliced and dropped into earthen barnis or clear glass jars. Sometimes a beetroot joins them, deepening the colour. Mustard seeds are crushed just enough to release their heat, peppercorns are added whole, rock salt sprinkled with instinct rather than measure. Water goes in, the lid is set lightly, and the jar is placed in a patch of sun, as if being gently introduced to spring itself.
For three or four days, the kanji rests there, slowly transforming. Each morning, it is checked and stirred. The liquid deepens to a shade somewhere between wine and ink, sharp and alive. Once ready, it is sipped in small quantities, tangy and bracing, a probiotic tonic long before the word became fashionable. A desi kombucha, yes, but also something far more intimate. A taste of patience, of seasonal eating, of kitchens that listened closely to the rhythm of the year.
In the north of India, kanji is the highlight of spring. In our home, it is inseparable from Holi. It sits on the table while colours fly outside, grounding the chaos, cooling the body, anchoring the day in memory. Even now, one sip is enough to take me back to those mornings of soft sunshine, stained fingers, and the comforting certainty that spring had truly arrived.
In East Delhi, Kanan Bala, a home chef better known as Mama K, bottles her homemade kanji and sends it out into the world through Instagram. It has found quiet popularity among those who crave the taste of home and the assurance of the season’s best. Each bottle feels personal, as if it has travelled straight from her kitchen shelf to yours, carrying with it the familiarity of something lovingly made rather than produced.
Over in Gurugram, Sunili Bhatia does much the same, capturing the flavours and fleeting moods of the season through her kanji under her venture Saatvika. Her bottles taste of sunshine and patience, of recipes shaped by instinct and time. Together, these women remind us that kanji is more than a drink. It is memory, seasonality and care, preserved just long enough to be shared.
While kanji has largely remained a homestay, quietly fermenting on sunny balconies and kitchen windowsills, it has also long held its own outside the home. In Delhi, it steps confidently onto the street in the form of kanji vada, sharp, cooling and deeply comforting. Come spring, there are pockets across the city where this seasonal delicacy draws loyal crowds, each person waiting patiently for that first tangy bite.
Near Sis Ganj Sahib Gurudwara, a modest 160 year old shop, Sri Balaji Chaat Bhandar, has been serving traditional kanji vada for generations. Tucked into the lanes of Old Delhi, it feels almost timeless. Eating here is never rushed. You stand, you sip, you chew, surrounded by history, noise and the unmistakable feeling that some flavours are meant to outlive trends.
A short walk away, near Chandni Chowk, Shri Shyam Kanji Corner is another name spoken with reverence by kanji lovers. Widely recognised for its authentic kanji vada, this spot draws regulars who return every year as soon as the season begins, as if answering an unspoken call.
In a city that is constantly rushing forward, kanji reminds us to pause. To wait for the sun to do its work, for flavours to deepen in their own time, for seasons to announce themselves gently. Whether it is fermenting on a balcony, bottled by hands that honour tradition, or ladled out on the streets of Old Delhi for a few fleeting weeks each year, kanji remains an edible marker of transition. It belongs to that moment, when winter loosens its grip and summer has not yet taken over. And perhaps that is its true magic.