You’ve spotted them at traffic signals—hawkers balancing baskets brimming with them atop their heads, offering you a mouth-puckering handful through your rolled-down car window. You’ll see mounds of them in the subzi mandi, nestled in straw baskets, their inky skins catching the light. And if the monsoon has done its thing, chances are you’ve tread unknowingly over a squishy mess of them on your morning walk—jamuns, fallen from grace (and tree), painting your otherwise grey path a dramatic shade of purple. Yes, it’s jamun season in Delhi.
My earliest memory of jamun trees goes back to the early '90s, during our summer visits to Delhi. We’d come from the hills to stay with my uncle, and every weekend, without fail, he’d take us for picnics at India Gate. I remember those outings vividly—not for the sandwiches or the ice-cold bottles of Rasna—but for the majestic jamun trees that framed the avenue from India Gate all the way up Raisina Hill. These weren’t just trees; they were quiet sentinels. Planted in the 1920s as part of Edwin Lutyens’ grand design for New Delhi, they’ve stood their ground through seasons and shifting governments. A part of Delhi’s leafy legacy—firm-rooted and largely forgotten.
Even as a child, I’d wonder what these trees must’ve seen. The cavalcades. The protests. The lovers lingering under their shade. Their branches heavy with memory, their trunks weathered like old stone. Over the years, they’ve served as more than just picturesque props. Bird watchers speak of the flurry of rosy starlings that descend upon them, and parakeets, it seems, have made a roosting ritual out of them. They are alive in ways we forget to notice.
Cut to today—and I found myself staring, slightly amused, at a food delivery app offering jamuns in vacuum-sealed packaging. “R60 for 225 grams,” it said, almost smugly. I couldn’t help but chuckle. My nani’s reaction came to me instantly—clear as day and soaked in mock outrage: “Itne mehnge jamun? Jaao, saamne ped se tod ke le aao!” (Such expensive jamuns? Just go pluck some from the tree outside!)
A couple of years ago, while working on the food photography for my cookbook, I needed jamuns for one of the recipes. So, early one morning, we set off in search of a jamun-wallah. It was that awkward hour—too late for the night vendors, too early for the day’s first carts. No jamuns in sight. We were almost back home when, out of nowhere, we found ourselves under a grand, old jamun tree—its branches heavy with fruit, its shade like an old friend we never realised we missed.
It had been there all along. Right in our path. Just never in our line of thought.
So my father and I did what any self-respecting old-school desi would—we picked up a handful of pebbles and gave the tree a gentle nudge. The jamuns responded in kind. A soft plop-plop, a shower of purple, and we were giggling like school kids. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten fruit fresh off a tree. It felt almost intimate. Messy fingers, tart tongues, stained smiles—the whole lot. No barcode. No carbon footprint. Just a simple joy we had all but forgotten.
If that feels too far-fetched for you this summer, fret not. There are still small old-world joys to be found. Try, for instance, the jamun kulfi at Kuremal Mohanlal Kulfiwala in Sitaram Bazar. They’ve been around since 1903 and trust me—every mouthful is a revelation.
Or, if you prefer your nostalgia shaken and stirred, may I suggest a modern tribute to the same sentiment?
At Ikk Panjab—a restaurant in Connaught Place, rooted in the culinary soul of Undivided Punjab—mixologists Sushil Pant and Grace Muivah have dreamt up a cocktail that quite literally bottles the season. Called Jamun Parade, it’s a heady swirl of tart jamun, artisanal spirit, and a dash of childhood memory. Vibrant, violet, and unapologetically bold, this drink is a bestseller for good reason.
Sometimes, all it takes is a burst of purple on your tongue to remind you of who you were, where you came from, and the quiet abundance that still surrounds us—if only we choose to look. Jamun season isn’t just a fleeting summer moment. It’s a flavour, a memory, a story waiting to be tasted again.