This year, with Diwali brushing up against the weekend, most of us made the most of the long-ish weekend. Families poured in from different cities, friends turned up with tins of homemade mithai, and the rummy decks never quite found their way back into their boxes. I remember one evening when the electricity flickered during a card party at home—candles were hastily lit, someone put on old Kishore Kumar songs, and suddenly the night turned nostalgic, like a scene from an old film. Now, as everyone retreats into the rhythm of everyday life, there’s that familiar quiet again—the kind that feels almost too still, as if the city itself is catching its breath after days of sparkle and laughter.
For me, Diwali has always been the prelude to winter—that soft moment when the golden light lingers a little longer and the city feels both tired and tender. A few mornings ago, I stopped by our local subzi mandi and noticed the shift of seasons unfolding in plain sight. The summer gourds have begun to retreat, making space for the bright abundance of winter: rosy radishes, crisp cauliflower, bundles of methi, palak, and mustard leaves tied with jute string, and carrots that looked as though someone had polished them for display.
“Yeh mausam sabse pyara hai bechne ke liye,” said Ram Kishore, our neighbourhood sabziwala, as he adjusted the heap of red carrots on his cart. “Sab log khush hote hain nayi sabzi dekh ke.” He wasn’t wrong. There’s an unmistakable joy that winter brings to the markets—people leaning in to sniff fresh methi, negotiating over cauliflower sizes, and stuffing their bags till they bulge. No app delivery could ever recreate that thrill.
When I was little, winter meant standing beside my grandmother in the courtyard, helping her spread out thin batons of carrots, turnips and cauliflower on a white sheet. She would hum old songs as she sprinkled them with turmeric and salt, the sun catching the silver of her hair. By evening, the vegetables would glisten, ready to be bottled into gajar-gobhi-shalgam achar—that tangy Punjabi pickle which could make even a plain paratha taste festive. For me, it wasn’t just food; it was the smell of home in a jar.
Every region has its own way of embracing the cold. In Bihari households, our family friends would celebrate the arrival of fresh peas as if it were a festival in itself. I remember the excitement of shelling peas on the veranda with their children, racing to see who could fill their bowl first. Those very peas would then find their way into chura-matar or matar ki ghugni, fragrant with ghee and freshly ground spices.
In Bengal, my husband looks forward to winter for one dish alone — koraishuti’r kochuri with alu’r dum. He often tells me how, as a boy, he’d wake up to the sound of oil crackling in the kadhai and the smell of kochuris puffing up in his mother’s kitchen. Even now, when we make them at home, he insists on using the first notun alu — the new baby potatoes — and will happily spend an afternoon mashing peas for the perfect filling.
In my own Punjabi kitchen, peas find their way into everything — gajar-matar, aloo-matar, methi-matar, even into the pulao that accompanies rich gravies. A close friend from Uttar Pradesh once brought over a bowl of matar ka nimona on a cold January evening, the kind made with wadi and freshly ground peas. It was humble and hearty, but it carried a certain warmth that made conversation flow effortlessly.
As the bazaars don their wintry hues, it’s hard not to notice how this season heightens both flavour and feeling. The vegetables look brighter, the spices smell sharper, and every meal seems to have a story tucked inside it. The growing interest in organic produce and farm-to-table ideas has only deepened this connection, bringing people back to the idea that food tastes best when it’s rooted in season and soil.
Winter, to me, is an invitation to slow down — to cook without hurry, to revisit recipes you thought you’d forgotten, to eat with a sense of gratitude.
