Till The Great Tilkut Diwas

© by 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

The recent stream of forwards on WhatsCrapp exhorting us to replace the old holly jolly tree this winter solstice is in full flow. As long as we are open to such ideas, I propose another one that is close to many of our hearts. I am speaking of tilkut, of course... something that never did ask for attention ever. The one and only tilkut. It doesn't need a viral campaign. It once used to arrive in our home quietly, fresh from the most famous halwaai dukan in Upper Bazar. It occupied a special place on the table, wrapped in old newspaper, tied with a thin sutli (string). It arrived like some underground legend, a long-lost relative every winter. 

For the uninitiated, real tilkut is that deceptively simple roundish slab about the size of your palm. It's a disk of roasted sesame seed (til) pounded (kut) into perfection. Always molded with gur (jaggery). We won't talk about the other abomination, its sinful, faux cousin, that slick, stylish mockery with sugar. It is thicker at the edges, shaped like a donut, wholesome without a hole. The outer edge protects the fragile, thinner middle section. It looks like it was designed following divine inspiration by someone who said, “What if... we made something humble… but supremely powerful?” One bite in, and suddenly your teeth are questioning your life choices and your dentist starts planning his next beach vacation with his projected earnings. You don't care if your hands are sticky, your knees weak and your legs are shaky. Your brain is flooded with warmth of grandma's hugs. Your ancestors are nodding in approval from several centuries ago.

Tilkut... doesn't care about trends. It has survived generations without being “reinvented,” “deconstructed,” or turned into a pumpkin spice latte tilkut milkshake by some corporate cucina. No east-west fusion, no north-south confusion. It shows up every winter like clockwork around Makar Sankranti and says, “I’m here. You know what to do.” And you do. You always did.

Which is exactly why the mighty tilkut deserves its own The Great Tilkut Diwas. A full day for the weak and the meek. A full week for the old and the bold. National holiday. Schools closed. Offices on half-day mode. Conversations start with “Tilkut?" and end with friendly arguments that sometimes would turn emotional. A day where we collectively acknowledge that no fancy dessert has ever matched the raw confidence of toasted sesame seeds pounded together by jaggery into rounded determination. Tilkut over Tiramisu. Tilkut über alles Trifles.

Tilkut Diwas would celebrate contradictions. A creation seemingly impossible to break but any undue force and it crumbles in the middle. Sheer simplicity compared to the pure seasonal joy of winter food supremacy. Only two main ingredients, zero nonsense about additives or preservatives. Certainly addictive. Only minor controversy - are you Team gur wala or Team chini wala? There is no need for elaborate tilkut supply chain, no tilkut experts screaming their heads off on TilkutTV. Maybe a tilkut appreciation WhatsCrapp post or two. Certainly all the tilkut patents protecting it from international IP (intellectual property) theft. UNESCO should declare it a Heritage Food. Le Cordon Bleu recognized, Michelin starred. Never industrialized nor mass produced. We expect many videos of teenagers trying to besmirch its grandeur and immediately regretting it after a stinging chappal or two from their grandma.

Because tilkut isn’t just food. It’s culture. It's lifestyle. It’s a collective winter reverie in a land that truly appreciates the season with fresh chuda dahi. A crunchy reminder that greatness doesn’t need frosting, icing, glazing or otherwise fancy culinary techniques. Yes, let us give Tilkut it's own Diwas. The world has waited long enough. The Tilkut Diwas would herald the coming of Makar Sankranti. No longer a plus-one who never got their own invitation but absolutely made to the party on its own. Back when the sun’s northward journey was apparently important enough for humans to care, Makar Sankranti used to arrive with cosmic significance. Zero marketing campaign. No countdowns. No merch. Just vibes, astronomical math, and sesame seeds. Ali Baba (of the Forty Thieves) understood its significance well enough to whisper "Open, Sesame!" This is a fitting slogan for this special day for this mouth-watering treasure.

Such a day would start with the traditional Hunt for Great Tilkut. The quest. The pilgrimage. The whispered tips: “Us galli mein ek dukaan hai…Woh corner wala abhi bhi taazaa banaata hai…Kal sawerey sawerey jaana, baad mein khatam ho jaata hai.” (There is this one shop in that lane. That corner guy still makes it fresh. Go as early as possible tomorrow or they run out quick.) Hushed whispers of certain locations in Upper Bazar, Mahabir Chowk or Ashok Nagar... or the holiest of the Holy, Tilkut dhaam, Gaya, too far away. Maybe next year with some planning.

Tilkut purchase is not a simple transaction. You test its texture, gauge the structure and compare its color with your past experiences. You savor the aroma with proper reverence and nostalgia. A small taste may be offered to judge its freshness, accept it with greedy grace. Now you negotiate the price with your instincts, and debate that man who had been stirring sesame longer than you’ve been alive. The Tilkut maestro who has assumed the physical shape quite the opposite of their masterpieces, thinner at the ends and thicker in the middle. Portly, very well-rounded, a reverse tilkut. 

Great tilkut snaps with jagged edges and showers you with crumbs. You dive after them, shoving the larger crumbs back in your mouth. The errant smaller crumbs would cling to your clothes and proudly announce to the world the crunchy choices you had made that morning. You don't care.

Makar Sankranti mornings in the faraway days used to begin properly with chuda dahi. Not the sad, pre-flattened version that come in a plastic bag labeled “authentic, organic, eclectic, ethnic” or any other "ick." Freshly rolled chuda, still warmish, uneven, flaked with bits of husk, and smug about it. It soaked up the thick, sweet, full-fat homemade curd made by moms and grandmas. It understood it's purpose, that of adding a new zest for life as well as a few pounds to your hips. Brown sugar liberally sprinkled with confidence. Maybe a banana if things were festive. Breakfast of champions, with quiet dignity, smug pride and total self-respect.

Fast forward to the present, a hectic morning in this cultural wasteland, a black hole where traditions vanish. Here, tilkut does not seem to exist, even in the local Desi Bazar. Its owner, with a dubious origin unlikely from the sacred tilkut-land of our memories, feigns ignorance and promises to "look into it". We have to settle for the “freshly packed” pretenders, poorly sealed six months ago, brought over in bulging suitcases by fast friends or resentful relatives. Vigilant Canines and Customs agents at international airports had sniffed disdainfully at these packets but eventually let it go. These pretenders are now clumpy, huddled, shapeless messes, sickeningly sweet, gur wala shamelessy stuck together with chini wala cousins. Fatigued from their travel-induced trauma and tasting like nostalgia filtered through sweat-socks.

The arrival of Makar Sankranti just stirs up desperation. The day shows up without fail, too cold here to bring out any dueling kites. The winds whisper or wail, taunting us about seasonal transitions. Chuda dahi is still our choice on this day. No steel-cut oats, no cinnamon sprinkled over soy milk, thank you very much... But where is tilkut? I look around, confused, wondering when exactly it went from “essential” to “optional.” Maybe next year, I resolve. Once, these weren’t foods. They were signals. That winter was manageable. That Spring was just around the corner, about to spring. That your jaw was still strong and your sugar level was not a drag on your existence. 

So yes, let's start The Great Tilkut Diwas tradition. For worldwide tilkut awareness and celebration. With the memory of sticky crumbs, forgotten jawline trauma, and the eternal gratification of knowing that somewhere, far away, real tilkut still exists… just not here, not yet.