Making Sweet Memories In Ayodhya
By A Draft Correspondent
On a crisp February morning in the lanes of Ayodhya, a rhythmic call pierces the fog: “Gajak-gajak garam-garam! Til ki khushboo, gud ka arma!”
The vendor Rinku Jha's voice, weathered yet melodic, rises above the clatter of copper kadhai and the hiss of bubbling jaggery. Around him, slabs of gajak—the brittle, sesame-jaggery sweet synonymous with North Indian winters—glow like amber under the weak sun. This is no ordinary sales pitch. It’s a fragment of Uttar Pradesh’s living oral heritage, where a seasonal treat doubles as a cultural cipher.
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| Winter is harsh, but gajak warms both the body and the spirit,” says Rinku Jha of Ayodhya |
Gajak, made from toasted sesame seeds and sugarcane jaggery, is more than a snack. In a state where agrarian rhythms dictate life, it’s a symbol of resilience. “Winter is harsh, but gajak warms both the body and the spirit,” says Rinku Jha, a sweet-maker in Ayodhya. “We’ve sung about it for generations—not in grand songs, but in the small moments.”
And, when he prepares gajak for Makar Sankranti, it's “Til-gud ki revdi, gajak meethi ho!Thandi pawan mein, dil ki baat chheethi ho!”(Sesame-jaggery revdi, sweet gajak!In the cold wind, hearts speak their secrets!)
Here, gajak isn’t just food; it’s a companion during long nights, a reward after harvest, and a metaphor for life’s bittersweet balance.
In Awadh’s Holi celebrations, gajak takes on a playful role. Folk singers weave it into Phagun songs, teasing lovers with lines like:“Gajak jaisi meethi boli, ho Rama!Khao gajak, pigle jiyara, jaise barse meha!”(Your words are sweet like gajak, O beloved!Eat gajak, let hearts melt like monsoon rain!)
The irony isn’t lost on locals. Gajak, despite its brittle texture, becomes a tender metaphor for affection. “It’s like love—hard to break into, but once you taste it, it’s unforgettable,” grins Raju, a folk singer from Ayodhya.
UP’s gajak culture thrives in its unscripted street theater. Vendors, often third-generation sweet-sellers, compose impromptu rhymes to lure customers:“Laal rang, chand si chamak!Gajak waliya, yeh hai Uttar Pradesh ki shaan!”(Red hue, shimmering like the moon!Gajak seller, this is Uttar Pradesh’s pride!)
These chants—a mix of humor, hyperbole, and nostalgia—are rarely written down. “My father taught me these lines, and his father taught him,” says Suresh Gupta, a vendor in Varanasi. “It’s our way of keeping winter alive.”
Even proverbs echo its duality: “Gajak toda daant, par dil kare chaahat!” (Gajak may break teeth, but the heart craves it!).
Today, UP’s folk artists are stitching gajak into contemporary narratives. Young singers blend rustic motifs with indie beats:“Yeh til ki khushboo, yeh gud ka geet,Barfili sardiyon ka hai yeh meet!”(This aroma of sesame, this song of jaggery,It’s the anthem of icy winters!)
Meanwhile, urban bakeries sell “gourmet gajak” with pistachios and chocolate—a far cry from village hearths. But in UP’s heartland, the old verses endure.
As the sun sets over the Gomti River, a group of children in Lucknow chant a borrowed rhyme while sharing gajak:“Gajak le lo, garmi de do!Thand bhagao, mitha bol!”(Buy gajak, gift us warmth!Banish the cold, speak sweetly!)
In that moment, the humble sweet transcends its ingredients. It becomes a winter heirloom—crunchy, fleeting, and alive with the voices of countless winters past.
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