The first sip was cold, sweet, and so deeply pink it felt like I was drinking a memory. Not mine, exactly — more like someone else’s summer. But it settled on my tongue with the authority of something familiar. Homemade rose syrup. The kind my grandmother used to make in the hottest part of May, when the mangoes were still ripening and the school holidays had just begun. The kind that turned a glass of cold water into a ceremony. A dessert. A declaration that summer was here, and we were ready for it.
We didn’t buy rose syrup from stores. Not because we were snobs about ingredients, but because my grandmother insisted on making it herself. She would soak dried rose petals in warm water, strain them, then cook the essence down with sugar and a few drops of lemon to hold the color. The process took hours. It involved things like muslin cloths, silver strainers, and that one old bottle with the broken cork we only used for “rose ka sharbat.” The kitchen would smell like a garden drenched in sun. Floral, warm, sticky.
The Anticipation Was the Flavor
She never gave us the syrup right away. It had to sit, cool, deepen. By the time we were allowed a taste, the bottle would be pulled from the back of the fridge like a sacred object. The first glass always went to my grandfather, who would sip slowly, nod once, and say, “Thoda zyada meetha hai this year, but good.” That meant it was perfect.
Then it was our turn. She’d pour just an inch into the bottom of a steel tumbler, add chilled water from the matka, and hand it over without comment. That first sip — icy, perfumed, sweet in a way that clung to your throat — was like crossing a seasonal threshold. Like stepping barefoot onto a veranda on the first day of vacation. It made everything else — the sweat, the power cuts, the long afternoons — seem survivable. Almost joyful.
A Color That Meant Something
It wasn’t just the taste. It was the color. That deep, ruby-pink shade that no shop-bought bottle ever got right. It looked like it came from a dream sequence in an old Bollywood film. I’d hold the glass up to the light and stare, convinced it held some magic property. I wasn’t wrong. A few sips in, and I’d feel cooler. Calmer. Like summer had been domesticated into something manageable — bottled and diluted and made drinkable.
And it wasn’t reserved for guests or festivals. This was a weekday drink. A “you’ve been playing outside too long” drink. A “sit still and drink this before you melt into the furniture” drink. It was both a treat and a tool. A way to fight the heat and the restlessness of being young with nowhere to go.
Years Later, Trying to Make My Own
I didn’t think about rose syrup for years. Not when I moved to Austin. Not when I stocked my fridge with iced coffee and La Croix. But one especially hot summer, I found myself craving that exact shade of pink. Not the taste, even. The *feeling*. So I tried making it. I ordered dried rose petals online, burned the first batch of sugar, and forgot to add the lemon. The syrup turned out dark and slightly bitter, nothing like hers. But I strained it, poured it into a mason jar, and let it chill.
That evening, I added a spoon to cold water. It wasn’t right. But it was close enough. I closed my eyes and took a sip. For just a moment, I was ten again. The fan creaked above me. My hands were sticky. And everything — absolutely everything — felt like summer.
The Taste That Time Forgot, But I Didn’t
Now I make it every May. Not for anyone else. Just for me. I don’t try to perfect it. I let the syrup be what it is — unpredictable, flawed, a little too strong. Because that’s what memory tastes like. Not exact. Not measured. Just real. Sticky. Beautiful.
The first sip of homemade rose syrup will always feel like the beginning of something. Summer. Rest. Joy. Or maybe just the rediscovery of a flavor I didn’t know I still carried inside me. Sweet, pink, and quietly powerful.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
