There are some sweets you eat with noise—crunching into jalebis, slurping kulfi off sticks, spoon-fighting over kheer. But rasgulla? That one demands silence. Not reverence. Not formality. Just… silence. The kind where you forget for a moment that anyone else is in the room. Where even the clink of a spoon feels like a disruption. Because when you eat a rasgulla, you’re not multitasking. You’re letting it take over.
In our house, rasgullas were never everyday sweets. They weren’t like the constant mithai tray with forgotten soan papdi in a corner. Rasgullas were special-occasion dessert. Brought out of the fridge at the end of a big lunch when everyone was too full to eat but too polite to say no. Served in tiny glass bowls—the ones reserved for “company”—with just one syrup-drenched orb floating in the middle, like a planet suspended in sugarwater. And always, always eaten slowly.
The Drama of the First Bite
The thing about a rasgulla is that it looks simple. It’s round. It’s white. It doesn’t scream for attention. But that first bite—when your teeth sink into it and the syrup explodes—is an event. Soft, but not mushy. Sweet, but not cloying. Warm if fresh. Cold if from the fridge. And always with that impossible texture: spongy, juicy, airy, and dense all at once.
When I was younger, I didn’t get the hype. I’d poke mine with a spoon, roll it around in the syrup, maybe ask for a different sweet. But one day, probably around age twelve, I bit into one at the exact right temperature, with no distractions, and it just… landed. Like a light turned on. I remember sitting back in my chair, holding the spoon midair, and thinking, “Oh. This is why they eat it like that.”
Silence, Because Words Don’t Help
Whenever rasgullas were served, the room changed. No chatter. No debates about cricket or politics or whether the achar was too salty this time. Just spoons dipping, eyes softening, people nodding slightly to themselves. You don’t talk through a rasgulla. You let it do its work. Even the loudest uncles quieted down. It was the one moment in a meal when everyone collectively chose peace.
We never rushed it either. No one asked for seconds too quickly. You let it rest in your bowl for a bit. You circled it with your spoon. You watched the syrup glisten under the ceiling fan light. The only sound was the occasional satisfied sigh. And maybe the fridge humming in the background, already planning its next batch of chill.
The Unofficial Rules
There were unspoken rasgulla rules. You didn’t squeeze it before eating—sacrilege. You didn’t cut it with your spoon. You didn’t bite half and put the rest back. You either committed, or you waited. And you definitely didn’t say things like “too sweet.” If you weren’t in the mood, you simply passed. Silently. Respectfully. Because the rasgulla wasn’t up for critique. It was beyond category.
Carrying the Sweet Across Oceans
Now in Austin, I still keep a tin of rasgullas in my pantry. They’re not the same—denser, a bit too syrupy—but every now and then, on a Sunday afternoon, I’ll chill one, pour it into a bowl, and sit quietly by the window to eat it. My son once asked why I looked so serious while eating it. I told him, “Because this one needs full attention.” He rolled his eyes. But he stayed quiet. He knew it wasn’t the time for questions.
I don’t eat them often. That’s the trick. You save them. Not just for guests, but for moments that deserve stillness. For meals that need a soft landing. For days when noise feels too much and sugar feels like healing.
One Bite, a Whole Mood
The rasgulla doesn’t try to impress. It doesn’t need layers or fusion versions. It doesn’t want to be modern. It just wants to sit in its syrup, wait patiently, and give you one perfect bite that quiets the world for a second. And in a country where everything from weddings to breakfast comes with background sound, that kind of silence is rare. And valuable.
So here’s to the rasgulla. To the softest rebellion against noise. To the sweetness that doesn’t shout. And to those rare meals where everyone sits still, spoons in hand, and for once, lets the silence do the talking.
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.
