Why do we eat ghewar only during Indian monsoon

Ghewar isn’t just a dessert—it’s a monsoon ritual. The moment those first rains hit and Teej draws near, sweet shops across North India, especially Rajasthan, light up with golden stacks of this honeycomb-like delight. Crispy, soaked in sweet syrup, and topped with a layer of malai or mawa—ghewar just feels like monsoon, doesn’t it? But have you ever thought about why this mithai only pops up when it’s pouring outside and then vanishes like it was never here?



The reason goes back to where it came from. Ghewar started in Rajasthan, and Jaipur’s usually where people say it was first made. Now, frying stuff in that crazy hot, dry weather sounds like a bad idea—but when the rains hit, it suddenly makes sense. The technique used to make ghewar is delicate and strangely weather-dependent. The batter needs to hit hot ghee in just the right way, and that magic happens best when there’s more moisture in the air—something the monsoon generously provides. Try making it in peak summer or winter, and it either turns dense or doesn't hold that lacy texture.


So, ghewar became a seasonal specialty not just by tradition, but by necessity. And that’s what makes it feel more special. You wait all year for those few weeks when it shows up in sweet shops, and that short time makes every bite feel extra special.


Monsoon also means festivals like Teej and Raksha Bandhan, and that’s when ghewar really shows up. It’s more than just a sweet—it’s something people gift, share at poojas, and celebrate with. The ghee makes it rich, jaggery syrup (if you use it) adds that deep earthy sweetness, and the malai on top feels cool and comforting. In Ayurveda, ghee and milk-based sweets are thought to be nourishing, especially when the humid weather messes with your digestion.


Ghewar isn’t just some deep-fried batter—it’s all about timing, skill, and old-school tradition in one crunchy, sweet bite. It’s made in special moulds, usually fried in ghee for what feels like forever, then dunked in sugar syrup and topped with saffron, silver foil, or a thick layer of rabri. There’s plain, mawa, malai—everyone has a favourite.

Eating ghewar in the monsoon isn’t just about what’s on the plate. It’s about seasonality, community, and that quiet joy of knowing you’re having something that only comes around once a year. So go ahead—grab a piece, let it drip, and enjoy the sweet crunch while the skies pour outside.