For many of us, the flavours of our childhood are more than just taste—they are portals to the past, carrying stories of people and places long gone. This is a story about one such flavour, a humble sweet called Dehrori, and the remarkable woman whose memories led to its discovery.
The Storyteller and Her Lost World
My constant companion was my 75-year-old Bua, my father's eldest sister. More a grandmother than an aunt, she lived with us after being widowed at the tender age of ten. Strongly built and educated enough to devour books and newspapers, she was a devoted foodie with an instinct for storytelling. Every day, after finishing her household chores and a brief pooja, she would settle in the angan, the courtyard.
There, under the soft winter sun, she would transport me to her childhood in Jamtara during the 1950s. Her friends—Chhobi, Toni, Fatik, Bappa—would come vividly alive in her narratives. She spoke with striking clarity about winter picnics known as Poos Bhattas, about how tender amaranth stems made the finest chorchoris, and her firm belief that a proper khichuri must have whole ghobis that don't dissolve into paste. I lost count of the times I heard about Toni, who, despite being Bengali, couldn't fry a fish properly. Her memories were as sharp as her discerning taste buds.
The Craving That Sparked a Quest
Our afternoons were often punctuated by calling out to khomcha wallahs for little treats. But one craving of hers remained elusive: dehrori. This was a sweet-and-sour, deep-fried delight her mother had perfected, though Bua's own attempts, by her own amused admission, tasted like a poorly made anarsa. She passed away at ninety-four, but the memory of that unmet craving lingered.
Six years later, my search for the true dehrori began. It led me from shop to shop, through countless stories, and finally to its origin: Dehrori is a traditional, deeply rooted sweet from Chhattisgarh. This discovery revealed it was not just a recipe but a piece of culinary heritage, shaped by time, climate, and technique.
Unveiling the Soul of Dehrori
At first glance, dehrori might be mistaken for a rustic cousin of the gulab jamun. But its soul is entirely distinct. It belongs to an older culinary grammar, one that predates commercial sweets and hinges on patience and instinct. The core difference lies in its ingredient: it is made from fermented rice batter, not milk solids.
The process is an exercise in quiet intelligence. The batter is shaped into small, flat discs and fried slowly in ghee. Dehrori is unapologetically irregular—no perfect spheres here. It fries to a warm golden brown, forming a delicate crust that gives way to a soft, slightly chewy centre. The magic completes when these fried pieces are soaked in a warm sugar syrup, often scented with cardamom and sharpened with a few drops of citrus.
What makes dehrori truly distinctive is its exquisite balance. It is sweet but never cloying, with a faint sour note from fermentation that lingers pleasantly, setting it apart from richer North Indian mithais. It feels seasonal, best enjoyed in winter or during festivals like Diwali, when families would once gather to make it in small, shared batches.
The Dehrori Recipe: A Labour of Love
To make about 10 pieces of this Chhattisgarhi delicacy, soak 1 cup of rice for 5 hours. Drain and grind it coarsely. Mix this with ¼ cup of curd and allow it to ferment overnight in a warm place.
For the syrup, boil 1 cup of sugar with 1 cup of water until it reaches a one-string consistency. Add 1 teaspoon of cardamom powder and ½ teaspoon of lime juice. Heat ghee for frying.
Shape the fermented batter into small, flat discs and deep-fry them until they achieve a golden hue. Immediately soak the hot dehroris in the warm sugar syrup for at least 30 minutes, allowing them to absorb the flavour while retaining their structure. Garnish with slivered almonds or pistachios and serve warm.
Stories like my Bua's—of friends in Jamtara, of Bengal's winter picnics, of voices calling out to street vendors—remind us that food is never just about recipes or measurements. It is about the lives lived around it, the people who cooked before us, and the moments that shape our sense of belonging. Food repairs what time tries to erode.
It gathers fragile memories of pink-tinged winter afternoons and elders whose cravings carried entire histories within them. A dish like dehrori thus travels far beyond geography, from humble Chhattisgarh kitchens to the warm realm of nostalgia, where stories were passed down as carefully as heirloom utensils. Perfection is never the point. A dish endures not because it is flawless, but because memory clings to it, giving food its deepest flavour and its most lasting beauty.
About the Author: Smita Mishra is the Editor of Times of India Lifestyle, Times Food, and Times Travel. She is known for crafting in-depth features that blend storytelling with analysis, focusing on culinary arts, travel, and literature.
