Robab Tenga and the Kind of Winters That Stay With You

Robab Tenga and the Kind of Winters That Stay With You

You know how some food doesn’t just taste good – it remembers things for you?

Growing up in Assam, winters always felt like a small celebration. Not the loud kind – the quiet, comforting kind. There were many reasons to look forward to it. Sweaters, obviously. The strange joy of wearing layers as a child, feeling grown-up just because you had a jacket on. Winter vacations that stretched lazily. Slower mornings where no one seemed in a hurry. My parents’ birthdays too.

But the best part was always the winter sun.

That soft, forgiving sun that didn’t burn, the kind you could sit under for hours – in lawns, on steps, on stools dragged outside without thought. Just basking in it, talking without purpose, letting conversations drift.

Winter had a gentler pace – like time itself had agreed to slow down.

And Sundays made it even better. Because Sundays meant Robab Tenga.

Robab Tenga (pomelo) wasn’t just fruit in our house. It was a ritual, an unspoken agreement that winter Sundays would look a certain way. Everyone in Assam has their own version of this, but the feeling is shared.

When I was a kid, my mom made the most simple Robab Tenga recipe. Just mustard, green chillies, and black salt. No measurements, no written recipe. It wasn’t meant for guests or occasions – it was made simply because it was winter.

Back then, I didn’t think much about it. It was just… there. Every winter, until February. Constant. But now, what I remember most is how we prepared it.

Around 10 a.m., the kitchen would still be cold. A little dark. The sun just beginning to show up, like it was warming itself before warming us. I’d usually have just finished my bath, hair still damp, skin still warm from the water. My mom would be in the kitchen. Sometimes my father stood beside her, slowly cutting the Robab Tenga. Sometimes she did it alone. The sound of the knife, and their quiet, unhurried conversations, lingering in the air.

When it was ready, she’d take out this big plate. And without even thinking, I’d follow her outside. It felt automatic – like the Pied Piper.

We’d sit on murhas, the sun soft on our faces, plates balanced on our laps. We ate slowly. No one stood up midway – you just didn’t. And we talked. About random things.

Mostly about her work and my school. Which is funny now – because my school stories were mostly nonsense. Small dramas, small victories. But she listened like they mattered. Like they were important. And she’d talk about her college, what she taught that day, her students, her classes. Little me trying very hard to make sense of adult work life. Not fully understanding it, but liking the sound of it anyway.

When the plate was finally empty, there was always this quiet sadness. Because it was over. And now you had to wait for the next Sunday. Winters weren’t generous like that. You didn’t get endless Sundays. Summers in Assam felt infinite. Winters never did. You just… waited. And thought about it a little.

And of course, as the winters went by, I grew up. City after city, winter after winter. Some beautiful in their own ways. Mumbai winters where you don’t even need a sweater – which felt almost illegal to me at first. Christmas in Pune with lights and decorated malls. Delhi’s bitter, soul-numbing cold that somehow still felt poetic. Hill stations. Family trips.

But Robab Tenga never followed.

Not because it couldn’t be found – in fact, I never even looked for it. Not once. Some traditions just don’t translate outside home. Some things are tied to place. To people.

You can live in different cities, see different winters, have new experiences, but some pieces of home just sit quietly in your head, waiting.

Years later, I’m back home. My mom isn’t here anymore. But this winter, after a long time, we decided to have Robab Tenga again. We planned it – because you always plan for Robab Tenga.

This time, there were oranges too. A small evolution. A new detail added quietly. But the feeling stayed untouched.

We sat under the sun, obviously. This time talking about work – mine, my sister-in-law’s, my brother’s. Trying to understand each other’s lives, just like before. Different conversations. Same rhythm. Same pauses.

And when it was over, walking back, it just… hit me. Robab Tenga isn’t just food. It’s a memory you carry without even thinking. It’s winter at home. And somehow… it remembers everything, even the little things you forgot you loved.