A sherbet-soaked ode to desi summers

KARACHI:

In South Asia, when summer arrives, it never really knocks; it barges in like an unwanted guest who overstays and steals your sleep. Temperatures soar, ceiling fans spin in defeat, and the air simmers like a hot griddle. But we've got centuries of survival tucked into our pantries and fridges of which the first line of defence are sherbets. Chilled, fragrant, nourishing; more than a drink, they are spells brewed in kitchens and street-side carts to cool the body, soothe the soul, and remind us that we've done this before. We'll do it again.

We also wage summer wars with cold showers at noon and dusk, with our mom's favourite Prickly Heat powder puffed generously across necks and backs, with drinking water so cold it hurts our teeth, with sugar or zeera mixed in curd. We wear lawn shalwar kameez suits so worn thin, they're more gauze than cloth. We take shade under neem trees, on verandas with hand-fans, and sleep on charpais under open skies, praying for a gust of wind. And through it all, sherbet is a promise in a glass.

The girl that keeps giving

Mattha smacks the heat right out of your chest. Hailing from the northern parts of India and Pakistan, this is buttermilk's bold, spicy cousin. You churn curd till it's silky, then bring in the flavour army: roasted cumin, black salt, mint, maybe a rebellious green chilli or two. Some versions throw in curry leaves or ginger for extra oomph. In Punjab, it shows up post-meal like a soothing hand on your back; in Bihar and Uttar Pradesh, it's midday relief in a glass. Cool, probiotic-rich, and deeply reviving, it's the drink equivalent of flinging open every window in the house.

Chhaachh changes names like it's dodging the sun: mor in Tamil Nadu, chaas in Gujarat, and just buttermilk up north. But across the board, it's made with curd, water, salt or sugar, and regional flair. Tempered with curry leaves and mustard seeds in the south, sometimes foamed up and robust in Punjab. Served in sweating steel tumblers, it's as much a ritual as a refreshment. Gut-friendly, mineral-rich, and old as time.

Lassi might be the celebrity of this list. Sweet or salty, thick or thin, this yogurt-based drink has fans from roadside dhabas to fancy brunch menus. The sweet kind gets topped with malai, rosewater, or mango puree; the salty version is humble, with salt, cumin, and maybe mint. Either way, it's cooling, comforting, and heavy enough to sit in your stomach like a sleepy cow under a tree, content and unbothered.

From Bihar to Sindh

Then there's limo paani; shikanjabeen if you're feeling poetic. A squeeze of lemon, a dash of salt, a touch of sugar, maybe mint if the mood strikes. Stirred into cold water or soda, this one doesn't mess around. It's sharp, it's fast, and it cuts through the heavy air like a monsoon breeze through a curtain. Every household, every train station, every roadside cart has a version. It's the reliable friend who always shows up when you need them most.

And if you've never seen summer bottled into a garnet-coloured potion, meet phalsa sherbet. Made from the tiny, tart phalsa berries found in northern India and Pakistan, this sherbet isn't just a pretty face. Crushed, strained, and sweetened, it's loaded with antioxidants and a flavour that zings. It cools fevers, lifts moods, and delivers a tangy punch that says, "I got you."

Sattu doesn't care for glamour, but it's the unsung hero of scorching days. Made from roasted gram flour, salt, lemon, cumin, and often a whisper of ajwain or mint, it's rural wisdom in liquid form. Some even drop in onion slices for an extra bite. Farmers carry it into the fields in steel flasks wrapped in damp cloth and sattu sustains, nourishes, and cools them. High in fiber and protein, it's gritty, grounding, and tastes like someone still remembers the soil fondly.

Now, thaadal, if you know, you know. This Sindhi delight is a festival in a glass. It's crafted with soaked almonds, fennel, watermelon seeds, poppy seeds, pepper, cardamom, and rose petals, all ground into a creamy paste and mixed with chilled milk; a lullaby for sunburned nerves. Thaadal is calming, luxurious, and still somehow humble. The kind of drink that reminds you shade is a feeling, not just a place.

Aamjhora is what happens when raw mangoes flirt with fire. Boiled or roasted, their smoky pulp is blended with jaggery, salt, pepper, cumin, and mint until it becomes a tangy elixir for angry bodies. It's summer in the Gangetic belt distilled to its essence. And if you're craving comfort instead of spice, let ripe mango chunks swim in cold milk for aam doodh; a soft, sweet dream in a glass, where fruit and dairy coalesce into something nostalgic and new.

The lesser known stars

Now for a touch of decadence: badaam ka sherbet. Think almonds soaked overnight, peeled with patience, ground into a velvety paste and swirled into milk with sugar, saffron, or cardamom. Sometimes even dressed in a drop of kewra or a silver leaf, because why not? Rich in essential fats and full of strength, this one's meant to be sipped slowly.

Then comes bel ka sherbet, the pale-gold gift of the wood apple. With its fibrous, fragrant pulp blended into cold water and jaggery, this sherbet is Ayurvedic wisdom in action. Cooling to the core, soothing to the gut, and slightly bitter in a way that makes you feel like you're doing something good for yourself. It's an acquired taste, sure, but once acquired, you'll crave it like shade at high noon.

If drinks had perfume, rose sherbet would win. Whether made with gulkand or the neon nostalgia of rooh afza, it hits the senses before the tongue. Poured into milk or water, clinking with ice cubes, this one softens the edges of the day. Rooh Afza in falooda? Divine. Mixed into kulfi? Festival-level joy. It's cooling, calming, and just a bit romantic.

Last but never least: khus sherbet. Made from vetiver grass extract, this deep green drink smells of monsoon dreams and old-school cool. Musky, earthy, and refreshing, it's often paired with lemon or soda and said to "cool the blood." Whether or not that's scientifically proven, one sip on a blistering day feels like an internal raincloud.

In these drinks lie memories of shared verandas, of steel glasses passed around cousins, of street vendors under banyan trees, of mothers urging, "Pi lo, thanda hai." Among wet hair on necks, of ceiling fans creaking above us, of summer afternoons stretched long and slow, these sherbets are our folklore, our recipes for resilience.
Zehra Khan