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One look at these snow-flaked sugar toys— Khilona — and it would be hard to fathom that not so long ago, these delicate pieces not only made for a generous part of the ‘sweet’ in a Deepavali gift box but were also the main indulgence. These were part of every child’s Deepavali treat and would be one of the first few things that were made-to-order to your own whim, live in one of the several workshops that excelled in making batasa, kheel and khilona.
Yet today, khilona is, for most, the stuff of legend — remembered by few, ordered by few and made by even fewer. Even in lanes once known for their batasa and khilonas like the Gali Batasa Wali in Old Delhi — or the one in Aminabad and another in Kanpur — finding a place that does so with old-world finesse is a sheer luck. The reason, says Lucknow resident Sandeep Singh, “is not just the lack of takers, but also its failing business, which has convinced few to continue learning the art, even in the Bhabhunja community known as the original batasa and khilona makers.”
Singh, who is among the few families in Lucknow to continue commissioning khilonas for gifting and other Diwali rituals rues the disappearance of one of his favourite childhood indulgences. “Getting a khilona — be it a lion, a peacock, a tiger — marked the beginning of Deepavali for me. It all began while I accompanied my dad to order one of the regular Bhujwas (the Bhabhuja) to create these mounds of sugar drops, kheel and khilona of my choice, especially the latter,” recalls Singh, who would make many trips before to check on his little booty of goodness that would be eventually “given to friends and others, in the true style of a generous emperor.” Khilona enthusiast Ravi Tokas adds, “These sugar toys weren’t just toys for us or the ritual essential. These were gifts with good wishes.” It took Tokas years and a training as a chef to realise the marvel that these khilonas were, a fascination that takes him to the old lanes beyond Khari Baoli each year to get his stock.
“Hot sugar is scalding and very temperamental in nature. So, working with it needs a deftness of exceptional level and a practised hand that can handle such a hot mess. But all those cautions disappear when you look at the Bhabhuja artist working out a batasa (sugar drop) or a khilona for you. They make it look like child’s play. And the best part is, even with the rudimentary resources (read: moulds) they work with, the result is on par with any sugar art seen today. It is fragile yet strong enough to take a few clinks, and the sweetness is pared down,” says the chef, who has attempted quite a few khilonas before resorting to getting his stash from the nameless workshop in Gali Batasa Wali.
The brilliance of khilona (and its makers) is ascertained by the fact that even royalty wasn’t immune to the charms of these sugar toys. From Muhammad bin Tughluq to Bahadur Shah Zafar and even the Nawabs of Lucknow preferred a khilona for gifting. They were sweet and they got the message across beautifully. So fond was Emperor Muhammad Shah Rangeela of these delicate figurines that he made it a part of not only the gifts that were given to people from the court but also a part of the feast. Some believe it was under this Mughal emperor that khilona and batasa became an integral part of all forms of royal Deepavali celebrations. It became customary not only to gift it but indulge in it too. Result, almost every part of Mughal kingdom had a Batasa Wali Gali strewn with workshops head initially by the Bhujwa artiste who excelled in the art of making Khand ke Khilone. The Nawabs of Lucknow, Agra and Bhopal followed suit. Yet, when it comes to the history of khilona or batasa, it is often intertwined with that of sugar in India.
The technique of sugar making was an art that India excelled in even before the Tudor dynasty made it fashionable. India not only produced the finest of sugarcanes but was the largest producer too. Fascinatingly, says historian Ashish Chopra, “for a place that excelled in the art of sugar extraction, it was a commodity purely for export as we loved our gud and palm khand. And the best way to send it across was to double cook the sugar and cool it in such a way that it solidifies into a khand — a stone-like hardness that yields to the sharpness of a knife or a sword.”
Such was our mastery that Chinese Emperor Tsai Hang too had sent a missionary to Magadha (Bihar) to learn the art in 600AD. Did our process of sugar making also include the know-how of creating art pieces while finding little documentation? It is, adds Ashish, “however a possibility we cannot rule out, especially when you have Harold McGee, author of On Food and Cooking, observing that the sugar art history dates as far back as 4,000 BC with the first candy recipe to 3500 BC found in an Egyptian tomb written in hieroglyphs to pitch against. There is a good chance that, adds the historian, “we knew how to mould sugar in different forms. And given that sugar figurines were used widely in rituals across ancient empires of Egypt, Aztec, China, Japan and even Africa, it wouldn’t be wrong to assume that India, the land of sugar-makers, would have been proficient in it too.
A claim that finds credence in the fact that for a long time one of the prized sugar mounds in the Silk and Spice Route was made of the Punda variety of sugarcane, which was known for its white, soft, juicy molasses. As for the popularity of the sugar art, the credit, of course, goes to the Bhabhuja community, a tribe known for its Bhujwa skills, which eventually helped them create and popularise khilona, which says Chef Tokas, “in technicality is akin to that of a macaron.”