Tripura’s Kalyanpur factory keeps the centuries-old Sankranti tradition alive by crafting tillai and batasha. Facing rising costs and fading youth interest, artisans strive to preserve cultural heritage, religious rituals, and indigenous confectionery practices.
The arrival of Poush Sankranti in Tripura is not merely a seasonal transition marked on a calendar; it is a deeply rooted cultural moment that blends agriculture, faith, and culinary heritage. As winter ripens the harvest and communities prepare for rituals of gratitude, traditional sweets reclaim center stage. Among them, tillai (kadma) and batasha continue to hold an irreplaceable position, symbolizing continuity, devotion, and collective memory.
In Totabari village under the Kalyanpur block of Khowai district, this tradition still survives within the walls of a modest confectionery factory. Here, sugar melts slowly over open flames, transforming into golden syrup before being shaped by experienced hands into delicate forms that have remained unchanged for generations. The air inside the unit carries a warm caramel fragrance, instantly evoking the festive spirit associated with Sankranti.
This factory is owned by Raju Saha, a third-generation artisan who inherited the craft from his grandfather, Radhakanta Saha. Decades ago, Radhakanta established the unit when traditional sweets were an essential part of every rural household during festivals. Over time, most such units disappeared due to changing food habits and economic pressures. Today, Raju’s establishment stands as the only surviving center of batasha production in the Kalyanpur region.
As Sankranti approaches, the factory operates almost around the clock. Family members and skilled workers collaborate in a rhythmic routine—some pour and stretch molten sugar into thin strands to shape tillai, while others carefully mold batasha into light, airy forms that dissolve instantly on the tongue. The process demands precision, timing, and experience, skills that cannot be easily mechanized or replicated.
“During Sankranti, demand rises sharply, and we work day and night to supply local markets,” Raju Saha explains. While batasha is produced throughout the year for religious offerings and ceremonies, tillai is made almost exclusively for the Sankranti season. Its production is closely tied to the festival’s spiritual significance and traditional customs.
Despite its cultural importance, the craft faces serious challenges. One of the most pressing issues is the lack of interest among younger generations. Many young people prefer stable salaried jobs or migrate to cities, leaving behind labor-intensive family trades. As a result, the factory now depends on seasonal workers who join only during the festival period, making continuity uncertain.
Rising production costs have further strained the business. Earlier, sugar was available at subsidized rates, helping artisans manage expenses. Today, raw materials must be purchased at market prices, significantly increasing costs. Wholesale prices for traditional sweets now stand at approximately Rs 75 per kilogram for standard items and around Rs 85 per kilogram for larger varieties. Margins remain thin, especially when transportation and labor costs are factored in.
Yet, the relevance of tillai and batasha has not diminished. These sweets remain essential offerings in religious practices such as harinam sankirtan, pujas, and other Hindu rituals. For many households, Sankranti feels incomplete without them. Local markets across Kalyanpur and nearby areas continue to stock the sweets in large quantities, reflecting sustained demand rooted in faith rather than trends.
Cultural observers note that while modern chocolates, packaged desserts, and imported confectionery have flooded the market, they have failed to replace the symbolic value of traditional Sankranti sweets. Tillai and batasha represent more than taste; they embody agrarian gratitude, ritual purity, and community identity.
For Raju Saha, preserving the craft is both a responsibility and a struggle. “These sweets are part of our cultural soul,” he says. “Without recognition and support, this tradition may disappear.” He believes that government assistance, artisan recognition, and inclusion of traditional confectionery in cultural tourism initiatives could help sustain the craft for future generations.
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As Poush Sankranti draws nearer, the small factory in Totabari buzzes with renewed energy. Flames flicker, sugar boils, and hands move with practiced confidence. In that humble space, heritage is not stored in museums or books—it is actively shaped, shared, and sweetened. The survival of Tripura’s Sankranti confectionery tradition depends on such quiet resilience, reminding society that progress and preservation must move forward together.
