As the skies turn slate grey, thunder rolls in, the first showers fall, and muddy water rushes down red earth lanes, kitchens along Maharashtra’s Konkan coast begin to transform. Monsoon marks a shift in rhythm, flavour, and how the kitchen breathes. Lush rural Konkan and urban Mumbai alike, begin to mirror the season’s generosity and its restraints. The scent of wet earth outside is matched by something equally evocative inside: a pot of tomato saar simmering gently on the stove, soft rice ready to be spooned out, and piping-hot bhaje made with pumpkin, sponge gourd or whatever the backyard offers. The rains invite warmth, depth, and comfort with the kind of meal that feels like a warm towel after a downpour.
If summer is a season of excess, monsoon is one of restraint. This is when digestion slows, fevers rise, and the food, often unjustly typecast as indulgent, is actually at its restorative best. Unlike the heavily circulated image of monsoon being all about chai and pakoda, coastal Maharashtra approaches the season with a more restorative touch. “Growing up, we never really did chai-pakoda,” says Keertida Phadke, chef and culinary chronicler. “For us, it was always about warming soups and saar served with soft, sticky rice. Nourishment was central because monsoon is as much a time of digestive fragility as it is of abundance.”
The rice itself is significant. In Keertida’s household, Japanese sticky rice—a nod to the family’s time spent in Tokyo—often replaces the more traditional Ambemohar. “The texture feels just right in the rain—soft, comforting, and grounding. It’s not the fluffy basmati we’re used to, but something more comforting, yet nourishing.”
At the heart of this season’s table is kalhan, a deceptively simple yet flavourful soup made from the strained stock of soaked (and sometimes) sprouted pulses like matki, moong, kulith (horsegram), or kala vatana. The water, cooked down and tempered with just a few spices, becomes a light yet grounding broth, served warm to soothe bodies weary from viral fevers and low monsoon metabolism.
Kalhan’s humble elegance lies in its zero-waste sensibility. The cooked legumes used to make the stock don’t go to waste—they’re turned into usal, a spiced curry that sits beside the soup in a monsoon thali. Two dishes, both anchored in the twin principles of nourishment and economy. They form a kind of monsoon alchemy: comforting, efficient.
Yes, there are bhaje(fritters)—but not just the usual onion and potato ones. “In our house, pumpkin was a favourite, or even ghosale (sponge gourd), and after our time in Tokyo, baby corn, and mushrooms modelled along the lines of Tempura also got introduced,” she explains. “Vegetables of different textures, colours and flavours were turned into a crispy treat to go with tomato saar-bhaat.”
Tomato saar—a warm, coconut-rich broth with tart tomatoes, paired with soft, sticky rice, it becomes the ideal monsoon meal: warm, tangy, soothing, and grounding.
One of the most evocative aspects of the Maharashtrian monsoon is the brief, brilliant life of foraged greens. Unlike mass-produced spinach or methi, which are shunned in monsoon due to pests and poor digestion, these hyperlocal, hyper-seasonal greens are available only for a few weeks.
“These are not cultivated—they grow wild and only show up for a few weeks. You won’t find them on delivery apps or in supermarket chains. In an age where everything is available everywhere, there’s something beautiful about foods that exist outside that cycle. They must be sought, prepared with intention, and eaten with the knowledge that they might not be around next week,” she says. In Mumbai markets like Dadar, you might spot women from Palghar selling bundles of phodshi, takla, kurdu, and shevla.
“Phodshi tastes grassy and herbaceous, kurdu has a melt-in-the-mouth texture without the metallic notes of palak, and takla brings a fibrous, assertive presence to the plate. These are greens you need to ask the vendor how to cook, because no two preparations are the same, and recipes are often passed down orally,” says Keertida.
She turns the phodshi into paniyarams or sautées the grassy blades with garlic and chillies. Takla is more fibrous and pungent, requiring a blanch or boil before cooking—more medicine than a delicacy, but no less essential.
Kurdu becomes a favourite bhaji this season. Their season is so short that their arrival sparks excitement and a sense of urgency. “One year, I missed kurdu entirely and had to wait till the next season. There’s something magical about food that doesn’t wait for you.”
Before highways and cold chains, the coast lived by what it could store. Monsoons often mean isolation in Konkan—villages get cut off by rains, and shopping trips become rare. Preserving ingredients becomes a matter of survival. In vegetarian homes, jackfruit seeds dried on rooftops during summer find their way into sabzis and curries in July and August.
Turmeric’s golden glow isn’t limited to its root in Maharashtrian cooking. Come monsoon, turmeric leaves flood the markets, perfuming everything they touch. One of the season’s most beloved desserts, patolya, wraps coconut-jaggery filling in rice flour dough and steams it between turmeric leaves. The result? A soft, fragrant, sweet that feels like a festival in every bite. “We even line our modak steamers with turmeric leaves during Ganesh Chaturthi. the fragrance is inimitable.”
For those in coastal Maharashtra, the monsoons are a time when scarcity becomes particularly pronounced. It’s a reminder that some of the most special foods aren’t those that can be ordered, delivered, or exported and where your thali becomes a reflection of time, land, and memory. “My ideal monsoon thali?” she says, “It would have kurdu bhaji or phodshi paniyaram for that seasonal bite, a bowl of moong karhan alongside a gently spiced usal, a sweet and sour amti with dodaka (ridge gourd, which is particularly flavourful during this season), Alu vadi (steamed arbi leaf rolls), soft-cooked rice, and finally Patolya with an aroma so potent it clings to memory long after the monsoon has passed.”
This is a nourishing and easy-to-digest soup that can be made with the stock of pulses like moong, matki, Chawli or Kulith (horsegram).
Step 1: Soak 1/2 cup of whole green moong overnight.
Step 2: Then, strain the soaking water, wash once, and pressure cook with 2.25 cups of water along with some salt.
Step 3: Cook this for just 3 quick whistles, since we don’t want the moong to turn to mush, since we’ll be using them later
Step 4: Once the pressure releases, strain the moong, reserving the water (as well as the cooked moong)
Step 5: Then, in a pot, heat
Step 6: Tip in the reserved broth, and to it add
Step 7: Let this come to a boil – check the flavour, see if you need more salt/ sugar/ amsul and once adjusted, serve right away.
The recipe serves 3-4 people
