It is the month of Aashada or Aadi (mid July to mid August).  Everywhere in the old Bangalore neighbourhoods of Basavanagudi, Malleshwaram, Seshadri Puram, and more, there are saree sales in preparation for the festivals that are coming up.  In my Tamilian neighbourhood of Ulsoor, there are the Ooru Habbas or community festivals that begin in April and continue through.  The Mariamman temples in my neighbourhood are cooking up giant vats full of pulao and sweets of all kinds: holige, karjikai, kajjaya, godhi huggi, and more, made with the deep-amber mineral-rich jaggery. Sugarcane in that sense is our sweet god.

Sugarcane or kabbu is woven into the fabric of Kannada culture, folklore, and music for centuries. Before it became a high-stakes political machine in Mandya, sugarcane symbolized prosperity, romance, and sweetness across Karnataka, used to sweeten popular folk songs including lullabies, morning melodies, festival music, devotional songs, and udupu patagalu or songs of the harvest.

One subset of these songs were the gaanada padagalu which were link to oil and sugarcane presses. Folklore pioneers like H.L. Nagegowda spent decades archiving these oral traditions, now preserved under the aegis of the Karnataka Janapada Parishat. These documented the distinct rhythm of Janapada or Shrama Geetegalu (labor songs). Before mechanization, the farmers used a massive stone or wooden mortar to extract sugarcane juice. These were turned by a pair of bullocks with blinders, walking in endless circles to crush the oil or the sugarcane. To keep themselves awake and not bored, farmers sang oral folk songs with a hypnotic, rhythmic cadence that matched the slow, plodding footsteps of the bullocks. They punctuated these songs with affectionate nicknames for their animals.

The great philosopher and statesman Basavanna wrote a famous vachana: “Kabbina gaana balladhu haala saviya,” (The sugarcane press knows only how to squeeze out sweet milk). In the Lingayat tradition, this was used to show that a truly virtuous person, when crushed by life’s trials, will only exude goodness and grace. A famous Kannada proverb says, “Kabbu donkaadare savi donke?” If the sugarcane is bent, is it sweetness bent?

Sugarcane is the ultimate linguistic shorthand for raw, unrefined beauty and the sweetness of youth, featured occasionally in the  tripadi or three-line Haiku-like verses. Festivals like Makara Sankranti are unimaginable without sugarcane. Tall, un-chopped stalks of sugarcane with their leafy green tops intact are tied to the pillars of home doorways, acting as auspicious gatekeepers to welcome the sun’s northern journey. Neighbours exchange Ellu-Bella (a precise mix of white sesame seeds, fried gram, dry coconut, and blocks of jaggery) alongside a solid chunk of raw sugarcane. The underlying Kannada cultural mandate behind this exchange is the famous proverb: “Ellu bella thindu olle maathadi” (Eat sesame and jaggery, and speak only sweet words.)

In the folklore of Northern and Central Karnataka, during Kamana Habba (the regional avatar of Holi celebrating the burning of Kamadeva, the god of desire), sugarcane takes on a mythological role. According to local lore, Kama’s bow is not made of wood or steel, but is a Kabbiṇa Villu—a bow made of a sugarcane stalk, stringed with a line of humming honeybees, shooting arrows tipped with fragrant flowers. When folk troupes perform the Kama Dahana theater, sugarcane stalks are brandished as symbols of life, desire, and regeneration triumphing over winter’s dead cold.

Even if you step out of classical folklore and look at modern Kannada cinema (Sandalwood), sugarcane remains culturally iconic. For decades, the kabbina thota (sugarcane field) has been the quintessential backdrop for cinematic romance. From the black-and-white eras of Dr. Rajkumar to modern romantic tracks, dancing through towering, emerald-green sugarcane stalks is a visual cue that every single Kannadiga instantly recognizes as a symbol of rural courtship.

Recently at Vasavi condiments store in Basavanagudi, the shopkeeper explained to me why Kannadigas put jaggery in their sambar.  “It is the same reason why we add sugar to our Congress peanuts,” he said. “Because the sugar enhances the flavour of the hing.”  Similarly the old Bangalore-style sambar contains a hint of jaggery. To a purist visiting from Chennai, the inclusion of sweetness in a lunch lentil is viewed as nothing short of culinary heresy. But to a true Bengalurean, that small pinch of jaggery tossed into the boiling pot is entirely non-negotiable. It is not there to make the dish taste like a sweet; it is to balance the flavours. The jaggery coaxes out the inherent tang of tamarind, spice of the Byedagi chili, and earthiness of the lentils, making the entire broth feel rich and balanced.

This sweet-and-spice dance reaches its zenith in Bisi Bele Bhaath, the absolute monarch of local comfort foods. Translated literally as “hot lentil-rice,” the dish is a marvel of spice layering. It demands a highly specialized, aromatic spice powder with the warmth of cinnamon and cloves, with a rich base of coriander seeds, lentils, and vibrant Byadagi chilies. To this we add the bele or lentils, rice, vegetables, ghee, spice mix and finally jaggery. Whether the jaggery stabilizes the variety of flavours or enhances them is up to each person’s palate.