Gulab jamun doesn’t knock on the door. It barges in, dripping syrup, golden brown and unapologetically decadent. These little deep-fried milk-solid dumplings soaked in rosewater sugar syrup are as essential to Indian celebration as unsolicited advice from your auntie. They show up at weddings, birthdays, religious festivals, and anywhere people are feeling a bit too skinny.

The texture is like biting into a syrup-infused cloud. A very dense, sweet, caramelised cloud that threatens to put you in a sugar coma if you go in for seconds. Which, let’s be honest, you will. Because resisting a warm gulab jamun is about as effective as using a sieve to carry water.

Then comes jalebi, the extrovert of the sweet world. Neon orange, coiled into elaborate swirls and fried till it shatters, then plunged into sugar syrup until it practically hums with stickiness. Jalebi doesn’t whisper. It shouts. Best eaten fresh off the pan, ideally in the company of morning chai and minor regrets.

It’s the sort of sweet that defines entire neighbourhoods. You can follow the smell through winding alleys to find that one shop that sells it hot, crisp, and with just the right amount of bite before the syrup melts it into glorious goo.

Rasgulla, by contrast, is all softness and subtle charm. Born somewhere between Bengal and Odisha (but don’t start that fight at the dinner table), these white cheese balls made from chhena are boiled in thin syrup until they turn into soft, spongy miracles. Bite into one and you get that sudden explosion of sweetness followed by a gently chewy texture that feels oddly therapeutic.

And let’s not forget the diplomatic sweet: kaju katli. It’s the diamond-cut, silver-leafed slab of cashew paste that shows up when you want to impress someone. Smooth, refined, and just posh enough to make you feel like you’ve arrived in life. If gulab jamun is your chaotic good cousin, kaju katli is your pristine, emotionally reserved uncle who wears linen and drinks single malt.

Ladoos, on the other hand, are emotional support snacks. Round, often misshapen, and made from everything from besan (gram flour) to coconut, boondi to rava, there’s a ladoo for every situation. Celebrating exam results? Ladoo. Offering prasad at a temple? Ladoo. Lost your job but still feeling oddly festive? Ladoo.

Besan ladoos have this gritty, nutty texture that clings to your teeth and heart. Motichoor ladoos are dainty, made from tiny pearls of fried batter, soaked in syrup and shaped with sticky devotion. Each one a bit of a sugar bomb disguised as tradition.

Now, barfi deserves its own paragraph, and possibly a dissertation. Milk fudge, usually square-shaped and unapologetically rich. You’ll find it in pistachio, almond, chocolate, coconut, and occasionally in terrifying food colouring that turns it radioactive pink or green. Barfi doesn’t try to hide what it is. It stares you down from the sweet counter, daring you to pick just one. You won’t.

Then there’s halwa. A genre, really. Gajar ka halwa (carrot) is the winter MVP, slow-cooked with ghee and milk until the carrots surrender completely and the whole thing turns into a pan of warm, sweet mushy luxury. Suji halwa is the everyday version, served at temples and breakfast tables alike. Moong dal halwa? That’s when you want to show someone you love them but also don’t mind if they nap for the next eight hours.

Speaking of naps, Mysore Pak has put people to sleep for decades. Originating from Karnataka, this sweet is made of gram flour, sugar, and enough ghee to power a small village. The traditional version is dry and crumbly, almost sandy, while the softer version melts like warm butter and sticks to your arteries in the nicest way.

And finally, there’s peda. Understated but quietly iconic. Usually round, pale, and flecked with cardamom, sometimes saffron, pedas are temple favourites and suitcase staples. They're modest in appearance but rich in texture and taste, like the introvert who always brings the best snacks to the picnic.

Each of these sweets isn’t just a recipe. It’s a piece of someone's childhood, a festival marker, a family story passed down in grams of ghee and pinches of saffron. They stick in your memory like the syrup they’re soaked in, and just like that second gulab jamun, they’re impossible to resist.