A settling whirlpool served, contained within a circular steel walled vessel, which fits within the palm of my hand. Bubbling with energy of my young effervescent mind. Brimful with the bribe offered to wake me up every morning – until middle school – or so I think. It’s fragrance meandering, reaches my nostrils, drawing out memories of lazy mornings from forgotten corners of my pulpy, boxed up brain. It’s colour, the colour of my clothes on a rainy August evening, boasting my boisterous endeavours on mudroads leading to my house. Each sip a reminder of humble taste we collectively admired. Back when it came in just two flavours. Back when I completed with my siblings to be the first one to be handed the drink. Back when my taste and appetite determined food intake, not the blemishing glances from friends and passersby. Back when no one scorned at my choice of drinks. With each sip my thrist for something vicious fades away. Sipping the last drops, licking the remains adhering to the sides of the vessel, innocence grips onto me. The world seems to be a better place to live in… Even with whirlpools in it.
In other words… I had a tumbler of simmering Horlicks last weekend. A drink I don’t remember having in over a decade.