Memories of pink milk at Morinda

It was the fall of 1960. I must have been around five just the age when a child begins to notice the world around him and starts forming lasting memories. My elder brother, ten years older than me, asked if I’d like to visit our native village, about seven km from Chamkaur Sahib.

Filled with excitement, I climbed onto the front rod of his bicycle. As we pedalled out of Sector 22, the old Ropar road unfolded before us, lined with tall Indian rose wood trees on both sides. Occasionally, we had to step off the road to let a bus pass.

Eventually, we reached the market near Morinda bus stand and stopped at a sweet shop. The shop owner had a large cauldron of milk boiling over a wood fire, which the cook was stirring with a large flat ladle. My brother ordered a drink, and the cook poured milk into two small tumblers then began juggling them up and down between his hands. I asked my brother why the cook was doing that. With a chuckle, he replied, “He’s cooling the milk.”

The cook then shaved some ice from a massive slab, putting it into the glasses. Then came the magic potion — he added a splash of rose soda from a banta bottle, and the milk turned a beautiful shade of pink.

I picked up the glass with delight. The first sip of that chilled, rose-tinted milk blend was pure enchantment. I’ve travelled to many countries since then and tasted countless beverages, but nothing has ever matched the wonder of that pink drink I had at Morinda.

I am 71 now. Whenever my childhood memories stir within me, I find comfort in that blend of pink milk, which seems more than a drink — it’s a walk-back to a simpler time, and a reminder of the magic that lives in the smallest experiences.

Narinder Banwait, Chandigarh