A couple of kulhads on the dashboard.

A regular Thursday evening. It goes unsaid that the monotonicity set by sitting at home energises that kid-like urge to do something one is explicitly told not to. And so, on a sneaky and rebellious fringe, I forged a ‘core memory’, as Disney would say. 

My dad and I stepped out for one of our Completely Unnecessary But We Need An Excuse To Head Out type of grocery run. Naturally, we were going to drive 20 minutes out of our way, because it was understood we weren’t missing out on our traditional ‘Kulhad milk’ [pronounced kul-har] which is just sweet, creamy, over-boiled milk served in clay cups (the ‘kulhads’). After fetching the necessities, we made our way to the age-old tiny shop, just a corner ahead. 

The dilemma of 1 cup or 2. The agony in deciding whether you’re greedy for the satisfaction of a whole serving, or in the mood for sharing. We ended up taking 2 cups and headed back to our car. I didn’t realise how cold it was, even though we were in January (and it had just rained) until we sat back in the car. He turned on the heat. I, the radio station. 

And we sat. Listening. Taking small sips given how hot the milk was. I think ‘Old Friend’ by The Walters was playing. It almost had a certain poetic nature to it, one that lingered in the air. One that was made up from the crumbs of the moments, as they passed by. Eventually, I broke the silence by bringing up how I cherished these moments, because I truly did. And that turned into a beautiful discussion on appreciating the smallest things in life. And as I make you sit in the backseat, you can feel the delicate blows of warm air on your skin, see the raindrops on the windshield, The Walters on the radio, two people in an engaging conversation, and of course, a couple of kulhads on the dashboard. 

Akshadha Gupta