There are drinks that quench thirst, and there are drinks that comfort. Horlicks, for me, was always the latter. It came not in a wineglass, nor in any ceremonial teacup, but in a slightly chipped mug—one with a cartoon bear peeling at the edges—and it was always warm. Not hot. Not lukewarm. Just warm—the kind of warmth that wraps around you the way a grandmother might, without needing to ask.
When I was little, my grandmother would sometimes make me a drink of Horlicks late at night, especially if I had grown peckish or was angling for a bedtime snack. She always kept a few sachets tucked away in her drawer, nestled among hand cream, lottery tickets, and old receipts—her little treasures. No matter how late it was, or how tired she might have been, she was always delighted to make it for me. Never a sigh, never a delay. She would kneel down to my height, help me stir, and smile as the powder disappeared into the milk, transforming into something familiar, something safe.
Those moments, quiet and unassuming, are now among the most vivid in my memory. The gentle clink of the spoon against the ceramic. The soft hum of the fan overhead. Her patience. Her pride in doing something small, something loving. There was no need for words—just the silent, steadfast reassurance of her presence.
Horlicks was more than a drink; it was her way of saying “I see you,” long before I knew how to say it back. It didn’t matter if I had eaten dinner or not—if I wanted Horlicks, she would always oblige. There was comfort in the ritual, in the repetition. A bond brewed in a humble mug.
Of course, Horlicks was never alone in its quiet ministry. There was Ribena—served ice-cold, its artificial berry flavour staining my lips purple and cloying in the best way possible. Vitasoy came next, that classic soy milk in a rectangular carton, which we would shake vigorously before sipping, as though we were conjuring something more than a drink. And then Milo—Horlicks’ louder cousin. Chocolatey, energetic, never dissolving properly no matter how determined the stirring. Milo belonged to playtime. Horlicks, however, belonged to bedtime.
When I returned to London each September, I brought those tastes with me—smuggled sachets in my suitcase, labels scribbled in Chinese, the scent of my grandmother’s flat lingering in the plastic. But somehow, it never quite tasted the same. The milk was different. The air was colder. And the person making it wasn’t her.
Years have passed. My cupboards now hold glass jars of coffee and imported tea leaves that promise clarity and calm. But some nights—particularly the long ones, when the world feels too large or too loud—I find myself reaching to the back of the shelf for a tin of Horlicks. I heat the milk slowly, as she used to. I stir in the powder gently, watching it dissolve like memory into dream. And as I take that first sip, I am a child again—sitting at the kitchen table in Mong Kok, legs swinging beneath the chair, my grandmother beside me, humming as the night quietens around us.
These are the elixirs of my childhood. Not expensive, not exotic, but imbued with love. They live not in the pantry, but in memory. In warmth. In her hands.
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