Of Doodh Soda and Yesterday’s

“Darling darling, dil kyun toda, thoda peelo peelo doodh soda.”

When I heard Gaurav Gera mouth this line in the film Dhurandhar, a distant memory stirred, I noticed it, acknowledged it, and promptly shrugged it aside because I was too engrossed in the film.

But memory is a stubborn thing.

It doesn’t always fade when you ask it to. Sometimes it nudges. Sometimes it taps. And sometimes it waits patiently till you’re standing in the shower, shampoo in your hair, when your mind is inexplicably at its most productive.

That’s when it hit me.

Doodh Soda.

Crystal clear. Like yesterday.

And just like that, I was transported to summer Sunday mornings, ripe with anticipation, when my Chachas (Dad’s younger brothers) would make Doodh Soda for us… and the entire neighbourhood.

Clean, new buckets were brought out. Steel and aluminium ones, because plastic wasn’t a thing yet. A massive slab of ice, caked generously in sawdust, arrived early in the morning. Litres of milk followed. And then came the slim glass bottles with Dukes printed on them, holding that ruby-hued Raspberry Soda like a liquid jewel.
Milk was poured into the buckets. Pails of doodh were always a thing in the Sharma household.

The ice was washed clean of sawdust and then stabbed mercilessly with an ice pick until jagged shards formed. These glassy chunks found their way into the buckets, now half-filled with milk. Someone stirred. Someone laughed. Someone commented. Someone argued. All at once.

My sister and I waited eagerly.
Please note, we were both children who hated milk. Would not touch it otherwise. But Doodh Soda? We were first in line.

When the milk was sufficiently chilled, the Dukes’ Raspberry Soda bottles were brought forward. Titu Chacha uncapped them using his teeth.
Completely unnecessary. Hugely impressive.

As the soda was poured into the snowy milk, it blushed faintly… before deepening into that unmistakable pink. There was always a debate over how much soda to add. No one ever agreed. Eventually, Puppy Chacha, the chief stirrer, decided. When he stopped stirring, everyone else did too.

That was the signal.

Distribution began.

We were a family of twelve, though it never felt like just twelve. Friends and neighbours were always part of our Sunday shenanigans. Everyone brought their vessel of choice. Steel glasses. Tumblers. Flasks. Sometimes, odd mismatched cups.
All were filled to the brim with Doodh Soda.

I don’t know if it tasted divine because it was Doodh Soda…or because of the memories it came wrapped in.

Because today, many of those voices are no longer around that bucket.
Titu Chacha. Puppy Chacha. Baboo Chacha. Rajo Bua. Saroj Bua – are no more. 

Gone.

The laughter has thinned. The arguments about soda-to-milk ratios have fallen silent. The hands that stirred, poured, uncapped bottles with teeth, they exist now only in memory.

And yet, when I think of Doodh Soda, I don’t think of absence first.

I think of abundance. I think of love. I think of laughter. I think of warmth.

Of a time when Sundays were crowded, noisy, and gloriously inconvenient. When the house smelled of milk. When neighbours didn’t need invitations. When love was poured generously, with no measuring cups in sight.

Food has a way of doing this, of holding people long after they’ve left.
It remembers them for us.

In the pink blush of milk and soda, I still see my Chachas standing tall, handsome, shirtless, enjoying their own importance. Heads thrown back in laughter and cuss words lovingly punctuating each sentence. I still hear my Buas’ voices, amused, indulgent, gently bossy, constantly reprimanding their brothers for ‘using cuss words in front of Baby and Bintu’. For a moment, they are all back. Alive. Loud. Exactly where they belong.

Relationships changed. Feelings did too.
Time did what time always does.

But memories, they are what change doesn’t touch.
In my memory, I will always be the precious, chubby-cheeked Baby to my Chachas and Buas. Always held a second longer. Always indulged. Always loved without conditions, calculations, or conversations.

That version of me still exists.
And so do they.

Maybe that’s what memory really is. Not just looking back, but being visited.
And maybe that’s why some flavours stay with us forever because they don’t just remind us of what we drank.

They remind us of who we loved.

“Darling darling, dil kyun toda…”

Doodh Soda is a traditional South Asian beverage made by mixing milk with a carbonated soft drink. The drink is especially popular in the Punjab region of both India and Pakistan, often served chilled on hot summer days or at festive occasions.

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