Embedded Files
Cough Syrups, Children, and the Lessons We Refuse to Learn
I picked up The Truth Pill: The Myth of Drug Regulation in India some weeks ago before this horror unfolded, drawn by its promise to explain the mechanism behind the scenes of “safe” medicines. Then I read the news: in India, 17 (or more) children under five have died after being given contaminated cough syrup. This was medicine, not poison or at least, that’s how it was sold to families who trusted doctors and pharmacies. For a few days, the headlines carried the horror: photographs of grieving parents, statistics about contaminated batches, statements from authorities. And then, almost as quickly as it surfaced, the story slipped away from public memory. The outrage was short-lived, replaced by the next news cycle, as if the deaths of those children were an unfortunate incident rather than a national reckoning.
This incident is a stark reminder that these tragedies are not random. They are part of a long and painful history that repeats itself across continents. The book recalls the infamous Elixir Sulfanilamide disaster in the United States in 1937, where a simple antibiotic syrup, dissolved in diethylene glycol (an industrial solvent, not meant for human use), killed over 100 people, most of them children. That tragedy forced the U.S. to bring in the Food, Drug, and Cosmetic Act of 1938, one of the first serious attempts at regulating medicines. Europe had its own disasters too, most notably thalidomide in the late 1950s, which caused thousands of birth defects because no one had tested the drug adequately for safety in pregnant women.
But what shocked me most while reading was how recent and how global the stories still are. The authors describe cases from Haiti, Nigeria, Bangladesh, and India where cough syrups contaminated with diethylene glycol have killed children. In Gambia in 2022, contaminated cough syrups imported from India were linked to the deaths of nearly 70 children. Each time, the pattern is the same: substandard manufacturing, weak oversight, and regulatory systems that fail to protect the most vulnerable.
While reading it, I questioned why does it affect children more than adults? The science here is sobering. Children’s kidneys and livers, the organs responsible for detoxifying chemicals, are still developing. Their metabolic pathways are immature, which means toxins linger longer in their bodies. Even a small dose of a contaminant like diethylene glycol can shut down their kidneys, leading to a painful and irreversible death. What is survivable for an adult can be fatal for a child.
Reading this, I couldn’t help but think of how little we have learnt. Despite decades of evidence, India’s pharmaceutical regulation remains fragmented and inconsistent. The Truth Pill argues forcefully that the problem is systemic: state drug controllers underfunded and understaffed, lack of transparency, political capture by pharmaceutical lobbies, and weak enforcement even when problems are identified. Policies exist, but they are often on paper only. And so, the cycle continues. History repeats in different countries, with different names of manufacturers, but the same cause and the same victims.
As I put down the book and look at the news headlines, I feel this deep personal frustration. It isn’t just about “accidents.” These are preventable deaths, and the fact that children are still dying from something so well-known, so well-documented, makes it unbearable. The question I cannot shake off is: how many more times will we allow history to repeat itself before we decide that children’s lives are worth the political will, the regulatory vigilance, and the courage to stand up to pharmaceutical power?
Until then, every contaminated bottle of syrup is not just a failure of science, it is a failure of ethics and humanity.
Reading Exile: Taslima Nasrin
I have never considered myself a reader in the conventional sense. Books were always around me, on shelves, in other people’s bags, in libraries but they never called out to me. I would read when I had to, but I rarely felt the kind of attachment others described, where a book becomes a refuge or a companion. So I did not arrive at Taslima Nasrin’s Exileas someone searching for literature. I arrived there almost accidentally, without expectation, without intention.
It happened in Bangalore. I was walking down Church Street, one of those places where time slows just a little. Cafes spilled onto sidewalks, music floated lightly from somewhere, and rain was always close to arriving. I wandered into one of the smaller bookshops, not the big, curated ones, but the kind that feels like someone has been collecting books quietly over the years. Nothing was arranged to impress. It was simply books resting where they could fit.
Exile was not displayed at the front. It was not there to attract a passerby. It sat on a lower shelf, somewhat hidden, among books that looked like they had not been touched in a long time. Maybe that is why I noticed it. The title stopped me. Exile. A single word that holds so much ache.
I picked it up without knowing the author. When I learned that Taslima Nasrin had been banned in Bangladesh, and later placed under house arrest in India, something in me paused. I have seen news headlines about writers, activists, or journalists being confined to their homes, but I had never gone beyond the headlines. I had never imagined the inside of that experience. What does confinement do to the mind? To the voice? To the idea of self?
This book became my first doorway into those questions.
Exile is not simply a memoir. It is the recording of a wound. It is Taslima Nasrin’s account of being forced out of her homeland for writing honestly about religion, women, and the everyday violences that society hides. When she stayed in India, she believed Kolkata might embrace her. She had imagined the city as a place where she could finally breathe. Instead, she entered a different form of captivity, this time justified through bureaucracy, politics, and public outrage.
What struck me most while reading was not only the political drama surrounding her, but the emotional unraveling that she shares so quietly. In the beginning of the narrative, there is still a tone of strength, a belief that things will improve, that rationality will prevail. She writes letters, appeals to officials, holds onto hope. But slowly, as the walls tighten around her, something inside begins to shift. Her voice changes. You can feel the tone altering, not abruptly, but gradually, like a light dimming.
She becomes quieter. More withdrawn. Sadness enters the sentences. Then loneliness. Then a kind of exhaustion that cannot be described but only felt.
I realized, through her words, that exile is not only about being removed from a place, it is about being removed from belonging. She was not only denied her homeland; she was denied a home. And the ache for Kolkata in her writing is not romantic, it is desperate. It is the longing for a city that could hold her, or at the very least, not harm her.
She writes of wanting a room of her own in Kolkata. Not a luxurious home, not recognition, not praise, just a room. A place where she could place her books, make tea, write, breathe. Something so simple becomes impossible for her. And in that impossibility, you feel how a society can crush a person without touching them physically.
Reading this, I could see how exile reshaped her behavior. How fear began to live inside her. How distrust grew. How every voice around her became a potential threat. When one’s existence becomes debated publicly, the self starts to fracture privately. And what remains is a version of yourself that is constantly negotiating survival.
I found myself pausing often while reading. Not because the book was difficult, but because the emotion inside it demanded time. It made me think about how we speak of freedom casually as if it is simply the ability to move or speak. But freedom has so many meanings. To belong. To not be afraid of one’s own thoughts.
Essay - Shahi Tukda
Note on Context
(This essay was written as part of the course Food, Society and Sustainability at the Graduate Institute, Geneva, taught by Prof. Minhua Ling. The course explores the intersections of food, society, and environment through sociocultural and political-economic perspectives.)
Just like any other Friday, I was talking to a friend on a video call and asked a simple question: if he had to choose any one dish that he loved, what would it be? Without a thought he replied “Shahi Tukda” (translated as Royal Piece). His eyes lit up as he described his favourite dessert: crisp golden bread deep-fried in ghee (clarified butter) soaked in sugar syrup, and topped with thickened milk, nuts and a very crucial royal ingredient- saffron. What amazed me most was his emphasis on its preparation- how something so rich and flavourful could be prepared in just twenty minutes, especially in India where most of the traditional desserts demand hours of effort, patience and considerable culinary expertise. It is in his words, “that one dessert which is simple enough for anyone to make, yet rich enough to feel special”.
This simple dessert carries different narratives, i.e. personal, cultural and historical. Personally, for him, its importance lies far beyond convenience or taste. This dessert connects him to his childhood memories, his mother’s kitchen and a sense of joy that he felt when rewarded with this treat after scoring high marks on class tests. But when seen through a broader lens, Shahi Tukda also reveals its journey across time and social classes. Once a royal delicacy of the Mughal courts, it has now become a cherished part of everyday household.
The origin of the dish is traced back to 16th and 17th century, when the Mughal court in Hyderabad, India was at its cultural and culinary peak1. Mughal cuisine itself was a product of cultural fusion, where Persian culinary traditions merged with local Indian flavours to create dishes that were rich with nuts, cream, and aromatic spices (largely available in India). Food in Mughal courts or other royal courts was never just about nourishment- it was more about refinement and asserting power through abundance. A delicacy like Shahi Tukda, made with bread (not a staple for Indian subcontinent), saffron (an expensive and luxury spice) and milk were symbols of prestige in all royal courts of India. Today, this dish has found a new place in almost all Indian kitchen and is no longer confined to the kitchen of royals, even though the name still has “royal” in it. Moreover, Shahi Tukda has long since crossed cultural lines, as its presence at both Hindu and Muslim festivities reflects how food can create spaces of shared joy.
These observations so far have connected me to Arjun Appadurai’s essay on “How to Make a National Cuisine: Cookbooks in Contemporary India” (1988)2. In his writing, he explained that cookbooks or recipes in general are not just about cooking instructions but also act as cultural texts that shape cultural identity and national stories. Recipes often travel across boundaries more freely than people themselves, allowing new culinary traditions to form. Shahi Tukda is a clear example of this, as it was once a refined Mughal dessert that once took long hours and required experienced chefs, has now become a familiar sweet across India. Along this process, its preparation has been simplified to suit everyday middle-class life. This transformation depicts what Appadurai describes as blending of elite and popular cuisine in modern India. In this sense, Shahi Tukda shows how recipes travel, transform, and become accessible, linking memories and class.
In hindsight, I remember how he discussed more about the ease of preparation and memory of his mother. These two aspects, practical and sentimental, mirror the dual role of recipes in family life. I realized that recipes, much like stories act as archives of memory. Similarly, in their study on Ghanaian migrants in the United States, Williams-Forson (2014) shows how foodways serve as a means of cultural preservation and identity making where dishes like soup and fufu become a feeling of home3. Moreover, in Appadurai’s essay, recipes can cross social boundaries just like Shahi Tukda travelled between generations in his family, keeping alive the bond between mother and son and through his stories, it has now become part of my own culinary memories.
Researching further, I discovered that Shahi Tukda is often confused with a similar dish, Double ka Meetha (translated as Sweetened Twice), a very popular dish in Hyderabad, India. Both dishes share Mughal origins, use milk and bread, but have taken on distinct identities. Double ka Meetha has stronger associations with weddings and formal banquets and with a lot of dry fruits, spices and ghee in it. Whereas Shahi Tukda is relatively simpler, which highlights how recipes adapt to regional identities differently. This observation brought me back to Appadurai’s paper as it argues that Indian cuisine is formed not by eliminating differences but through combination of regional and cultural traditions.
In conclusion, interviewing him about Shahi Tukda revealed more than just a recipe. It revealed how food sits at the crossroads of memory, history and identity. What I consider a royal dish, has also become a childhood comfort with immense emotional value and a recipe that requires little effort.
References:
1. Ghosh, K. (2024, June 24). The brief history of the Mughal culinary art that was ‘Shahi Tukra’. Heritage Times. https://www.heritagetimes.in/the-brief-history-of-the-mughal-culinary-art-that-was-shahi-tukra
2. Appadurai, A. (1988). How to make a national cuisine: Cookbooks in contemporary India. Comparative Studies in Society and History, 30(1), 3–24. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0010417500015024
3. Williams-Forson, P. A. (2014). “I haven’t eaten if I don’t have my soup and fufu”: Cultural preservation through food and foodways among Ghanaian migrants in the United States. Africa Today, 61(1), 69–87. https://doi.org/10.2979/africatoday.61.1.69
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