India, June 29 -- I had lassi in a kulhad this morning, and for a fleeting moment, summer tasted the way it used to. The kulhad rested cool against my palms, its porous clay carrying the faint fragrance of damp earth. Before the lassi even touched my lips, memory arrived quietly, the kind that slips soundlessly into the soul. One sip, and I was back in the sun-soaked courtyard of our home, where afternoons drifted lazily beneath slow ceiling fans, where earthen pots lined shaded ledges, and where kulhads were not curated novelties but companions of everyday living. Even now, that scent rose softly from the rim-mitti after rain, raw and reassuring-as though the earth itself had remembered me.

At home, kulhads were woven into the rhythm of...