India, Nov. 6 -- Just as I stepped into a sweet shop the other day, it struck me that it looked no different from a sleek, upmarket store-or better still, an airport boutique. The dazzle of neon lights, ultra-modern interiors, soft instrumental background music, and gloved salesmen donning surgical caps looked impressive and scrupulously hygienic. But I couldn't help wondering: Where was the mithai (sweet)? Trays of sweet varieties sat locked behind refrigerated glass compartments, seemingly overwhelmed by the surrounding razzmatazz. I asked the salesman for a sample of a particular burfi, and a tiny piece arrived on a disposable plate, anchored by a wooden stick to ensure my fingers stayed clean. My hands did stay clean, but the experience completely lacked the vibrant colours and rich aromas of a quintessential mithai shop. My memories carried me back to the early 1980s, when a trip to the neighbourhood sweet shop was the grandest highlight of Diwali morning. My late father would walk me there, and the shop would extend straight onto the street using folding charpoys covered with glistening white sheets. Atop them lay a dazzling array: Green coconut burfi, rich brown chocolate burfi, beige roasted burfi, and snowy kalakand. Beyond those sat bright chumchums and spongy rasgullas-the absolute cynosure of my eyes. If you could picture a colour, a chumchum was adorned in it. The halwai uncle would approach holding an empty cardboard box: "Beta, kaunsi mithai khaoge, bataao? (Which of these sweets would you like to have, my son?)". Soon enough, the box overflowed with colourful chumchums, dripping chaashni. Every instinct implored me to sit right there and dive into the mouthwatering sweet treats, but the halwai uncle would spend minutes-which felt like hours to a child-asking my father about everyone in our family. He refused to turn to another customer until he had gathered every bit of family news. When it came time to settle up, he would gauge the weight simply by balancing the box in his hands. If he lacked exact change, he would pick out a couple of choice burfis, wrap them in a paper packet, and hand them to me: "Bakayaa poora ho gaya ji (The balance amount is settled, sir)". Then he'd offer a warm blessing: "Beta, khoob padho, ache number le ke aana agli Diwali ko (Study well, get good marks, and come back next Diwali)." Alas, those blessings, easy smiles, and genuine affection have all been sacrificed on the altar of modernity. Standing there with my hygienic wooden stick, I yearned, just for a moment, to be a child again....