“Happy Diwali.” Vermajee pushed a box of Soan Papdi towards me. I looked at the box, then at him. “Soan Papdi?”

“Circulating and forwarding sweets with best wishes,” he said, straight-faced.

I accepted it. Not because I particularly wanted Soan Papdi, but because refusing a box of sweets from Vermajee during Diwali requires an explanation. Especially when whisky is waiting and there exists a possibility that the evening could slowly turn into a Teen Patti night.

Before my hands even reached the box, my mind had already started searching for the answer to the next question: Who could I safely forward this to?

“Exactly,” Vermajee smiled. “I know what you are thinking.”

“Poor Soan Papdi,” I said. “A perfectly decent sweet made of ghee and gram flour. Somehow, nobody seems particularly excited to receive it anymore.”

“That is the interesting part,” he said. “The sweet did not necessarily change. Its meaning did.”

Soan Papdi was once simply a sweet, with its flaky layers and respectable place in the Indian mithai universe. Then festive gifting turned it into a travelling object. One person bought it, another received it, a third accepted it........

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