Horlicks Is A Drug — And So Are Its Cousins

𝐖𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐭 𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 — 𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞. 𝐓𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡.

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𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐰

In every Indian kitchen, a brown jar sits by the stove.

The mother opens it, scoops the powder, stirs it into milk.

Sugar is added, steam rises, the child drinks, smiles, gulps down comfort.

And everyone believes this is nutrition.

But look closer — this is not food.

This is dependency.

This is not milk.

This is a ritual.

This is not care.

This is a fix.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠.

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𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬

Horlicks was never born in India.

It was born in Britain — a powdered malt for soldiers, patients, the weak and weary.

The British Raj carried it into Bengal, feeding clerks, railway staff,

a colonial potion for “strength” when dal and roti were not enough.

Bournvita marched in soon after,

Complan followed,

Boost sprinted with cricket bats,

and Pediasure came wrapped in science.

India’s kitchens became museums of colonial nutrition,

our grandmothers’ ragi, badam, jaggery pushed aside.

The powdered drink was crowned the new king of growth.

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Read the label.

Sugar first.

Malt extract second.

Additives, artificial flavors, synthetic vitamins, minerals.

Each sip is a chemical script —

spike the sugar, trigger dopamine,

give the child a rush,

then a crash.

What does a drug do?

It alters mood,

it manipulates biology,

it creates dependence,

and it demands repetition.

Horlicks fits the bill.

So does Complan.

So does Bournvita.

So does Pediasure.

Different jars. Same fix.

And remember: in most families, it is not just Horlicks.

It is Horlicks + sugar + milk.

A triple drug.

Just like tea.

Just like coffee.

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𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐬 𝐇𝐲𝐩𝐧𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐬

They came with slogans like injections:

“Taller, Stronger, Sharper.”

“They drink it, they win.”

“Complete planned food.”

“Doctor’s choice.”

White coats in TV ads.

Celebrity endorsements.

Free sample drives in schools.

A mother watching cricket with her child sees Sachin say:

“Boost is the secret of my energy.”

The message is not about malt —

it is hypnosis.

Just like a drug dealer glamorizes highs,

the ads sell dreams of height, strength, IQ, victory.

The powder is not food —

it is aspiration in a jar.

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐬𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐇𝐨𝐨𝐤

In the urban Indian home,

the drink is no longer just drink.

It is mother’s love stirred into milk.

It is father’s concern for exams.

It is grandmother’s quiet fear that the child is “weak.”

The child learns:

brown powder = care.

brown powder = energy.

brown powder = happiness.

The brain records this association.

Neurons fire with warmth when the spoon dips into the jar.

This is the classic pathway of drug conditioning.

Nicotine, caffeine, alcohol —

and yes, Horlicks too.

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡 𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐡

But what’s the cost of this care?

Urban Indian children today are heavier,

more diabetic,

more hyperactive,

more prone to metabolic disorders than ever before.

The jars are loaded with sugar — sometimes more than 30–40% by weight.

Every cup is a sweet bomb disguised as nutrition.

Short-term energy becomes long-term obesity.

Short-term sharpness becomes long-term dullness.

The powder promises IQ —

but delivers insulin resistance.

The fix feels good now,

but it quietly robs the future.

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐲

A jar of Horlicks costs ₹400–₹600.

Pediasure can climb into the thousands.

One child, one month, one jar —

and the parent believes they are “investing in health.”

But do the math:

Ragi flour costs ₹60 a kilo.

Badam, jaggery, turmeric, buttermilk —

still cheaper, still richer, still authentic.

Yet the market thrives not on nutrition,

but on fear.

Fear that “my child will be left behind.”

Fear that “natural food is not enough.”

And corporations profit by selling anxiety in a jar.

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𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈𝐭𝐬 𝐒𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

Horlicks is the flagship.

Bournvita wears the badge of energy.

Complan boasts of planned growth.

Boost flexes with cricket.

Pediasure hides behind medical jargon.

Strip the labels, break the ads,

and they are all the same —

sugar, malt, flavor, powder, illusion.

This is not variety.

This is a cartel.

One drug, many bottles.

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Urban India has ritualized this drug.

At night, children sip Bournvita before bed.

In the morning, they gulp Pediasure with milk.

During exams, they get extra Horlicks “for energy.”

During cricket, they shout “Boost is the secret of my energy.”

It has become culture —

not questioned, not examined, not doubted.

Like gutka in small towns,

like cigarettes in offices,

like tea in train stations —

Horlicks is the middle-class addiction,

made respectable by television.

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𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐥

The way out is not to feed guilt,

but to feed truth.

Make ragi malt.

Make badam drinks with jaggery.

Use turmeric, saffron, cardamom.

Base it in buttermilk, not milk.

Return to the drinks that nourished generations.

No slogans, no celebrities,

just nutrition.

The fix is not in jars —

it is in tradition.

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𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐏𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐡

Your kitchen is a pharmacy.

Your spoon is a syringe.

You believe you are feeding love,

but you are dosing dependency.

Your child is not growing taller, stronger, sharper —

they are growing addicted.

𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠.

𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠.

𝐁𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠.

𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠.

𝐏𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐫𝐮𝐠.

Stop feeding them drugs.

Start feeding them truth.

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𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐈𝐬 𝐚 𝐃𝐫𝐮𝐠 — 𝐚 𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐡𝐮𝐤𝐚𝐫

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𝐒𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠

It is early morning.

The sun is just breaking over the rocky fields of Yelmadagi.

Birds are calling. A woodsmoke fire burns low.

Madhukar sits on a stone step of his off-grid homestead, a pot of buttermilk by his side.

He has invited a group to talk. Not in a conference room. Not in a hotel. Out here, in the raw air.

The group gathers:

A worried Parent.

A Child, sleepy-eyed, clutching a school bag.

A polished Corporate Representative.

A smooth Advertising Executive.

A white-coated Pediatrician.

A sharp-eyed Nutritionist.

A weary but knowing Grandmother.

A stern Economist.

A thoughtful Psychologist.

And the wind carries their words into the fields.

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𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

Madhukar:

“Thank you all for coming.

I called you because there’s a brown jar sitting in almost every urban kitchen.

It looks harmless. It smells sweet. It tastes like love.

But I say to you — it is a drug.

Horlicks. Bournvita. Complan. Boost. Pediasure.

They are not nutrition. They are dependency.

And the victim sits right here with us — this child.”

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𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐬

Parent:

“But Madhukar, what choice do I have?

Every day I worry: is my child eating enough?

Will he grow tall enough?

Will he be sharp enough for school?

These powders give me peace of mind.

I don’t trust canteen food, I don’t trust the market vegetables.

At least Horlicks is fortified.

At least Pediasure says it is scientifically proven.”

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𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞

Corporate Rep (smiling):

“Our products have nourished generations.

We fortify with iron, calcium, protein, vitamins.

We don’t sell drugs, we sell health.

We help parents. We give them hope.”

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𝐀𝐝𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐄𝐱𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞

Ad Exec:

“Let’s be honest. We sell dreams.

Dreams of taller kids, stronger kids, sharper kids.

Parents need stories. We give them stories.

Sachin with Boost. Kids winning exams with Complan.

It’s not deception, it’s aspiration.”

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𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐡𝐮𝐤𝐚𝐫 (𝐂𝐮𝐭𝐬 𝐈𝐧)

Madhukar:

“And what is the price of these dreams?

A spoon of Horlicks is a spoon of sugar, malt, flavor.

Parents add more sugar. They mix it in milk.

Sugar + Milk + Powder.

A triple drug.

Like tea. Like coffee.

The child’s tongue craves it, the brain lights up, dopamine spikes.

That is not nutrition. That is dependency.”

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𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐬 (𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞)

Child (quietly):

“I don’t even like it.

It’s too sweet.

But mama says it will make me taller.

Papa says without it I will be weak.

I drink it before school, before sleep.

Sometimes I feel sick.

But if I don’t drink it, they look at me like I’m failing them.”

(Silence. The adults look down.)

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𝐍𝐮𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

Nutritionist:

“Let’s speak facts.

These drinks are 30–40% sugar.

The so-called vitamins can be had from ordinary food.

Ragi, jaggery, nuts, buttermilk, vegetables —

cheaper, better, richer.

But advertising has stolen wisdom.

And now even educated parents don’t believe their own kitchens.”

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𝐏𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐧

Pediatrician (hesitant):

“In hospitals, we do recommend Pediasure for malnourished children.

But that is medicine.

For healthy children?

No.

There is no need.

The truth is — these products survive on fear, not science.”

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𝐏𝐬𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐬𝐭

Psychologist:

“This is classic conditioning.

The parent fears failure.

The company sells reassurance.

The child equates the powder with love.

Soon, the taste is comfort, the ritual is care,

and the absence feels like loss.

This is how addiction is made.”

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𝐄𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭

Economist:

“A jar of Pediasure can cost more than ₹1,000.

Families spend thousands each year.

Meanwhile, ragi costs ₹60 a kilo.

But fear is more expensive than food.

And corporations thrive on selling fear.”

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𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫

Grandmother (shaking her head):

“In my time, children grew strong on ragi malt.

We drank buttermilk in summer, turmeric milk only when sick.

We ate groundnuts, jaggery, drumstick leaves.

We didn’t have ‘health drinks,’

but we had health.”

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𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝 (𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧)

Child:

“I don’t want powders.

I like buttermilk with jeera.

I like ajji’s ragi ball.

I don’t want to drink lies.”

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𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐡𝐮𝐤𝐚𝐫 (𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝)

Madhukar:

“Do you hear that?

This child does not need a jar.

This child needs truth.

But we — parents, doctors, advertisers, companies —

we have made them drink fear, drink sugar, drink addiction.

This kitchen has become a pharmacy.

The spoon has become a syringe.

The parent is the dealer.

The child is the patient.

Horlicks is a drug.

Complan is a drug.

Bournvita is a drug.

Boost is a drug.

Pediasure is a drug.

And until we stop feeding them these drugs,

our children will remain victims,

their bodies heavy with sugar,

their minds wired with dependency,

their futures stolen sip by sip.

Stop.

Break the jar.

Pour out the powder.

Return to food, to soil, to buttermilk, to ragi.

Feed truth.

Not drugs.”

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The fire dies down.

The child looks at the adults —

half-afraid, half-hopeful.

The silence is heavier than any slogan.

The dialogue has ended,

but the wound is open.

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐨𝐰𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐋𝐢𝐞𝐬

They told us

strength comes in a jar.

We believed it.

Once it was the British soldier’s drink,

now it is the Indian child’s prayer.

Mothers stir it in the dark kitchen,

fathers bring home the next jar,

neighbours nod in approval —

“Good parents give this.”

And so the lie grows tall.

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The ad-man comes with his toolbox of dreams.

A smiling child wins a race.

A doctor in a white coat approves.

A cricketer lifts his bat to the sky.

The slogan bites deeper than truth:

Taller, Stronger, Sharper.

And the mother doubts her own milk.

The father doubts his own food.

The jar becomes more sacred than dal,

more powerful than ragi,

more trustworthy than ajji’s hand.

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At first, it was only sugar.

Then came malt.

Then came iron and calcium stamped in bold letters.

Then came “fortified with science.”

Then came the whisper in the market —

“Without this, your child will be left behind.”

So the parent pays.

And pays.

And pays again.

Not for food.

For fear.

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The doctor does not fight.

He prescribes.

The neighbour does not question.

She recommends.

The school does not resist.

It distributes samples.

And the child,

who wanted buttermilk with jeera,

who wanted groundnuts in a paper cone,

is fed spoon after spoon of powder,

until their tongue cannot tell

love from sugar.

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Years roll by.

The jar sits on the shelf like a god.

The child grows into a teenager,

hungry for quick fixes,

addicted to sweetness,

tired too soon,

eyes ringed with fatigue.

The body carries weight it did not earn.

The blood carries sugar it did not ask for.

The mind craves comfort in packets,

not in fields.

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This is not growth.

This is business.

This is not health.

This is marketing.

This is not care.

This is addiction.

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Look around, friend.

We are the only country

where ragi and jaggery sleep in sacks

while jars of imported dust

are worshipped as nutrition.

We are the only country

where a cricket bat sells sugar

and a doctor sells fear.

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The trick is simple:

make you doubt yourself,

make you doubt your food,

make you trust the jar.

And once you trust the jar,

they own your kitchen,

they own your wallet,

they own your child.

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Break the spell.

The lie is not in the child.

The lie is in the jar.

The real growth waits in the soil,

in the fields,

in the buttermilk pot,

in the hands of the grandmother.

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The powder will always lie.

The ad will always shout.

The neighbour will always nod.

But the truth sits quietly

in the clay cup of your village,

waiting for you to drink it again.

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