I am at work, in an office without windows. It is 4:10 pm and the floor is buzzing quietly. Like the whole nation, the office is on its tea break. In the canteen, I fill my mug with dishwater masquerading as tea, and am walking past a cubicle when I stop. I smell it first. And then see it. A familiar blue cardboard box on a new colleague's desk. She's from Poona too. She catches me looking at the box in incredulity, smiles knowingly and tells me to open the box and take one. I'm still unsure if it's a prank but I open the box anyway. And there they are, rows and rows of whitish biscuits with light brown edges. I bite into the crisply convivial, buttery crust, and a tsunami of homesickness washes me away in a whirlpool, even before I can appreciate the taste. And it is 4:10 pm. A different, quieter Poona. I am cycling home on my red Hero Ranger. The sky is blue, the sun is warmly friendly and a slight breeze brushes away the heat. I have whizzed down