Feni, Fireflies & Other Rituals of Slowing Down
- The Local Beat.

- Jun 28
- 2 min read
Updated: Jul 25

It usually begins with a glass.
Small. Earthy. No umbrella. No garnish.
Maybe a slice of lime if Kaka’s feeling generous.
It could be feni.
Could be something else altogether — some strange village spirit that smells like cashew smoke and wildflowers.
You take a sip, expecting to flinch.
But it goes down like a story.
Slow. Warm.
Unexpectedly comforting.
There’s no menu here. No happy hour.
Just an old bottle, some clean glasses, and a group of people who didn’t know each other a few hours ago.
And suddenly do.
Sometimes, the drinking begins by a river.
Other times on a rooftop.
Or next to a fire made with driftwood and half a plan.
Someone always starts with, “This reminds me of…”
And by the second glass, everyone’s telling stories.
The kind you don’t usually tell.
Feni’s not about getting drunk.
It’s about pausing.
Letting go.
Laughing too loud.
Letting someone older than you teach you a drinking ritual that’s half folklore, half mischief.
Sometimes there’s a toast.
Sometimes there’s just a nod.
And every now and then, there's a moment of silence — not out of awkwardness, but out of awe.
Like when you hear frogs harmonising with a Goan folk tune.
Or fireflies blinking in sync with your pulse.
These aren’t events. They’re not even experiences, really.
They’re just things that happen when you're not rushing.
Things like:
Eating with your hands because the plate is too full to balance with a fork
Watching Kaki drop curry leaves into oil and blessing the whole room
Sitting barefoot on someone’s porch while a thunderstorm circles the house
We’ve realized something over time.
It’s not the place that makes a memory.
It’s the ritual.
And the best rituals are the ones you didn’t know you needed.
So no, we won’t send you a checklist of what to pack for your outing.
But we will say this — carry your stories, your questions, and maybe a small appetite for something slightly fermented.
We don’t do happy hours. Just happier memories.




Comments