From the bruised blossom of the night-blooming tree it seeps—mahua, the planet’s essence drawn forth and rendered into drink, distilled from flowers and silence alike. Born of heat, hunger, and hush. Once feared and forbidden, cast into shadow by imperial decree, it survived in whispers and stolen cups, its allure only deepened by the ban that named it dangerous. It burns not like fire, but like memory: slow, sweet, and impossible to forget. One sip, and the forest leans closer. Shadows loosen their tongues. What was buried stirs. This is no drink for the innocent—it is a communion with dusk, distilled.