When I was nine, my grandmother made something called ginna from the thick yellow milk a neighbour’s cow produced after calving. It looked strange—custard with an identity crisis—and smelt faintly of grass, barn, and something ancient. Adults spoke reverently. Children avoided it until forced. That day, as I sat with a steel spoon and reluctant obedience, my grandmother said, “This is strength. Your bones will remember it.” I didn’t know what proteins or antibodies were, but I knew the tone of voice mothers use when they speak not just to a child but to future health.
Decades later, in my clinic in Bengaluru, a mother and a teenage son sat across from me with that exact smell trapped in a branded jar labelled: COLOSTRUM – IMMUNITY. GUT. GLOW. LONGEVITY. If marketing had a national anthem, this bottle could sing it.
The son spoke first, full of confidence, only the young and algorithmically influenced possess.
“Doctor, this is amazing. All athletes are taking it. We both want to start.”
His mother sighed the way Indian mothers sigh when gadgets break, onions go up in price, or teenagers form opinions stronger than logic. “Doctor… is this new? Is it safe? Is this another ‘Western health pad’? And why does he want to take it when he refuses to take iron tablets?”
The boy rolled his eyes. The mother rolled hers back. I took a slow sip of the filter coffee our manju bought. Every family has its quiet revolution; this one was over powdered milk.
Colostrum, I told them, is the first milk a mammal produces after birth—the liquid that teaches a newborn how to live in a world full of bacteria, viruses, uncertainty, and relatives who sneeze too enthusiastically. It’s rich with antibodies, immunoglobulins, growth factors, vitamins, and sugars that feed the good microbes. Powerful? Yes. Sacred? Historically, across cultures. Designed for a newborn gut—not a gym influencer with matching shoes and shaker bottle.
“But doctor,” the son interrupted, “models take it.”
I smiled. “Models also sleep eight hours, avoid samosas at 11 p.m., and don’t use ‘chai’ as lunch.”
The mother laughed—the kind of laugh that contains relief and revenge.
Ayurveda doesn’t use a separate official word for colostrum the way modern science does, but it clearly recognises the uniqueness of the first milk after childbirth. The texts speak of stanya—mother’s milk—as essential for life, strength, immunity, and emotional bonding, yet early commentaries and folk traditions distinguish the very first, thick, yellow milk as even more potent. In some regions, it’s called piyūṣa or navakṣīra—nectar-milk—reserved for the newborn because it builds ojas, immunity and the foundational strength of life. Ayurveda’s philosophy was simple: every food has a rightful timing, a rightful season, and a rightful recipient. The first milk belonged to those just entering the world—not those trying to outperform it.
We spoke about research. Some early studies suggest that colostrum may strengthen the gut lining, support immunity, or help athletes recover. Others show nothing remarkable. Science is still in the shallow end of the swimming pool—not deep enough to dive, not shallow enough to dismiss. Supplements are romantic; evidence is practical.
“Should adults take it?” she asked.
The honest answer: maybe helpful, rarely essential. Health doesn’t begin with powders. It starts with food, sleep, movement, and emotional hygiene—things no influencer can package but every grandmother understands.
There was a moment—small but telling—when she lowered her voice and said, “Doctor… I’m 42. My knees ache sometimes. My skin is changing. Am I late?”
That silence needed respect more than science.
Ageing is not a disease—only marketing treats it like one.
We continued. I told her who should avoid it: people with milk allergies, hormone-sensitive cancers, complex autoimmune conditions, and strict vegans. The rest could experiment—cautiously—with 1–2 grams a day. Not the heroic scoops YouTube demonstrates like protein nationalism.
“Will it make me slim?” she asked.
“No supplement can outrun poor habits,” I said. “The only thing that reliably flattens the belly is consistency.”
The boy asked if it builds muscle. Some athlete studies showed modest benefits. Others shrugged. The World Anti-Doping Agency doesn’t ban it, but it cautions against it because colostrum contains IGF-1 and growth factors. So it sits in a strange moral category: not illegal, not encouraged, suspiciously glamorous.
Health trends work like fashion seasons. Probiotics were summer. Collagen was autumn. Ashwagandha became winter. Now colostrum is spring. Soon, something new will arrive: algae milk, mushroom peptides, and Himalayan yak collagen. In a hyper-informed world, novelty is nutrition.
But the body does not recognise trends. It recognises honesty.
Before leaving, she asked one final question—the most Indian of all.
“What do we call this in our homes?”
The answer carried the weight of memory: junnu, ginnu, kharvas, colostrum pudding—ancient recipes made long before wellness newsletters declared it “liquid gold.” We consumed it not for fear of disease, not for vanity metrics, not for biohacking—but because food once carried meaning, community, and trust.
They stood to leave. The boy still wanted to try it. The mother now wanted to think. They walked outside side by side, not entirely convinced, not fully dismissive—but wiser.
And as I finished my coffee, I thought:
Supplements are like shortcuts—tempting because they promise speed. But the body you live in is slow, rhythmic, ancestral. It does not respond to marketing. It responds to care.
Mix it, drink it, test it—fine. But understand: biology respects consistency far more than enthusiasm.
I have written a book.
If this blog spoke to you, the book will stay with you longer.
You can get your copy here.
