The Kulfi-Waala

I remember you – o kulfi-waala – I remember your call, the long and throaty “kulfiiaaaaaa” reverberating through that little dark street where you came every week at the same time to sell your delicious kulfis. I remember the little girl I was, holding my father’s sleeve and begging him to buy me your kulfi yet again this week. I remember the cheers of joy from me and my brother when he agreed to buy us some. I still remember, o kulfi-waala, the fear that you may not hear my father call out to you from our tiny window on the third floor. I remember asking him to call out louder, lest you may leave the street before you heard us. I remember my mother shyly telling my father “mere liye malai vaali”. I remember the eager anticipation with which I waited for you to knock on our door. I remember the awe with which I looked into your earthen red kulfi pot. I remember my mouth watering and demanding the ‘badi vaali kulfi’ this time. I remember fighting with my brother for an extra bite from his kulfi this week, because last time he had had a bite from mine. I remember you chatting with my father, telling him about your life as a kulfi-waala. I remember not paying much attention to it, and concentrating instead on my delicious kulfi. I remember my mom complaining about why you have increased the price of the kulfi from ‘do rupaye’ to ‘dhai rupaye’. I remember hoping that you will return again the next week.

You did return, did you not, o kulfi-waala? Alas, we had left.