“Kulfi wala, Kulfi, kulfiiii le lo, kulfiyaeee!" It was the call of the Kulfi Wala. Until the last decade of the 90s, it was common to see a modestly dressed Kulfiwala bustling through the gullies and streets in the sweltering heat. He was a much-awaited relief, like the first droplets of rain, and the scent of earth on a sufferingly hot day. The sensations caused by the first gulp of the kulfi’s milky sweetness remain indescribable.
Kulfiwalas don a unique style: white shirts, sleeves rolled up, and dhotis, and wear the popular Gandhi topis (caps) - all white. They bustle endlessly from day to night, carrying the stash of kulfis on their heads.
Our Kulfiwala's basket concealed a large steel pot, cool with ice and kulfis. Usually, my brother and I would buy a smaller kulfi for 5 Rs. If Mother had more change to spare, we could buy the bigger ones for Rs. 10. That was the modest price of happiness, unlike the insatiable appetite we now nurture in a highly consumerist world. Nothing is enough anymore. We crave, we buy, we consume, only to repeat the cycle to satiate our never-ending desires and the urge to fit in and keep up.
When I saunter back to those simple times, I wonder why I never asked the Kulfiwala his name or where he was from. I guess this is the real difference between children and adults. Adults think too much, especially in hindsight. We look for rationale, purpose, and context in our interactions, while children live in the moment and make memories, not overthink everything.
Now, on the cusp of adulthood and middle age, one’s understanding of people, emotions, and times gone by is profound. As a child, the kulfi wala brought me great joy; for the adult me, that moment is among many buried in the treasure box of memories that take me back in time, offering me a calm and refreshing break from the frenzied world we are trapped in.
