ALIVE

Vannila or Chocolate?

Countless coffee mugs. Endless deadlines. Sedulously sleepy. My life revolving around the little screen of my laptop, placed in the very middle of the desk with at least a dozen files popping in on the table, at each hour round the clock. My phone buzzes and I pick it up, only to hear my mother's customary oration, conveying her utmost disappointment and defiance to my delayed work hours. The baggy dark circles beneath my eyes and the temporary insomnia are the only source of affirmation, that would testify to me working late for the whole of last month, only for me to eventually rise to epiphany of the undesirable wages I get in return for my dedication.

My phone buzzes, yet again. A friend of mine had sent me a picture of an ice cream stand. This ice cream stand stood right in front some where....familiar. I looked at the picture - at the exuberant colours. The delightful scoops of cream, stacked upon one another, disappointingly only in a picture. This stand stood right in front of.... I know! Vasant public school - the school that I went to as a child. Memories flash in my head in the form of a reel and I recall anecdotes of this very stand. Raju chacha, the man who would always give me my favourite flavour of ice cream; the same man that lent me innumerable amounts of money and loved me unconditionally, was standing there, right in that picture. There is something tardy about this picture, something barren. My heart isn't as contended as it used to be, every-previous-time I stood in-front of this stall. My mind wavers like a switch, and the I instantly scramble to the pile of unattended visiting cards on my desk.

Two taps. A fly to Delhi. An auto ride through the lanes of Rajouri. Standing in the same position opposite to me, diligently scooping cream into cones was chacha, channelling the salt-and-pepper hair, wearing the same rimless glasses. He turned towards me. He gawked in disbelief; he gaped some more when finally, there was a small smile that spread across his face. I jerked; I could barely talk. My jaws clenched and my hands held his. Heartfelt: all that would define that instance.

I turned towards the newly painted and repaired stand. Meticulous design, vivid colours, churning ice cream, devoid of any smut from the wheels.

A scoop of ice cream and heap of laughter tied our tender relationship perfectly together. I spent the day having endearing conversations with chacha and was swept by reminiscence. Later that day, right before I took off, I left him a note that read, "Dear chacha, thank you for those 20 paise that are lost somewhere today. Thank you for the vanilla with extra sugar cherries on top. Thank you for the space you've made for me in you and lastly, thank you for being my chacha. Love, your loanee with at least a fifteen debts, Diya."

A simple act of generosity, a sweet gesture may not change everyone in the world, but the world for one person. An act of kindness, of gratitude and endearment may always keep the magic in our lives, alive.