Prashant's Solace

There he was again. Amidst life on earth, a speck of dust, a blip, a grain of sand. The kulfiwallah walks into the street like he had countless times before. The same soft jingle, the same rectangular arch, hoisting the name of his moving establishment over a black pot draped with a red cloth. He looks the same. No. He looks the same! He keeps coming from an unknown place and disappearing down the street each evening only to reappear the next day. Day in, day out. Times, mutinies, 09/11, 26/11, economic meltdowns, World Cup victories, marriages, divorces, deaths, births, careers, pandemics, growths, developments, regressions, governments; nothing seems to affect him. 30 years on, he looks the same. The pace of his cart is the same and of course the taste of that perpetual kulfi is the same.  About 25 years ago, a game of lingorcha was being played on the same street. It was March, the middle of the exam season. But this boy couldn’t care less. He wasn’t the one to study till the ...