The night stall

We were a family of four, a small world of our own. Every Sunday night was our little ritual - dessert night. The world outside was wrapped in darkness, but we had our Bajaj Chetak, our tiny chariot under the warm yellow streetlights. The air would be cool, slipping through my hair, combing it the way Amma used to.

The streets were alive - laughter, chatter, and the clinking of spoons. We always stopped at the same stall, the one bathed in that golden light. I can still see it, the yellow glow, the wooden boards, the little bench where Nay and I would sit.

Amma and Nana had their favorites which I barely remember, but mine never changed - an orange popsicle that painted my tongue sunset-orange. Nay, my brother, always went for choco chip ice cream. He once told me that the chips were forbidden to eat, like watermelon seeds, so for years, I avoided them, carefully nibbling around each one, believing I was obeying some ancient ice cream law.

Years later, I realized how silly that was and yet, I smile every time I think of it.