It started as a faint jingle — distant, metallic, almost lazy. But within seconds, the entire building heard it. And like clockwork, chaos broke out. Doors slammed open. Slippers slapped against staircases. Kids screamed, coins clinked. The ice cream cart was here. And if you didn’t run fast enough, you weren’t getting your orange bar.
In the long, sweaty afternoons of summer in 90s Mumbai, time moved slowly. The power would cut, ceiling fans would stir the air like they were punishing it, and homework felt like a cruel joke. But then, just as despair settled in, we’d hear that blessed bell. It wasn’t loud, but we were trained to hear it. Like pigeons who could detect ice cream. And the moment it rang, the entire colony transformed into a frenzied, joyful mob.
The Stampede Was Real
Forget discipline. Forget order. That bell turned even the calmest kids into sprinters. You could be in the middle of lunch, brushing your teeth, or halfway through a scolding — didn’t matter. At the sound of the bell, you dropped everything, grabbed whatever coins you could find, and ran.
We didn’t care if we had exact change. We didn’t care if we were barefoot. We didn’t care if we tripped on the stairs. The mission was singular: get to the cart before it ran out of your flavor. Because the cart never waited. And once the mango dolly or choco bar was gone, no amount of pleading (“Uncle, kal zaroor lana!”) could fix it.
The Ice Cream Wallah’s Power
He wasn’t just a vendor. He was a celebrity. A magician. A seasonal deity. His name was Irfan bhai, but we never used it. To us, he was simply “ice cream uncle.” Dressed in a faded cap, pushing a blue cart with painted penguins and dripping price lists, he had the most patient face in the world — even as ten grubby hands waved coins in his direction.
He never lost track. He knew which kid owed him ₹2 from yesterday, who liked kulfi over cassata, who would cry if he ran out of raspberry duets. He gave us extra tissue paper, let us pick the stick we wanted, and always had one last bar hidden in the back — which he “found” for someone sobbing on the sidewalk.
The Flavors of the Rush
We fought over who got to order first. We made pacts and then broke them. We tried every new flavor and always returned to our old favorites. For me, it was the milky white kulfi stick that stained your lips and hands with its thick sweetness. For my friend Zaid, it was the orange bar — nuclear in color, icy in texture, and gone in five licks.
Each bite came with a sense of triumph. You had made it. You had heard the bell, outrun the others, and earned your five-minute moment of heaven. Sure, it melted too fast. Sure, it stuck to the wrapper. But those were minor issues. Because you were holding happiness in your hand. Cold. Sweet. Vanishing too quickly, but perfect while it lasted.
And Then It Was Gone
The bell never lingered. It jingled for a while and then faded away, swallowed by the afternoon heat and barking dogs. We’d sit on the compound wall, our chins sticky, our coins gone, hearts light. It felt like celebration. Like community. Like a festival with no reason and no rules.
Some days, the cart didn’t come. Maybe Irfan bhai had another route, or his freezer broke down. On those days, the silence was deafening. We’d wait longer than necessary, invent rumors about a new chocolate cone, and go home disappointed. But the next time we heard the bell, the stampede resumed — like it had never stopped.
Now, in a Quieter City
In Austin, my summers are filled with organized schedules, central air-conditioning, and pints of ice cream that cost more than my childhood lunch. No bells. No running. No crowd. And no choco bars that turn your fingers orange.
But sometimes, when I hear a faint chime — maybe from a bike, or a wind chime, or a memory that won’t quit — I look up, heart racing just a little. I don’t need the ice cream. But I remember the urgency. The joy. The miracle of hearing one small bell and knowing, without a doubt, that happiness was just around the corner.
Because for a few glorious summers, a single sound could launch a hundred footsteps. That tiny bell — equal parts invitation and challenge — gave us our most delicious stampedes. And I still run in my heart when I hear it.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
