It's that time of the weather when icecream and popsicles mean a lot to our throat. The lil' girl in this story remembers her childhood as those days when the icecreamwallah meant much more. He'd arrive in her neighbourhood with his box of icecream rolling on small wheels accompanied by a ringing bell. His entry wasn't as ordinary as it seemed to adult eyes. He was indubitably the star of the summer afternoon as kids would encircle him. His tiny customers didn't know how to maintain decorum because some things were much more important than discipline. It was a matter of taste and (almost) existential crisis: Kids squabbling about one flavour over another was routine for a reason. Just like grownups silently wonder what to order at a restaurant. Our minisized heroine happened to be of the silent type so the noise wouldn't make much of a difference to her choice. She knew what she wanted...for the most part, that is. She had tried orange a few days ago so it was not going to be orange again. She wasn't fond of milk so white was out of question. She liked the plum-y coloured one but she wasn't really sure whether it'd be worth the bet. What if it disappointed her the way pomegranate disappointed her as a fruit? She couldn't go back and demand another one, now could she? The parental quota was restricted to just one. So chocolate flavour it'd be—usually—followed by her cute young triangular smugface.