Ever since then, something has been ringing incessantly, like the chimes of a clock. The sound is coming from outside, faint but persistent. It stirs a memory in Kabir, a memory from his childhood-- a memory of a ice cream seller. That kaku would come around with his cart, selling ice creams. He carried a small bell, and its rhythmic jingle would echo through the neighborhood. During the sweltering summer afternoons, as soon as the bell’s sound reached the ears of the children, they would rush out, clutching coins of two or five taka. Buying an ice cream for ten taka was a luxury, a bold move that required some negotiation with parents. Kabir’s father would often give in, but his mother never did. One day, when Kabir asked her for ten taka, she scolded him, "Don’t you dare eat those things! They make those ice creams with drain water." That comment left Kabir puzzled. He thought, "Our tap at home has so much water--it never runs out. Maybe ice cream kaku doesn’t have a water tank at his place." The next day, Kabir approached ice cream kaku and said, "Kaku, from now on, when you make ice cream, take water from our house. Don’t use drain water." Remembering this, a faint smile tugs at Kabir's lips. Those ice cream sellers are gone now. That era has passed. Back then, vendors would visit every home--the newspaperman at dawn, the milkman with his cans, and the vegetable seller with his cart. They were part of daily life, like clockwork. Now, no one comes. Kabir lies sprawled on the sofa, his legs stretched out. He gets up and walks to the kitchen. Nazifa is there, rolling out rotis with practiced ease. Last night, they had a fight. Since morning, not a word has passed between them. Food, Kabir thinks, is like relationships. Too much sweetness leads to problems -- diabetes, sugar spikes. A balanced meal needs variety-- spicy, sour, dry, veg, non-veg. Relationships, too, need balance. Some relationships are destined to have a mix of emotions. If there’s only sweetness, it becomes cloying, like diabetes. Arguments, fights, and sulking are inevitable. They strengthen the bond. Kabir understands this. So does Nazifa. That’s why, even when they’re angry, they’re not really angry. It’s become a part of their routine. This sulking, this *abhiman*, is uniquely Bengali. You won’t find this in any culture. Kabir stands behind Nazifa, his breath warm against her neck.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
"You can see for yourself," she replies, not looking up.
"Still angry? Do you like staying angry like this?"
Nazifa stays silent.
"Okay, I’m sorry," Kabir says, his voice sincere. He steps closer, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind. "I said it. You won’t say it, so I will. I’m sorry." Nazifa stiffens for a moment but doesn’t pull away.
"Why are you breathing so heavily? Do you have a cold or something?"
"No! I just feel like kissing you," he murmurs, his lips brushing against her neck.
"Every time I see your neck, I feel like it."
"Stop it," she says, but there’s no real anger in her voice now.
"Let me work. Don’t we have to eat? Since morning, I’ve been doing everything. You don’t even help a little." Kabir tightens his grip playfully, resting his chin on her shoulder.
"I’ll help, I promise. But first, say you forgive me." Nazifa sighs, finally turning her head slightly to look at him. "You’re impossible."
"But you love me anyway," he says with a grin.
"Maybe," she replies, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Now let me go. The rotis will burn."
"Only if you say it properly," Kabir insists, refusing to let go. "Fine, fine, I forgive you," Nazifa says, rolling her eyes but smiling now. "Happy?"
"Very," he says, finally releasing her but planting a quick kiss on her cheek before stepping back.
As Nazifa returns to her cooking, Kabir walks over to the window. The morning sunlight streams in, casting a golden glow over the kitchen. He looks out at the quiet street below, where the neighborhood is slowly waking up. A voice was coming from distance what was shouting something that was unclear.