The Forbidden Kulfi

‘Kulfi-wala, kulfi-wala!’ The chanting outside my bedroom window snapped me out of my heat-induced coma. The kulfi seller’s shrill voice pierced my ears. What I’d do to have just one street-side kulfi, to let it melt away that lethargy of humidity. These ivory ice creams softened the dense Karachi coastal air, a pleasure I was denied. They were made using raw milk – and possibly ‘gutter water’ with ‘a hundred different germs’, according to my parents – but their denial only made me want one even more.