An Old Man and His Ice Cream

Yesterday evening, I sat at Hideaway Coffee in Yadavgiri, behind the large window that frames a street shaded by a thick canopy of trees.

The festival had emptied the road; there was only a stillness broken now and then by a passing auto weaving around potholes, or the reflection of cars and motorcycles gliding across the glass.

I love working here because each time I look up, the world outside reminds me how unhurried life can be. A woman parking in a rush to fetch medicine next door. Someone walking down the inclined street briskly, while another climbs it slowly, taking their time. Some vehicles speeding dangerously, while others in a crawl.

The cafe’s warm lights always draw a glance from people as they pass, as if everyone briefly acknowledges its glow.

In yesterday’s soft cloudy light, an old man appeared in my view, walking up the gradual incline of the street. He must have been in his late sixties, grey hair, dressed in a white lungi and a faded pink shirt, a towel draped loosely on his left shoulder.

In his hand was a half-eaten ice cream stick. Kulfi, most likely, from the Joy ice cream shop a few minutes away. He walked with quiet purpose, careful not to let it drip onto his crisp shirt, angling each bite with surprising grace.

As he drew closer, he looked into the café. Our eyes met. I smiled, a small act of recognition. Without breaking stride, he raised the ice cream to his lips, and for a second, his smile flickered back at me. Then he was gone, carried away by the slow incline of the street.

It was nothing—a moment, brief and ordinary. Yet it stayed with me. An old man savoring ice cream on his evening walk, and two strangers sharing a glance. Sometimes the smallest things are the ones that stay.

Some scenes from the place.