The trial of manhood was at its peak—faces red-hot, sweat streaming from foreheads, armpits stained dark with wet patches, throats parched from dehydration. Yet, the will to prove ourselves overpowered everything.
The tiles were disappearing fast. Maybe we were too absorbed to notice that we weren't the only ones breaking them anymore. Kids from the neighbouring street had joined in. Now, there was a prize: Whoever breaks the most tiles at once gets ice cream.
The event only ended when the last tile lay shattered. A winner was never declared—everyone claimed victory. So, the entire platoon of eight battle-hardened children decided on the American system: Everyone pays for themselves. And with that, the march to the nearest convenience store began.
Knuckles bruised, hands throbbing, we flexed our injuries like medals of Honor.
The Ice Cream Ambush
The shop was an oasis of calm. The owner—a middle-aged man with a sunbaked face and a sweet smile—was known as "Uncle," though he wasn't married. (Now, as an adult, I understand why that pissed him off. Life's cruel like that.)
DASH!
The door flew open with a violent shove, startling Uncle Mid-newspaper.
Bram (shouting): "UNC-ILE!" (No idea why we pronounced it like that.) "We need ice cream! That orange icy one—the Jetspot!" (We later learned it was Jetsport.)
Uncle (grumbling): "You rascals! You paying for the door? Show me money first!"
Dabi (chanting): "Uncile, Uncile! I want the cone! The cone!"
Uncle (exasperated): "Don't call me Uncle. Call me brother or something."
As he turned toward the freezer, we stampeded behind him, desperate for the chilled air. His face twisted in panic as eight rabid children clambered over each other, charging like a pack of wild dogs.
Uncle (yelling): "STOP, YOU IDIOTS!" (He gripped the freezer door like a shield.) "Make a line! I'll hand out ice cream—ONE AT A TIME!"
Miraculously, civility awoke in us. Of course it did—we knew damn well he'd refuse to sell if we disobeyed.
One by one, we selected our frozen treasures, paying like prisoners in a mess hall queue. The moment the last coin dropped, we bolted outside—only to be smacked by the heatwave like a truck.
The Great Meltdown
Before the first drip could hit the ground, Dabi screamed:
Dabi: "IT'S MELTING!!!!"
He shoved the entire cone into his mouth like a starving hamster. Seconds later, his hands flew to his temples—brain freeze.
At that age, we didn't know what brain freeze was. We just thought Dabi was weird. The rest of us felt that same stabbing pain, but real men don't admit hurt. Our busted knuckles were proof of that.
The Aftermath
On the walk home—praying the power was back—the neighborhood kids peeled off to their own streets. Just as the three of us reached our block, a furious voice cut through the air:
Richard (roaring): "WHICH MOTHERFUCKER BROKE ALL THE TILES?! THEY COST TWO LACS!" (200,000 rupees.)
The street guard stood frozen, head lowered. Clueless.
Me (smirking): "That's what happens when you sleep on duty."
Meanwhile, Dabi's eyes sparkled.
Dabi (whispering in awe): "Mother… fucker…"
A new word had been learned.