Enjoy this slice of life short story from when I lived in Central Asia a decade ago.
“What food did you like?” Amin*, an office driver, asks. His bushy black beard often contains a huge smile as he prepares to make a funny remark or ask a question he thinks I can manage at my meager language level.
“Mutiyeh!” I say, without hesitation. The corners of my lips turn up underneath my burqa. Sweat drips down my body.
Amin chuckles at my speedy response. His eyes shine with pride because I genuinely have a favorite holiday treat.
I gaze out the car window, the scenery difficult to pick out through the crisscross mesh eye grid of my burqa. A roadside vendor sells ice cream bars from a ladybug red cart. The instrumental version of, “My Heart Will Go On” fills the air. This music lets those in the community know the ice cream vendor is heading their way—at least some things remain the same across cultures.
Amin swerves to the side of the road.
“Do you want ice cream?” he calls, hopping out of the car. His white prayer cap bobs up and down as he scurries toward the vendor.
I grin. Amin instantly rockets to the top of my favorite driver ever list. Ice cream has always been my dessert of choice, but hard to come by without steady electricity in the summer here.
Amin returns with two ice cream bars. He reaches his arm to the back seat and hands one bar to me before tearing into his own. It’s now a race against time to consume the ice cream bar before it melts in my lap.
I pause for a moment wondering if I can really eat an ice cream bar underneath my burqa. The sweltering temperatures convince me to just go for it. I rip open the packaging. Ice cream splatters all over the inside of my burqa. I try to peel off the outside chocolate layer—I’m not a chocolate fan—and place the fast-melting chocolate coating inside the wrapper.
I devour the entire ice cream bar before realizing I had missed the wrapper. Some of the chocolate shell is now painted across the inside of my burqa. How embarrassing will it be to get out of the car with noticeable chocolate spots on my burqa?
A worthy price to pay for ice cream, I tell myself.
“Very good ice cream. Kindness.” I say in my beginner language. “Thank you.”
Amin laughs. “You’re welcome.”
We pull into the driveway inside the walled compound containing my house. I scramble indoors to clean the inside of my burqa before it leaves a stain all the local women will perpetually question me about.
“Very good ice cream. Kindness.” I say in my beginner language. “Thank you.”
Amin laughs. “You’re welcome.”
We pull into the driveway inside the walled compound containing my house. I scramble indoors to clean the inside of my burqa before it leaves a stain all the local women will perpetually question me about.*Name changed for privacy.