My Ode to the Orange Chuski

As my dear friend Cyrus said tonight, "Why hasn't more been said about how amazing Orange Chuski's (ice-cream bar) are.  How has no one composed some ode to them.  Dude, they're the Maggi of Ice Cream."  So I came home tonight, It's 2.49 in the a.m. and I'm as happy as I've ever been, and I thought, let me write at least a small one.

There are not many things left in this jaded adulthood of ours that can instantly fill us with that giddy, silly, perfect joy we used to carry as children.  Before the world started to lean on us, before the moments got filled with more weight than we were prepared to bare.  What your mother's hug does for you, what the bark of the dog you've known since you were a boy does to you, what your first great love song does for you when you hear it now, Orange Chuski's do.

They taste of ice, and sugar, and orange skies over rivers of joy.  They are like running after each other in the streets, playing Holi with the feverish mania only the very young can sustain.  Like Monsoon nights in your dormitory watching horror movies with your brothers-in-boarding school.  They are the first steps of your first slow dance, with that girl you were almost too shy to ask out.  They are the taste of your father's indulgence, of your mother's fondest smile.  They are the sound of your family singing along loudly and proudly and rather badly to your favorite Michael Jackson song as you drive home after a lunch out on the town, an orange stick of icy joy in each of your hands.  They are the sound of your siblings laughing, as you race down to the fridge. 

Not enough can be said about how amazing a few licks can make you feel, instantly.  They are the smug pleasure on Cyrus's face as he sinks into his corner of his favorite couch, just him and his perfect Chuski.  They are the outraged child's expression on P. Singh's face, as her second Chuski breaks off too, half on the stick, half in the packet.  They're the evil child's joy on Juhi's face as she quickly snatches the bag and says she has no problem eating it with her hands.  They are the coltish skipping dance Aditi does to the fridge everytime anyone even wonders whether they should have another one.  They are her always infectious giggle as she hands out packets.  They are Sameer's silence, because he's said not a word in a while.  Because he has better things to do.  Like eat the Chuski in his hands.  Ah bliss.  They are Abheet's paternal, patient face as he waits for one to be opened and passed to him across the room.  They are the thirty seconds before he realizes that the Chuski went no further than P. Singh, because her's was already over and who can resist another one.  They are the exasperated love in Ankur's voice as her reprimands her and demands she pass it on to Abheet's.  They're the pout on her face, then the smile that breaks through, they're the quick kiss they share.  They are my smiling face.

Every Orange Chuski tastes as good as the first one you ever had.  Every one.  That's better than any drug.  There's no humiliating graph of consumption versus amount of pleasure.  They will always be perfect.  They hand out Orange Chuski's in every version of Heaven.  As well they should.