Coffee & Cigarettes

Kaushik woke up first, as he usually did. He opened his eyes but didn’t yet look for his glasses, which he kept under the bed when he slept. He could hear the sound of rain outside. The stale aftertaste of wine and cigarettes still lingered in his mouth. He turned towards the window. The view outside seemed grayer than usual. On clear days, although his vision still couldn’t create definite shapes unaided, he could differentiate between the white & grey of concrete structures from the green hazes of trees. Today, everything was covered in an unwavering shade of gray. He closed his eyes and remained motionless for a while. With the rain as heavy as this, Café Ideal was out of question and he didn’t need to hurry the others up.

On the bed next to his, Suresh slept without sound. The crows at the window were quieter than usual. He thought about walking up to the window with his arms flailing to scare them away but decided not to. Finally, he put on his glasses.

It poured so hard Kaushik could see the wind blowing through it, ruffling the rain like it would, a curtain. The sky was uniformly dark, perhaps darker at the edges. It would be a long rainy day.

In the other room, Ashish, Ritankar and Kartik slept soundly on the mattresses on the floor. They wouldn’t wake up till much later. Empty packets of wafers lay on the floor. The wine bottles and glasses were neatly placed on the kitchen platform. Kaushik had made sure they were outside the reaches of the unconscious limbs of his friends before he went to sleep the previous night. The wineglasses, in particular, were dear to him. He’d bought them for fairly cheap at a departmental store that did not specialize in glassware. He had browsed through several other stores unsuccessfully before he found these. They were round and huge with cavernous mouths and, as he had learnt on his visit to the vineyards in Nasik, meant only for red wine. Buying separate sets for red, white and sparkling wines was, however, out of question and these were used, irrespective of the drink, including even whiskey and beer on occasion.

He wrapped the leftover food and the wafer packets in newspapers and deposited them in the trash can outside. On the sofa, he found two packets of cigarettes. One contained two sticks and the other, ashes of the rest. He lit one and sat watching the rain. Sometime later, he checked mail on his laptop. Nothing of consequence had arrived. He hadn’t expected anything either since he’d checked it only the night before. For a quarter of an hour, he played Bridge online, while his computer downloaded pirated films he’d queued. Then, he went downstairs to breakfast at the untidy little restaurant just outside the apartment premises.

He called home from there while he sipped coffee, after the morning snack was tucked in. His Mom and Dad were thrilled to hear his voice this early in the morning since to them this was probably a sign of no alcohol the previous night. Kaushik chuckled to himself after he disconnected the call. His conversations with his parents were mostly repetitive – the same answers to the same questions. They often complained to each other about it, although both sides were aware that there wasn’t much that could be done to alter the situation. The rain persisted. In a couple of hours, the others would be up and they’d spend the day indulging in interesting and inconsequential conversation. They would discuss a film and then another and then an actor or a director, draw comparisons. With Kartik around, they would bitch about legends of the Indian film industry – people that they respected greatly but loved bitching about anyway. Eventually, even these conversations ended up being the same. Kaushik didn’t tire of these, however. Not yet, anyway.

Picasso's Studio

They came back to their hotel room at around 8 in the evening. From the lovely little park across the hotel floated in the carefree sounds of children at play and old men’s banter while they played chess and carom on the park benches. Lovers walked casually and without purpose holding each other close, oblivious of distractions.

It was Kaushik and Ritankar’s last evening in Paris. They were tired and exhilarated. They had made up their minds to not use cabs and had, therefore, walked an incredible number of kilometers. In the mornings, their limbs woke with the sweet ache and soreness of the day before. It made the warmth of the morning baths more soothing than any other they could remember.

Their room was damp and unventilated, an attic of sorts converted into a room with two beds and a wooden shelf. A single bulb lit the place enough for them to find their way around. The smell of cigarettes hung thickly in the air. They had found the place by pure chance. They had stopped at a café to ask where they could find one and had been told that there was one available there itself. The man at the counter had then taken them through a door at the back which opened onto a disheveled courtyard strewn with discarded bricks and cement slabs. In one corner, an iron ladder made its way up to a door. This door led into the room. The room contained no attached toilet; there was one in the courtyard, inexplicably Indian style.

They weren’t spoilt for choice or finances and had decided to take it, forty Euros a night. The next day, they had paid the forty Euros and asked if they could keep the place for the next two nights. The man at the café had agreed.

“We’re staying for three nights. No discounts?”

The man had shrugged expansively.

“It is cheap”, he said.

“Room is small”, they countered.

They had exchanged smiles and left it at that.

“So, what do we do now…finish the beer and sleep?” Kaushik asked.

“Yes, we could do that. Or, we could go out a little later and have some food”

“Yes, we should eat something, I guess.”

“Anyway, let’s finish the beer first.”

They opened their cans and lit a cigarette. Kaushik walked to the small mirror, built over a decaying wash basin, and appraised his hair. He wasn’t pleased with what he saw and spent the next few minutes trying to sort it out with his fingers. Both had forgotten to bring their combs for the trip. They had decided against buying one when they were told at a store that it would cost them eighty cents.

“Fifty rupees for a comb!” Ritankar had exclaimed. “Fuck it.”

Ritankar leafed through the enormous Lonely Planet while Kaushik stared at the mirror.

“It seems Picasso’s studio is not very far from here”, he said.

They were in Montmartre. They couldn’t believe their luck when they realized that they were, when they got off the metro from the Airport, at Barbès – Rochechouart, near where they had booked a hostel room. The hostel had, expectedly, deemed them no-shows by that time, they being six hours late after missing their connecting flight to Paris from Istanbul. And therefore, the room in the attic.

“It is shown on the map?” Kushal asked.

“Yes, right here.”

“If we’d done that walking tour Ashish told us about, we’d have seen it.”

“Yes. No matter, we did well enough without that.”

They sipped their beers thoughtfully.

“We could still go there, if you want” Kushal said.

“Yes, it is an option”

Suddenly, their eyes lit up.

“Yes, let’s do it! Let’s find Picasso’s studio ourselves!”

“Check the map! What’s the nearest metro station? We’ll get there and then walk!”

“Its Blanche, just three stops from Barbès.”

Forty minutes later, they were at the underground station of Blanche.

They climbed up a flight of stairs that from the bottom looked like it opened onto a regular sidewalk. It did not. It opened almost directly in the middle of a boulevard onto a small space for those on foot to wait. Asphalt flanked them on both sides. And on the right, towering above them was the astonishing spectacle of the Moulin Rouge. So unexpected and resplendent was the sight that they stood speechless for a good minute or two.

“Oh my God!” Ritankar finally managed to break the silence.

“I don’t care if we don’t find Picasso’s studio now. This is enough as far as I am concerned!”

The giant wheel swung gracefully around tracing a path of vivid reds and yellows. The famous name shone a bright red on the semi circular façade. Rows of small windows on the upper storey hid modestly behind the dizzying display of light, submerged in the deep red hues. Hundreds of people stood in line at the entrance, waiting for their turn to enter. A faint whiff of music drifted out from inside. They thought of Nicole Kidman.

To one side, a large circular platform stood elevated about two feet from the ground. The top was covered with strong meshed rods. It was possibly an air vent for the metro lines underneath. On it, young women strode up one by one, goaded by their friends and boyfriends, to do their own versions of Marilyn Monroe. A bunch of policemen stood to one side, laughing and occasionally whistling with the crowd gathered around whenever a skirt rose more than intended.

Shiny Happy People.

Next to the Moulin Rouge, a dark street travelled into the innards of Montmartre, climbing eventually to the magnificent Sacre Coeur, as all streets in Montmartre did. The map led them through this street in search of Picasso’s studio. They had spent nearly an hour outside Moulin Rouge, gazing at everything they could. They’d debated whether they should go inside; the seventy five Euro entry charge had been instrumental in their deciding not to. Walking for a few minutes through the street, the chatter and noise slowly receded, replaced by a silence unusual of Montmartre.

They turned a corner and spotted a café. Three or four young men, friends, were engaged in conversation outside. They leaned with their backs against the wall and occasionally squatted and stretched their arms – unmistakable signs of pleasant drunkenness.

“Bonjour” Ritankar greeted them.

“Bonjour”

“We are looking for Picasso’s house or studio here. Do you know where it is?”

“Picasso?”

“Oui”

They didn’t know the place. Kaushik showed them the map and the spot they’d encircled. The men studied the map intently and consulted with each other. Their English was inevitably poor and they offered directions with their hands, repeating “This way” throughout. They didn’t look very confident.

They asked several others on the way, climbing towards the summit all the time. The streets remained vibrant. Brightly lit cafes appeared at every corner, animated and beautiful people inside and outside them. More walked them by on the street. They spoke in loud voices and broke into dance, if they heard a song they liked, while passing by a café – the spirit of Bohemia alive and kicking. Nobody, however, knew where Picasso had lived. Montmartre, apparently, had forgotten one of its most famous residents.

On their way back, well after midnight, they lost their way and walked around in circles for an hour before a policeman offered them directions. The joy and abandon of the streets and alleys did not spill out on to the main boulevards. They were empty and lonely. Neon signs shone above shuttered windows. Near their hotel, a group of black guys played football on the street. When they spotted the two figures walking past, they stopped their game and greeted them. Kaushik and Ritankar smiled and nodded their heads in acknowledgement. In their room, they finished the rest of the beer, warm by now, and smoked a couple of cigarettes. Towards dawn, they drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, they were woken early by the alarms they’d set. They checked out of the hotel before nine and walked through Montmartre one last time. It had drizzled during the night and there was a slight chill in the air. Puddles of water glistened between the cobblestones as did stray beer bottles and piece of broken glass. Old men sat reading newspapers outside shops, not yet open. Perhaps they knew where Picasso’s studio was.

The Radical

Kaushik knocked, entered his boss’s cabin and made his way to the plush sofa in the corner.

“You wanted to talk to me Saurabh?”

Saurabh, a genial middle aged man who was beginning to discover the discomforts of a rapidly growing paunch and graying facial hair, turned towards him.

“Yes. Just give me a minute here.”

Kaushik waited. He thought he knew what this was going to be about and was prepared for it. He had been working with the guy for nearly a year. In all that time, he had hardly been any good use to his boss or the organization in general. Both knew this. In the beginning, they had tried hard to meet each others’ expectation of work and working styles. In a few months, they were doing their best to not get in each others’ way, comfortable in their independent existences.

While that hadn’t affected Saurabh too badly for he had other people to work with, Kaushik had grown increasingly disenchanted.

“Yes, so”, Saurabh said, turning to Kaushik again. Kaushik looked up from the magazine he was reading.

“The film seems to be doing alright.”

“Yes, looks like. Congratulations for managing its promotion so well. The film itself was good too, I guess”

“Yes”

Saurabh nodded his head, unsure how to continue.

“I, sort of, had something to discuss with you Kaushik”

“Before that, I have something to tell you”

“Alright, go on”

“I am quitting”

Saurabh stared at him intently.

“You are? That’s a, well, surprise”

Kaushik shrugged.

“You have found another job then?”

“No. I will look for one now”

“Oh”

That evening, he went to the pictures with Ritankar and Ashish. He told them afterwards during dinner. They did not comment. Just nodded and concentrated on the food. He had of course hinted at this for some time now. That didn’t mean they had believed him but now that he had done it, they couldn’t very well act shocked.

“You should’ve held out for a bit dude. There aren’t many jobs around at the moment…”

“We’ll see. The worst that can happen is I spend the next few months without work. Eventually, something has to come up. Obviously, I am not going to starve to death.”

“Of course”

“So anyway, now that I have some free time, I was wondering if a trip to Europe makes sense”

“A trip to Europe? Now? What about money?”

“I checked my accounts. I have enough for a two-three week trip and to get by for a few months after that”

“Hmm”

“Well then, you two care to join me?”

Ashish would not. Ritankar would. A month of planning and paperwork later, they would be on their way.

Later that night, he lay in bed and reflected on the day. The next day in office would be marvelous. He imagined people cowering inside their cabins when he walked in. He would amble around like he owned the place and nobody could touch him. Their powers over him wouldn’t mean a thing anymore. He also thought about how he should set about getting out of the potential mess that he had maneuvered himself into. He had often discussed with Ritankar and Ashish how one day they’d have to do something like this if they were indeed serious about their aspirations of making films and authoring novels. He had taken the first step now.

The next day, he talked to Kartik. Kartik had worked as a scriptwriter in his office. The two had become good friends, instantly picking each other out for their common interests in film and its making. He was a heavyset dark man with curly hair and a loud voice. None of his scripts had ever been made into films by the company. Exasperated, he too had quit recently.

“Damn man! You quit too! Who’s going to sponsor all the booze now?”

“We still have Ritankar.”

“Anyway, let’s discuss this over drinks at Pop Tates tonight?”

“Sure, let’s.”

Pop Tates, in Andheri - a wealthy Mumbai suburb, is a popular hangout during the last days of a month for boys and girls with rich dads, when their allowances begin to run out. Off late though, it is increasingly flocked by members of the earning upper middle class in search of high life. The bar, noisy and claustrophobic, is tucked into one corner of a busy street. The noise of automobiles from the street mingles with those from the loudspeakers. In the midst of all of this, people sit at tables and have intimate conversations at the top of their voices. The draught beer is excellent.

“So, you want to assist a director now?”

“Yes, if I can. I understand you know a few. You should get me in touch with them”

Kartik nodded.

“I can do that. But really, assisting a director? Fuck man! What will we do if IIM grads start getting into all this shit? “

“If I am to make films, do I have an option?”

“You know, assisting a director’s not a permanent job. When a project ends, you got to search for another. And even on a project, you get barely 20K a month…that must be peanuts for you. Can’t even imagine how much you get paid…used to, in that shithole”

“We’ll see.”

A month later, the trip to Europe happened. When he returned, Kartik introduced him to a few important men in the film industry, acquaintances of his. Kaushik spoke to them with interest but found himself unable to discuss opportunities to work with them. All the while, he continued to consume dozens of films and literature a week, unoccupied as he was throughout the day. He wrote several scripts, even novels, in his head and made a few entries in his blog.

By the time he found another job, one that paid as much as the one before, half a year had gone. In all this time, he realized how comfortable he was with a life like this. If the money didn’t run out, he could live like this forever.

Drawing Parallels

Kaushik woke just after six to the cawing of crows sitting on his bedroom window ledge. Off late, his body seemed to have timed itself to wake up at this time. There was still a long time before he needed to get ready for office.

Outside, sunlight was still frail. The sky was clear but ashen. It would take a brighter sun for it to become blue again. It had just turned June. One of these days, he would wake to a sky, grayed by monsoon clouds. A train honked (not many whistle these days) as it passed by on the tracks next to his building. From where he sat, he could see into the compartments. A few passengers sat scattered between empty seats, mostly milk and newspaper men, he surmised. In a couple of hours, there would be hardly any space inside these same compartments and he’d be sitting in one of them.

The newspaper lay obediently outside the apartment door. He picked it up and deposited it on the living room table, after having cursorily glanced through the headlines. There wasn’t much in it that interested him. The novel he was reading lay on the dining platform where he’d left it the previous night. The dining platform, a thick glass sheet held in place by two clamps on the wall and a thick steel column under it for support on the outer side, stood between the living room and the kitchen. The absence of a wall between the two created a pleasant illusion of more space than there really was. By the French windows in the living room were placed two large cushioned chairs, part of a sofa set. On one of these, Kaushik lowered himself and began to read. He liked the place. It wasn’t his of course – apartments in the centre of Mumbai were for Billionaires to own. He and Suresh had rented it together.

Suresh only woke up when Kaushik was almost ready to leave, more than an hour later.

“Yes Suresh, feeling better now?” Kaushik asked, grinning widely.

The previous evening, bored with lying around for several hours and unable to find alternatives, the two had decided that whiskey was the most appropriate response to the problem. Ashish and Ritankar had left in the late afternoon, having spent the day watching an Iranian film and then discussing it, after they’d come back from Café Ideal. So, anyway, a bottle of whiskey had been ordered, finished in due course and another ordered. This too was well on the way to being emptied, when Suresh’s stomach eventually gave out and poured out its contents through the wrong end.

The conversation had been interesting too.

“You know, my sister is coming to India for her summer break next month. I’ve asked her to get me a cell phone.” Suresh’s sister had enrolled for a Doctorate program in the United States, the previous year.

“Hmm. You’ve asked for a specific model?”

“No”

“Then? How will she know which one to get?”

“I told her to get any phone that slides or flips open”

“Ah. So that’s what you like, eh? A bit of style in front of the women?”

“No man. That’s not my style. That’s not my idea of coolness.”

“What is your idea of coolness then?”

“You know man”, Suresh shrugged, “Just like that”

Kaushik found the one hour train ride to office quite pleasant. He travelled, first class, on a low traffic route which meant he could almost always find a place to sit, often by the window. The IPod sang faithfully into his ears – eclectic music from around the world. Each week, he spent time on the internet searching for new artists and downloaded music from the most promising ones onto the IPod. Over a period of time, he had built up an enviable collection of alternative independent music this way. He was astonished to find how much of it came from Sweden. He also carried a novel with him – usually something light and breezy - there were too many distractions on a train for serious literature. At some point during the journey, he would close his eyes and doze off.

His office was a large elaborate building covered with tinted glass on the outside. It was lonely where it stood; there weren’t any structures of comparable dimensions around it. It was located a little outside Mumbai where the intense development of the city fell away into a more serene, intimate environment. They called the town New Mumbai. Kaushik worked on the topmost floor, the ninth. From it, he could see clusters of small barren hills on one side. They would be covered in green once the rains arrived. A month hence, on a clear day after a spell of monsoon, he would see the clean blue of the sky dotted with white fluffy clouds behind these hills, lush green then, and think of Tuscany. In another direction, he was also afforded a view of the creek which separated Mumbai from its poorer cousin. He liked to think of it as Mumbai’s Bosphorus. He’d never seen the real one and could only visualize it as much as his imagination and Orhan Pamuk’s Istanbul permitted.

Kaushik hated his colleagues. There was not one in the entire lot that he could ever strike up an enjoyable conversation with. He’d tried it initially and failed miserably. Since then, he’d limited himself to short functional verbal exchanges with them.

“Hi”

“How was the weekend?”

“Was good. Enjoyed”

“Anything interesting?”

“Not really, just relaxing.”

It didn’t matter which side said what.

Ashish worked in the same office. After a couple of hours of taking care of the most pressing issues at hand, Kaushik descended to the fourth floor, where Ashish sat. The two of them spent some time at the cafeteria, undisturbed, for nobody else seemed to use the place during office hours. They exchanged notes from the remainder of their Sundays, cribbed about work and discussed ways of getting out. As always, the discussion eventually veered to Europe and its many charms; they recounted incidents from their brief visits to the continent.

Kaushik left office at six in the evening, leaving behind him another uneventful day. The Ipod sang and he read. Back home, he ate dinner with Suresh while watching TV. Later, he watched a film – a wonderful French film called ‘La gloire de mon père’ – (My Father’s Glory, translated in English), while Suresh continued watching TV. By midnight, he slept.

Two Lives

Kaushik, less heavy than he would be two years hence but still sufficiently stocked up for post-apocalyptic survival, went to Business School in the summer of 2006, two years after he’d finished his Bachelors in Engineering. The two colleges were of vastly differing statures, so much so, that he was perhaps the only human being in history to have studied in both. The Business School – IIM Lucknow, was considered amongst the best in the country, having mass produced future wearers of double-breasted suits for over two decades. The Engineering College, on the other hand, was a rather more modest affair, its greatest achievement being that it was the best of three colleges in the sleepy town of Dhule, located near the middle of the country and of nowhere, miles from any city of significance. In years to come, this would become the object of much friendly banter from his more illustrious Business School mates.

But, as he never missed an opportunity to point out to them, they were there and so was he. When his cab, led and followed by a continuous stream of other cabs, entered through the gates of IIM Lucknow, he felt he had left behind him an entire history of mediocrity and nobodyness. Understandably, it was the happiest Kaushik could remember himself being in a very long time.

There was a touch of apprehension too. He didn’t know if he actually fit in. In the months that led up to the start of the session, filled with self doubt and a need to lab test himself before plunging in, he had spent hours on Social Networking Sites, searching for would-be classmates and seniors, urgently pursuing conversations, whenever he found someone. The exercise proved inconclusive; most of the chit-chatting was amicable, even pleasant once in a while, but essentially cold. Like him, everyone else was testing the waters too – curious but wary, clinging to the safety of commonplace subjects. Kaushik slyly mentioned the existence of his blog. It was read and politely appreciated. A few years later, Kaushik, his tastes evolved manifold, re-read the material and was embarrassed to find how utterly juvenile it was.

And so, he carried his apprehension with him to Lucknow. The first couple of days, he wandered around the campus with his parents, as did most others. It was a large, lush place - narrow alleys leading up to short, pretty red brick buildings, widely spaced and surrounded by slender trees towering over dense undergrowth. A single tar road circled around the entire campus, bordered by a footpath dotted with cozy wooden benches. One could spend hours sitting on these benches, undisturbed and isolated, apart from the odd motorcycle whizzing past or a couple of students on a rejuvenating walk. The sense of peace and desertion was complete; it was difficult to believe there were nearly a thousand people inhabiting the place.

He was allotted a room in one of the newly constructed hostels. It would be a ten minute walk from there to the academic block, he surmised. Over the course of the two years he spent there, he realized it was more like a frenzied three minute sprint to reach the classroom in time. His room was small, clean and unimaginative, as hostel rooms are. There were scribbles on the walls and the doors, ranging from rants of megalomania to declarations of love, mostly copied from 70s and 80s rock songs. There was a small balcony too, although its effect was greatly reduced since his room was at ground level and all he could see outside was wild foliage. A solitary window opened onto this balcony from the room. It was covered with fine meshed wire to keep out the insects and mosquitoes, of which there were millions. Two shelves, hollows in the wall, a chair & desk, and a wooden bed. It was a five star suite compared to what he’d lived in, in the other college.

He met a few students, fellow hostellers; the conversations from the online chat rooms reinitiated face to face. A three day official induction began – the batch, three hundred of them crowded into a large hall, were told how special they were to be sitting there. They were told what they would go through in the two ensuing years and where that would lead. Intense rigour and competition were hinted at. Their dreams, already plump, were bloated further. They cheered.

The parents trickled out gradually. The session began. They learnt of the idiosyncrasies of their professors along with the obligatory legends and anecdotes. The pretty girls were spotted; courtships begun. Life became regular. It was then, that friendships were finally formed. This was when Kaushik first met Ritankar, Ashish and Suresh although they wouldn’t become close friends until much later.

In one lecture, every student was asked to make presentations on various topics. Kaushik waited his turn nervously. When it came, he walked onto the platform and started to speak. Somewhere in between, he cracked a joke, even as his palms and underarms sweated. It came off well and the class applauded. That was when he finally decided that he did indeed belong.

In later years, Kaushik often reflected on how little he remembered of those first few days. There were hardly any actual incidents and images his mind could recreate, just a vague, muddled sense of the time and place. All his concrete memories were from much later, when the lines between his friendships and casual acquaintances were firmly drawn and he knew where he stood.

Cafe Ideal

They entered the café and found their preferred table unoccupied as usual.

The table sat next to the window which opened immediately onto the Marine Drive, or the Queen’s Necklace, as it is known, somewhat more dramatically. On the other side of the Drive, the Arabian Sea could be heard crashing perpetually into a bunch of artificial boulders, shaped like the Mercedes star – only much thicker – that stretches across the length of the QN. A little to the right, lay Chowpatty – one of only two piles of sand in Mumbai that are passed off as beaches. In the evenings, Chowpatty teems with townsfolk in search of fresh sea breeze and shabby makeshift fast food joints that sell spicy Indian and Chinese food of questionable hygiene. Jute mattresses are lain out on the sand in front of these joints to seat customers. Sand and dirt waft perilously close to the food whenever people pass by these mattresses, which is continuously.

At 8 in the morning, however, the place was entirely devoid of activity.

There were two occupied tables besides the one they slid into. One of them by a family – man, woman, teenage son, grandfather and grandmother – that had just gotten off the train from somewhere in southern India, as evidenced by the four suitcases and about half a dozen backpacks and handbags that encircled their table. At the other table sat two Parsi men, in their sixties, sipping coffee.

“So, what do we order today?” asked Ashish, poring over the menu card. Kaushik shrugged. So did Ritankar. Suresh snatched the card out of Ashish’s hands and began running his fingers down the list. It didn’t matter that barely six items comprised the ‘Breakfast & Snacks’ section in the menu, all of which they knew by rote.

“The Egg Sali, we obviously will order”

“Yes, and the scrambled eggs on toast, as well”

“Right, and lets see…french toasts?”

“Sure, and what else? Boiled eggs? Or do we go with an omelet?”

“Omelet would be nice, I think”

“OK, an omelet then. And four cups of tea, of course”

The waiter noted down the names, offered to him over a span of five minutes.

Café Ideal had been Kaushik’s discovery. He had found it completely by chance when, right in front of the café, he’d stopped to ask for directions to someplace. He had been offered the requisite directions, correctly, he later found out, but had decided to chuck that part of the plan and enter the café instead.

They were regular visitors to the café since then.

The café stands, shaped like an arrow head, on the corner made by the Marine Drive and a road that empties into it from the innards of Mumbai. A row of windows line both the outward facing sides. The windows reach up about 10 feet from the ground; they are covered with glass, clean and transparent near the top and frosted and embroidered at the bottom. The name ‘Café Ideal’ is written on a shiny yellow facade with red paint in English and repeated immediately under in Hindi. The Hindi font is much smaller, illegible from the other side of the Marine Drive and displayed with the sole purpose of avoiding political ire. The furniture inside is wooden, polished. The tables are rectangular; a white formica sheet sits at the top. The chairs have erect backs, meshed jute held together in place by a solid wooden border. They have no armrests. The walls above the windows are layered with colourful vinyl pictures of famous sights from around the world – the Eiffel Tower, the Gateway of India, The Statue of Liberty, The Taj Mahal. Sunlight floods in through the windows throughout the day, making artificial lights redundant. The drinks counter stands in the darkest corner. Beer and wine glasses hang upside down from stands drilled into the wall and cheerfully reflect an invisible yellow bulb somewhere above them; a large red-lit sign with Budweiser written on it hangs over the counter. Right next to this counter is the billing counter. On the wall above it is a poster of the Lord Balaji. It is perhaps the only concession to the café’s Indianness amidst all the quasi-European paraphernalia.

The four huddled around the yellow-orange jukebox, armed with three coins. Inside it, back covers of CDs and pieces of ruled paper with song names handwritten or typed, each sheet and each song meticulously numbered, were stuck neatly to plastic leafs that could be flapped over like pages by clicking a button at the base of the box. The choice of music was evidently not high on the list of priorities of whoever managed the contraption, for the music ranged from the utterly ludicrous to the mildly amusing. Nevertheless, three songs were all that were required, and given that the total collection ran into thousands, a palatable selection could always be arrived at. They chose, as they always did, a Hindi song they could ridicule, an English song they could recognize and a French one they did not understand but enjoyed listening to. The obsession with French music dated back to a year when, during the course of a film, they had heard a husky, utterly sensual female voice singing in French on the soundtrack. Further investigations had revealed that the voice belonged to one Carla Bruni, a fact that had added to their enthusiasm considerably.

Back at the table, breakfast had been served. Suresh had brought with him a two day old edition of The Economic Times, which he now proceeded to unfurl. It was India’s leading financial newspaper, at least as far as volumes went, and inescapable for anyone who worked in the financial sector, which Suresh did. The top headline read ‘After sex scandal, minister ejects prematurely’. To this, Suresh began to giggle and rapidly graduated to uncontrollable laughter. The other three looked at him, expectant, for they knew an immortal line would soon be delivered, as only Suresh could. They were not disappointed.

He looked up at them, suddenly aware that he was the object of their undivided attention, and said “What? I like penis jokes!”

They discussed the previous night’s film, which they had watched over multiple glasses of wine. It had been enjoyable in a way that Ritankar didn’t approve of particularly, for it had nothing to say; just a couple of hours of lighthearted whimsy. Ritankar’s knowledge of film was encyclopedic. Ashish and Kaushik maintained that he was the sort of chap who could outclass IMDB comfortably. He could reel of names of films, their entire cast and crew and, in turn, their filmographies, biographies even. So advanced was his state of being in this regard, that for him, conversations with lesser mortals had become increasingly limited. Indeed, the other three felt privileged to be able to at least hold his attention whilst they spoke.

Traffic on the Marine Drive, from where they sat in the café, looked sparse. It was only nine in the morning. A solitary white Maruti 800 with large ‘L’s taped over the windshield and elsewhere drove fitfully past their window. Inside it, a middle-aged lady sat clutching the steering wheel with all her might. Next to her sat a nondescript man with one hand on the handbrake between them, looking straight ahead. On the sides of the car, in huge red letters, was written

‘Good Luck Motor Driving School’

They burst into laughter again.

By and by, breakfast ended. Additional cups of tea were drunk. By 10, as the place started to fill up, they walked out into the warm summer day. The last leg of the ritual began - the smoking of a cigarette. None of them were regular smokers, but in their minds it completed the experience. Standing in the sun on an empty footpath, blowing puffs of smoke at the sky as the breeze flew in languorously from the sea.

Sunday had just begun.

The End of Summer

He alights from the coach and finds that the connecting train has already arrived. It means he will not find a place next to the window. On most days, he is able to sit next to the window since he arrives before the train does.

It is not just the view and the wind that make the seats by the windows attractive; it also allows him to keep an eye on the traffic on the bridge that passes over the rail tracks near where he gets down. It’s a bridge that his cab travels through on the way home from the station. On days when the traffic on it lies thick and unmoving, he walks to save time.

Indeed, the seats next to the windows are taken. There are plenty others available, however, and he lowers himself into one. There is still time before the train is to depart. He unzips the front pouch of his worn backpack and takes his Ipod out. The gentle, idyllic sound of the Kings of Convenience permeates into his ears; it evokes visions of Scandinavian quietude that he finds relaxing after a day at work. He closes his eyes and waits for the train to move.

A minute or two after the train rolls out of the station, he sees the creek. The train glides over it, gathering speed, till the motor vehicles on the bridge next to the train’s start to fall behind. In the distance, waning sunlight and the warm moisture in the air make the hazy outlines of tall, lean buildings quiver. The sky is a resplendent pink. Overhead, trails of angry, dusty clouds lie haphazardly in the sky, as if they were passed through a shredder. They foretell gusty winds and heavy, scant rain drops. A light, cool breeze seems to be blowing; he cannot be sure for it could be an illusion borne out of the train's motion.

He knows the sky's pink colour is due to increased particulate matter in the atmosphere. He has read it somewhere. He wonders if this has anything to do with pollution. He suspects not. Such evenings must always have been there. Nevertheless, he finds the mankind’s response to such matters as pollution and global warming fascinating. Some say they will damage the planet irrevocably. Others don’t. It could all come to good or bad. Nobody knows for certain. And so, everything continues as it always did. It is as if the world as a whole were smoking cigarettes.

Through the window, he sees the cityscape in vivid sepia tones, as if it were a flashback in a film. The train has now crossed the creek and is on firm land again. Box shaped railway quarters with decaying walls form the backdrop for a continuous line of tin-roofed, temporary cottages on either side of the tracks, shallow gutters half covered by broken, discarded tiles in between. Groups of dirty looking kids, in soiled half-pants and undershirts, run around, playing cricket. Their mothers are inside, cooking their evening meals. Their fathers are out at work in far-off mills and will return, drunk, long after they've fallen asleep.

On another day, these sights and ruminations would depress him. Today, everything, bathed in the pink of the sky, appears magical. The city looks like it should when he sifts through its memories, many years later.

He decides, traffic or no traffic, he’ll walk home today.

Obeisance

He sits waiting, patiently, for six-o- clock to happen, turning his prized Parker between the fingers of his left hand. His right palm cups the electronic mouse; the fingers clicking away, continuously refreshing his mailbox. There are ten minutes before he can leave.

He’s not expecting any emails at this time of the day. At least not very pressing ones. The constant refreshing is borne out of habit, formed over hundreds of meaningless hours that he has idled away. Around him, his colleagues bustle around, engrossed in their own methods of appearing busy and important.

With less than five minutes to go, a mail appears. He curses softly under his breath. Its from the HOD. The subject line informs him that it is a reply to the long chain of mails that he has helped lengthen through the day, wilfully frustrating attempts from another team to enlist his assistance. They want access to a document which he is in possession of. He is unwilling to give it, for no other reason than that they want it. The HOD’s mail is short and crisp, as most HOD mails are. It contains a name, two words and a comma. His name, then the comma, and the two words – please expedite.

He considers his options. He doesn’t have many. He can delay, just leave for the day and think about it when he returns the next day. Or he can reply to the mail and stand by his position, which he cannot do since the HOD may not take kindly to such behaviour. He considers discussing this face to face with the HOD, explain to him why the document need not be shared but decides against it, for it is too trivial a matter.

For a while, he fantasizes. He imagines himself typing out ‘I will not’ and other stronger variants in reply. He conjures up the consequent face-off in the HOD’s cabin, where the man screams at him in hysteric disbelief. At which point, he calmly lays his resignation on the table and laughs in his face, before walking out with his hands in his pockets and a whistle on his lips.

He finds the document, attaches it to the mail and sends it to the other team with a word or two by way of apology. He checks his watch and finds the long hand shifted two cuts beyond twelve. He curses again, a little louder this time, switches off the computer, picks up his backpack and races out.

Out on the road, he spots the train sliding into the station on the opposite side. He checks the oncoming traffic on both sides of the road, at highspeed for it is an expressway, times himself and sprints. He hears automobile brakes in the background but doesn’t turn to check. By the time he enters the station, the train’s begun to move again. He quickens his pace, elbowing out a couple of college boys who seem to have admitted defeat, reaches the platform just as the train starts to accelerate, races past half a dozen other people, grabs the iron pole in the middle of the compartment’s wide, open entrance with his right hand, jogs two more steps before jumping aboard.

Week End

My flatmate in the next room alternates between football and cricket on TV. Through curtain-less unwashed French windows, the dipping Sun, blazes its way into the apartment and obliterates most of what appears on the television set and on my laptop. I see myself reflected on the screen whenever it grows dark in the movie, which is often. There are four more suns there, two each on the retinas and on each glass of my spectacles. I’ve shut the windows for the wind outside is strong and the ceiling fan swayed and squeaked too much and made nervous. One day I must die, but not by a ceiling fan landing on me, if I can help it. Or by being blown to smithereens by some crazy terrorist contraption or being run over on the road and most certainly not while I am sleeping. When I woke up this morning, I found the lower eyelid of the left eye swollen and sagged. An insect bite probably. A two day malady, I suspect, during which I must live with the facial asymmetry. There are no longer the four suns. The real one’s behind the air conditioner at the moment. The room’s a cooler, more elegantly lit place. Small and large buildings infest the scenery outside. From afar, they all look white with black rectangles where the windows are. Later in the evening, when the lights on the staircases are turned on, the consequent zigzags will be visible. Lower down, a green flag with a white crescent moon flutters casually. Below it, a maze of tin roofs and blue tarpaulin sheets stretch into the distance. Pretty soon, the mike will screech again and bestow the knowledge of Allah upon whoever cares or does not care to listen. One can hear it several times a day, starting 06:00 Hours. Started off being a major irritant, but these days, I find the noise curiously relaxing. It used to wake me up in the mornings earlier, but my sleep’s gotten used to it off late.

The speakers, along with a mosquito repellent and a cell phone charger, stand on top of the woofer, lying on the ground. One of them doesn’t work anymore. I realized that when I picked it up and put my ear to it. Must’ve been that way for months now. So much for a good ear for music. I don’t tell my current set of friends I’ve bought cassettes of Aashiqui and Saajan, amongst others, in my time. All of us have a good laugh over the music of the 90s these days, although I suspect, it wasn’t laughs they started off listening to those songs for, either. On my hard drive, I only carry independent music from Swedish and Norwegian bands. All the Hindi music is stored on another hard drive, safely hidden where not many can find it.

The day has trudged past while I stared at the laptop, played Spider Solitaire and thought of writing. Picked up one or two of previously abandoned stories and tried taking them further. After every two words, played Spider Solitaire, checked mail and took a piss. If there’s any inspiration waiting to burst upon me, it better be fast. Cute two page essays do not an author make. Twilight’s here. Sky’s pink above and pinker at the edges. Zigzags visible. No sound from the TV for some time now, flatmate’s asleep or perhaps wrestling with Kundera. If the first bit of printed material one reads, outside of course books, at the age of twenty six, is Kundera, then one is in trouble.

Well, anyway, the day’s almost over and the cricket match I want to watch will start soon. Tomorrow another week will come and go, quicker than the last one for this one’s only 5 days. At the end of which, I’ll again do more staring and little writing. Maybe, something will come out of that. Till then, this will do.

Common Cold

At the most unexpected moment, while I am going about one or more of my various daily businesses, I feel a faint harmless tickle in my throat, as if the microscopic army readying itself for a stealthy attack on my body, has exposed itself too early and, facing certain defeat, is now debating whether to make a quiet exit and live to fight another day or go the Japanese way. Their eventual decision remains the same every time. It signals the onset of the now unavoidable battle that my body must prepare for and I must suffer through, in the days to come.

Each time I have this dreaded sensation, though fully aware that I merely kid myself, I gulp several times at frequent intervals in the hope that it is only an obstinate foreign particle, embedded in the inner lines of my oesophagus, that is the cause of this itch and will presently, goaded by my actions, continue on its journey into the stomach. The effort, in addition to being fruitless, in fact has an effect contrary to what I intend. For my throat begins to itch with intensified vehemence.

Resigned, but still vain in hope, I quickly help myself to hot tea or coffee in generous quantities and swallow it with greater vigour than usual to ensure that the affected region is thoroughly rinsed. Immediately afterwards, I gulp a few more times to check if the beverage has had a positive effect. The first couple of times, the itch seems feebler, and my fears are temporarily allayed. The relief does not last for long; the third time, it is inevitably back.

I wonder what it is that this bunch of pitiful invisible creatures find exciting in these doomed ventures for them to keep coming back. Surely, they realize they stand no chance at all? That the human body is simply too large and too powerful for them to ever take down? There are, of course, others of their kin who do possess that ability, but who is to say if they are even aware of the existence of their lethal brothers in arms! Nevertheless, they keep coming anyway, perhaps in the hope that they pave the way for their descendants to succeed, many generations later.

On the second day, the minor skirmishes end and full-fledged war commences. The attackers, resigned to their fate and fearless, launch their assault on all fronts. The defenders, initially caught off guard, have gradually begun to bring coherence to their campaign, invigorated no doubt by the artificial reinforcements that have arrived in the form of pills I’ve deployed over the last few hours. There is, however, still some time before they clearly stamp their supremacy in the battlefield. In the meanwhile, the throat suffers as do, now, the chest and the nose. My eyes water.

I sit in office, drowsy, feverish and afraid of calling in sick, finding it difficult to breathe and trying to invest myself in the requisite chores. In the course of the restless night spent, the incessant itching of the throat has been replaced by a palatable dull ache, consistent but manageable. The problem is the nose. Innumerable blows into the handkerchief and violent sneezes later, it remains clogged. Stray rivulets of water trickle out embarrassingly and continuously, which I wipe off before they reach the upper lip. I smell nothing. The food tastes bland. Spraying the deodorant doesn’t make me feel better. My socks probably stink.

I obsess over little details. Like, if I tap gently on one side of my nose, there is a wet, audible click, spawned, no doubt, by the exploding of mucus bubbles that are entrenched in thousands inside. Soon, I am addicted to the sound and can’t stop myself. I fret.

My voice sounds nasal and muffled. I try to camouflage this by speaking in hoarse staccatos. My parents pick it up anyway. They fish around for details, prescribe medication and advise a trip to the doctor. Exasperated, I assure them of a recovery within a day or two. This little exchange has played out and will continue to, identical to the smallest detail, forever.

By the afternoon of the third day, the tides begin to turn. The nose, still clogged, doesn’t run anymore. The mucus has attained a great level of viscosity. When I inhale sharply, I find the shriller sound of liquid retreating from the outer fringes of the nose replaced by a deeper grunt higher up the nasal tunnel. That is a good sign. I know now that I will be well when the sun rises on the morrow.

When I wake up next morning, I feel dried mucus in my nose. I dig my fingers into my nostrils, pry out the contents and roll them for a while between my fingers before flicking away the consequently formed ball nonchalantly. I inhale fresh air, deeply, and commend the body on another efficient performance.