A cup of tea

It was a quaint old neighbourhood, tucked away from the cacophony of zooming cars and crisscrossed highways. The houses bore a weathered look; their faces streaked with betel laden spittoon, their corners crumbling, and their ledges in desperate need of paint. The street lamps stood there, rusty, like old men; the light of their eyes dimming with age. Tiny cobwebs dangled from the edges of the wiry lattice patterns, unperturbed.  The meandering cobbled road was riddled with potholes, pockets of muddy rainwater dotting the otherwise parched surface. A few men were buying cigarettes from the rickety old shack in the distance, lighting their fresh rolls of tobacco from the burning end of a piece of coir suspended from the jagged edge of a lone nail. They inhaled the smoke deep into their lungs, releasing fuzzy rings of their daily woes into the air; lopsided ovals of smoke that collapsed into nothingness.

Sam stood there in front of his favourite coffee shop. Oriental Coffee House, estd 1958. It was one of those places that he had discovered during one of his nightly sleepless strolls down the road. At a glance, the place had nothing much to offer. Modest square tables coupled with wooden straightback chairs were lined up one behind the other. Identical covers were fashioned out of cheap red and white checked cotton. The only signs of embellishment were tiny porcelain vases with plastic flowers in them that graced the centre of each table; flowers that never wilted, flowers that were never thirsty, flowers that always remained the same shade of magenta. It seemed like the entire room was lifted straight out of a whole sale market at an enviable rebate. Sam wondered how this place could still keep up with the new army of coffee shops that had taken over the city like a plague, with their pricey flavoured beverages and stale two-day old croissants wrapped in fragrant cellophane. But considering it continued to stand there, surviving the repeated blows of half a century of globalization, Oriental Coffee House was surely doing something right. 

Sam looked at his watch. It was quarter past four. Meera was supposed to be there fifteen minutes before. Is she coming? Has she lost her way? Sam took out that precious scrap of napkin from his wallet. He decided to call her. Again. He looked around for a phone booth, but there was none in close sight. The age of pocket phones had driven the familiar standing phone booths into extinction. Sam grew impatient. He didn’t want to be stood up. It would be too much of an assault to his fragile bulbous ego. He looked into the coffee shop and asked if he could make a call. Two rupees a minute, he was informed curtly. He was willing to pay ten. The phone looked like a relic from a different era; big, black, with a rotating dial and a cradle that let out a muffled jingle every time you placed the weighty receiver on it. He wondered if it had been used post-Independence. He dialed the numbers nervously and waited, rehearsing his lines in his mind. The trail of rings was cut short by a gruff voice. It was a man.

“Hello?”

Sam slammed down the phone, his heart racing. Who would that be? Her husband? He remembered Meera wearing an alternating set of traditional red and white bangles when he first met her at the nightclub; the kind that puts women in glass boxes, cordoned off from the wishful eyes of lonesome men. What am I doing here? This is wrong. Sam felt terribly uncomfortable. His collar felt like a crushing noose, tightening its hold on him, till the veins in his neck stood out; throbbing, struggling to break free. The world around him, as he knew it, was all too real. It had no room for childish fantasies. He decided to walk.

“There you are!”

A familiar voice called out from behind him. He turned around to see Meera, standing there, hands folded, with exasperation clouding her face.

“This is the best you could come up with?! I was walking in circles for an hour trying to locate this godforsaken joint.”

Sam was too taken aback to say anything. He had played out this encounter in his mind a million times before, but it hardly ever involved battling a volley of accusations. He looked at the decrepit coffee shop and thought it had been a mistake all along.

“Sorry. Can we go in?” Sam continued apologetically.

Meera smiled her impish smile. “Yes please.”

She walked in with an air of confidence. It felt like she had been here a million times before. Sam followed her to a table by the window. He noticed a damp spot on the wall not so far away. He muttered under his breath and averted his eyes quickly.

“Nice place”, she said, looking around. Two men in soiled lungis, sitting with their feet up at the next table stared at her, their eyes transfixed.

“You’re kidding right?” Sam had never been so embarrassed before in his life.

“Not at all. I like quaint places. Thank heavens you didn’t pick a place teeming with adolescent high-school kids”, she laughed.

It wasn’t all a mistake after all, Sam thought. He felt like he did know her a little. Two steaming cups of ginger laced tea and piping hot samosas made it to their table in response to a mere hand gesture. Sam loved having tea served in earthen cups. The salty texture of burnt red clay fused with the scent of aromatic tea leaves made it priceless. He paused for a second to observe Meera digging into the samosas hungrily like a child, talking with food in her mouth. She was beautiful. She was real.

“So what are we doing here exactly?” asked Meera, casual as ever.

“Umm. I don’t know really. Having tea I guess?”

Meera looked up. Her eyes glinted. “Stating the obvious is not going to help you mister. What I mean is why did you call me last night? After so many days?”

“I wish I knew the answer to that. I felt like talking to someone.”

“And what made you think that I would be such a pleasure to talk to? Not to mention, being up at that ungodly hour?”

“But you were, right? That’s what matters. So, if I may ask, why were you up so late?” Sam asked, his confidence trickling in.

“Well. Let’s just say I have trouble sleeping like you do. Can we keep it at that?”

Sam got distracted by her hand. There were a couple of fading laceration marks below her wrist. The diamond on her finger caught the light of the setting sun. It sparkled. He lost the thread of the conversation.

“What?!”

She moved her hands from the table. “Never mind. Can we go for a walk now? The two men at the next table need a break”, she whispered smiling.

Sam laughed. They paid at the counter and walked out. “Where are we going?” Sam wasn’t expecting this in the least.

“I’ll take you to a special place. You’ll see.”

They walked along the cobbled pavement, guessing the trees along the way. They talked about their lives, in little veiled packets. They talked about how 80’s music still made them sing out loud in the shower. They talked about how they both loved the monsoon. And just like that, the sun bid adieu and rain clouds spilled all over.

Strangers

Sam heard a din somewhere in the darkness. It sounded like the clanging of metal, one heavy and the other sonorous. It started off as a faint rhythmic vibration, almost undetectable, like the distant chime of an old grandfather clock; slow and regular. Then it grew louder, with every passing minute, pounding against his eardrum relentlessly, like caged waves dying to break free. He covered his ears to block the noise out. He could feel his pulses hammering against his temples, threatening to crack open his skull. He couldn't bear the assault anymore and in a moment of acute restlessness, he forced his eyes open.

The room looked unfamiliar. Everything in it was a blinding shade of white. The walls, the rows of bedspreads, the flooring, the curtains – all white. It seemed like an endless snowy desert; cold and austere. He looked at the clock. It was six in the morning. There were boys of different sizes; all wearing blue striped pajamas, with toothbrushes in hand, lining up outside what seemed like a common washroom. Some had their eyes closed while they leaned on the boy in front of them, refusing to let morning disrupt their lingering dreams of the previous night. Some had bundles of soiled laundry in hand, their disinterest showing, while others were busy complaining about the futility of compulsory morning assembly. While Sam sat on his bed watching this curious group of adolescent boys trying to figure out where he was, it all came back to him.

It was around noon the day before when his father had dropped him off before the towering iron gates of an old building with a bag of clothes, money in an envelope, and some empty words of advice. Sam read the sign above. Glenwood Boarding School, Kurseong. His father seemed to be in a hurry that day, avoiding eye contact and constantly reading his watch. He told him he would come and meet him often, but Sam knew he was lying. After he left, Sam stood there staring at his receding back till he was no more than a moving speck in the distance. He wanted to run to his father and plead with him, making earnest promises of future good behavior such that he reconsiders the punishment. But he didn't. He turned around and walked through the gate, a pile of nerves, not knowing what this new chapter had in store for him.

Sam was greeted by the principal Mr. Bentley, as he entered the school. He was a tall man, not more than forty, with an amusing sing-song voice. He talked to him as if they met everyday, often ruffling his hair as they spoke. Sam was thirteen and he couldn't remember the last time someone did that to him. He felt like a kid and strangely, he liked it. After going over certain rules of the school that were mandatory for everyone to follow, he escorted Sam to his room. Sam wondered what his room would look like. Maybe it had no windows. Maybe it was in the basement, with a leaky ceiling, infested with tiny crawling tarantulas. All he wanted was a room with a door that he could bolt, such that he could drown out the crowd and write in his journal when he wanted to. And just as Sam was sorting out the various scenarios in his head, Mr. Bentley stopped in front of a wooden door bolted from the outside. He forced the creaky latch open and led him into the room.

Out of all the hundred odd possibilities that he had imagined, Sam did not expect what he saw around him. It was a long rectangular space with about twenty-five beds lined up, each one exactly two feet apart from the other. Everything he happened to lay eyes on was white. The window panes were wiped clean, and the Christian arches supporting them reminded him of the quaint chapel in his old school. The room had a curious musty odour, one that smelled of age and history. The beds did not look like anyone had slept in them for a decade. The sheets had been neatly tucked in. The pillows were in place. The only creases that one could see were from the iron. He wondered if he was to sleep all by himself in this gigantic room. As if he had read his thoughts, Mr. Bentley confirmed that he’d be sharing his room with twenty-three other students, some older and some younger than him. This special arrangement was in keeping with the spirit of fostering a sense of brotherhood between students of all ages. Sam had always had his own room. He had no idea what it was like to share a space with others, his every move under constant disguised scrutiny. He felt constricted just by the thought of it. Mr. Bentley handed him the schedule for the week and took his leave.

Sam looked at the paper and imagined what his life was going to be from then on. His day would start at six, with breakfast at half-past seven and classes from eight through four in the evening, with an hour long lunch break thrown in between. There were stipulated hours in the week for physical training and sports and even music. Dinner was at seven and they were expected to retire for the night by ten. Sam did not hate the schedule all that much except for the fact that he had to wake up that early. He was a heavy sleeper and waking up in the morning always proved to be an insurmountable challenge for him. However, considering that twenty-three other students would accompany him in that daily struggle made it seem possible. Sam heard the clock down the hall strike two. He realized that he was late for lunch. Since he felt too sick to have anything in the morning he felt rather famished and intermittent gurgling noises screamed of an empty stomach. He opened his duffel bag and took out a cucumber sandwich that his maid had packed for him in the morning. He chomped on it hungrily. It tasted like cardboard.

…………………

It was almost nine at night when his roommates started streaming in gradually. They were mostly involved in animated conversation regarding various events of the day. There were stories about a certain Mrs. Rosemary who tumbled down the stairs rather unceremoniously before a class of giggling second graders. The older students were busy discussing the game of cricket during lunch break, where the bastard umpire ‘Pastry’ was shamelessly siding with his best friend’s team. Sam didn't know his way around the school yet. So except for a wordless dinner downstairs in the hall, he was holed up in his room for the most part.

The boys mostly acted like he didn't exist. Some were glancing at him from time to time, and having decided that he was not worthy of attention, instantly reverted back to more amusing topics of conversation. Some didn't even bother to look at him or say hello. He could as well have been a piece of dried lime dangling from the ceiling. But Sam was used to being invisible. He was too busy scribbling in his journal, struggling to enunciate his multiple addled emotions.

‘Are you new?’

Sam looked up from his journal, startled. A young boy was standing at the foot of his bed, staring at him with wide-eyed amazement.

‘Yes’, he said curtly.

‘What’s your name?’ asked the boy.

‘I’m Sam. And you?’

‘I’m Chintan Neelamraju. My friends call me Chinoo. I like the latter better.’

‘Good to know.’

‘How old are you?’ he asked, in a rather business like tone, with hands on his hips.

Sam couldn't suppress a smile. The whole idea of a precocious kid asking him his age, like he was his grandfather, seemed rather amusing.

‘What’s so funny?’ said Chinoo frowning.

‘Nothing. I’m thirteen. And you?’

‘I’m eight. I’ll turn nine in two weeks. Did you know? The boy who slept in the bed next to you was also thirteen.’

Sam turned to look at the adjacent bed. It was empty. He wondered where the other thirteen year old was. They could be friends in the future, he thought.

‘I haven’t seen him all day. Where is he?’ Sam asked curiously.

‘Oh he’s not here anymore,’ the boy said, shrugging his shoulders.

‘So then? Did he change schools?’

‘No. Apparently he killed himself. Anyway, the Dean will be on his rounds soon. I should better go to sleep. Nice meeting you Sam. You’ll like it here.’

The boy retreated to the far end of the room yawning, blissfully unaware of what he had said. And in that moment, Sam wanted to be anything but thirteen. They said it brought bad luck. He couldn't look at that bed anymore. He turned on his side, closed his eyes shut and let out a silent prayer. 

A bolt of lightening (Part 1)

Mrin didn’t like going to clubs. They were too dark, too loud. And she never nearly knew enough people to feel at home. The few times she went there, she would sit in a corner and nurse her drink through the night. She didn’t mind going to movies and dinners and even parties at friend’s houses. But clubs she just didn’t like.

But yet that night she found herself at one of the most happening clubs in the city. She wasn’t with her friends. They had given up on her ever coming with them and stopped asking, knowing she would say no. She was with one of the few people she could never say no to. She could never say no to her step-sister. So when Meera came in one evening and asked her to get ready, she wordlessly got up to do so, not even asking where they were to go. As she walked out of the hall towards her room to change, Meera’s voice floated towards her. “Wear something glittering,” she said, “We are going to the new club that has opened downtown.”

An hour later they were zooming down the road in Meera’s bimmer. Part of that hour was some of the most antagonizing minutes Mrin has ever felt as she stood in front of her closet and pulled down outfit after outfit that she thought could be worn to a club. But yet nothing seemed to be appropriate. They were either too plain or too glitzy or too ill fitting. And she didn’t want to walk into the most happening address in town behind Meera looking anything but presentable. With anyone else, it wouldn’t have mattered. She would have slunk in, if at all, and no one would have noticed. But with Meera it was different. She knew the moment Meera walked through that door, every eye in the room would turn to look at her, however dark the interiors. And she did not want to embarrass Meera. So after 15 minutes of reaching no conclusion, she looked up to see Meera at the door smiling her laconic, amused smile. Meera crossed the room to sit next to her on her bed and pulled out a metallic dress. And after an hour, they pulled away from the house in Meera’s new car. Meera didn’t mention but Mrin knew it was a gift to Meera from her husband. She had overheard a conversation at home. But just sitting in the luxurious interiors improved Mrin’s confidence significantly.

The new club was everything that Mrin had thought it would be - large, grand, loud and scary. Once inside they took a corner seat Meera had booked in advance and ordered themselves drinks. And then she pulled Mrin onto the dance floor. A lot of people on the dance floor seemed to know Meera from previous meetings and it wasn’t long before they were all dancing together. But after about an hour she looked around to find Meera gone. Panic stricken, she surveyed the dance floor, their table, the other tables and finally the bar. Relief flooded back in. Meera was standing there talking to a man whose features she couldn’t make out in the dark. All Mrin could figure out was that she didn’t know him. But she didn’t know most of Meera’s friends. That’s when she met Vidyut. And soon forgot about Meera.

As she tried to see Meera, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Whipping around, she saw a guy stand in front of her, tapping her shoulder. “I think you dropped these,” he had to lean in close to be heard above the music. He held out a single dangler which must have dropped off from Mrin’s ears as she danced. Her hand shot up to feel her ears. “Thank you,” she held her hand out. Smiling slightly, he leaned across and with deft fingers slipped the earring back into her bare ear. “I am Vidyut,” he whispered into her ears. “Mrinalini,” she offered him her outstretched hand. With his lopsided grin, he took her hand. “Dance?” She could make out the deep and mesmerizing eyes even in the dark. Smiling slightly, she shrugged her shoulder to mean a yes. He held onto her hand and led her back onto the floor.

Mrin didn’t realize how long they danced together. Sometimes they danced forming big groups with people around her who she didn’t know. Other times other men asked her to dance with them. But mostly it was Vidyut and her, swaying to the music. She actually felt irritated when she felt a tap on her shoulders, breaking her trance. She didn’t want to be disturbed, was afraid she would find out it was a dream if disturbed. “We need to go home,” Meera whispered into her ears. Mrin wanted to stay longer, almost asked her step sister if she can come back later. But Meera’s disturbed eyes silenced her. Quietly she turned around to say bye to Vidyut but in that split second he seemed to have melted into the crowd. Mrin followed Meera to the door of the club. She turned one last time to see if she could spot Vidyut on the dance floor. For a second she thought she caught a sight of his curly head swaying jauntily with the music but it was gone before she could be sure. Dejected at not being able to say bye, she walked out behind Meera.