The weather outside was hot, like the armpits of an obese woman in a sweater. He felt as though heat was being cast on to him through a magnifying glass, held by someone in the sky who looked like that kid from Hangover, who tasers Alan in the nuts. His black shirt (well black makes you look good, they said) stuck to his back, like Velcro. He could sense drops of sweat starting at the nape of his neck and down his spine into the crack of his butt.
Each time he came upon a clump of trees, he’d slow his motorcycle down and breathe in the coolness, bracing himself before heading out into the glaring sun again. He could feel the tar crackling under the rubber tyres of the vehicle. Client meetings at this time of the day were such a pain. They arrived in their shimmering blue Series 6 BMWs or metallic silver Q7 Audis, sitting in their majestic, AC-cooled, shiny black leather seats, reading the business section of economic times or toying with their iPads, while he drove his three year old, 135cc Hero Honda Splendour. They appeared squeaky-clean, in their impeccable gray or black suits, while he looked like he had taken a shower with his clothes on. So he always made certain that he came at least an hour before the scheduled meeting, cleaned up and was prepared with his notes or presentation.
He swung open the cafe door and welcomed the fresh, cool breeze that engulfed him. He stepped in leaving the heat, the noise, the pollution outside, and as he let the door close behind him, the scent of coffee and strawberry hookah came to him.
He dumped his laptop bag, and the still-warm helmet on the chair, and headed to the bathroom. Bending forward, he turned on the washbasin tap and washed his face gently, the blessing this chilled water was. After wiping his face clean and spraying a fresh coat of deodorant he came out and was met with a disgruntled, balding man who had been perhaps waiting outside for a while.
He looked at his watch. There was still time before his clients turned up. At the counter he placed an order for a king-size Hazelnut-flavoured cappuccino with a chocolate chip muffin. Once settled in his chair, he took out his laptop and started going through the presentation he’d been asked to make. He thanked the clients for choosing a cafe for the meeting. Boardrooms, he felt, were stifling and cold, like a cave. And though he despised the drive up to the cafe, now he was rather enjoying the breathing space it afforded him. Summer of 69 was playing on the stereo at a mild volume, not interrupting the dozens of parallel conversations that were taking place: married couples, dating couples, office executives, mothers and sons and daughters, friends. Also, he could get away from work. He thought of scooting off to home from here and lie to his boss tomorrow that he had to go see bunch of other clients.
The waiter brought the order to his table and the sight of his coffee and muffin perked him even more. He emptied a packet of sugar that now floated on the thick froth before sinking in creating tiny holes. He imagined a fluffy cake collapsing. Shutting the laptop close, he reached for his coffee. He knew the numbers by heart. He had already gone through the presentation a million times. Using his spoon he helped the froth into his mouth. Then he dipped the muffin into the coffee and bit off a big chunk. The sweet crunchiness of the chocolate chips blending with the neutralizing bitterness of the coffee did a little dance on his palette.
Tossing the upcoming meeting to the end of the queue, he drew out the book he’d bought a day ago. Making himself more comfortable in his chair, he jumped to the page where he had left off last night. A particular line about life and its peculiarities – There will be times when the last thing you expect will happen first, and the first thing you always wanted will never happen – made him ponder. It made him think of all the things he wanted but could never happen to him perhaps: collecting all the beer bottles or cans from across the world, exploring an Egyptian pyramid, scaling the Great Wall of China, be a part of the biggest man Vs food challenges, become employee of the month for two years in a row, like Vishal did. Now he was the Head of Marketing. Whatever!
Hacking through his stack of thoughts was the sight of this boy sitting awkwardly, by a pole, outside, a steel tumbler stuffed with notes beside him. He could see him through the glass wall. From his face he could make out that the boy was mentally unstable. His spindly legs were spread at a bizarre angle under him, forming a “W”. His hair, unkempt, matted attracted the stray flies, so did his sticky, grimy face. He tried to swat them away with his arms that moved about as though controlled by a puppeteer. The boy placed his hand on the side of his head, offering him a clumsy salute.
But what he noticed clearly was that smile. The smile which spoke of innocence, of naivety. Of not knowing what state he was in. That lack of realization that kept him in bliss. That smile was what got most of the otherwise rude, dismissive passersby. They returned his smile, invariably offering him good sums of money. They seemed at ease dipping into their pockets, perhaps getting a sense of doing something good.
His phone rang, trembling like a honeybee’s wings on the table, making the cup and saucer rattle somewhat. It was the client.
“Mr. Arjun?”
“Yes, Sir, it’s me,” he said, hiding his sarcasm. Who else would answer his personal cell phone?
“About the meeting today…”
“Yes, I am already here, at Barista.”
“Yes, about that. We’re afraid we’ll have to cancel that today.”
“Oh, okay, sure.”
“Something urgent has come up. We apologize. How about we meet next Monday at our office?”
“Certainly, Sir.” More than the canned meeting, he was worried about having to go back to work. He could have possibly faked other meetings, but not the meeting which was most certainly going to happen. His boss was aware of this one. Shit. If he called him now the rascal would ask him to get him a coffee or a chicken sandwich and will not even display the courtesy of asking him if he should pay him back.
The boy’s face caught his attention again. Arjun felt instantly uncomfortable. The boy kept looking at him, but he hid behind the two-page menu card. What could I possibly do? Give him some money? What was that going to do for him?
A white woman, in her forties maybe, on the table next to him with a tattered copy of Lonely Planet in her hands, had also been observing the boy. Before long, she collected her things and was out the door. Arjun thought she had left, but he saw her next to the boy, offering him a tight-lipped, pitiful smile. She got down on her knees, to his level and extended her hand. The boy tried to grab it with his scabby fingers, but couldn’t. His hands just won’t listen to him.
Inside, the music continued to play. This world on the inside was cut off from everything on the outside, like being in a cinema hall and for those few hours living, breathing the sounds and sights on screen and forgetting all of our own woes. The rest of the folks continued their chatter.
Arjun watched the Westerner letting her smooth, manicured fingers graze the boy’s face. He gave her that smile again. She took out her purse and without counting the notes, handed the boy a wad of money, which the boy, after numerous unsuccessful attempts, managed to stuff in his shirt pocket. All this while his bobbed, and his tongue, with a life of its own, hung outside, wedged between the corners where his lips met. She stayed with him for a moment longer before walking away with her heavy bottle-green backpack hanging on her shoulders. Arjun swallowed the emotions that were threatening to come to the surface.
Once the woman was out of sight, Arjun noticed, two more children coming along from across the road on their bicycle, a boy and a girl in tattered clothes. They joked around for a bit with the retarded boy, poking and pulling his hair. Then, with the apathy of professional killers, emptied the tumbler, the boy’s pockets, and crammed the money into the small satchel the girl carried. Aghast, Arjun rose from his chair, ready to run out there and catch hold of these brats. Give them a good scare. But he realized soon enough that they knew each other, that they were part of an elaborate conning routine. Not the boy himself, perhaps. He was an involuntary part of someone else’s genius scheme.
As an afterthought, the girl dropped a single ten rupee note back into the steel tumbler, and off they went on their bicycle, back to their position.
#The idea for this post was conceived during the second writing circle held at Cafe Coffee Day on March 4th, Sunday, Pune. We took part in an exercise termed as the Writing Marathon (From Natalie Goldberg’s book, Writing Down the Bones)
