Of cafes, couples and chaos
That evening, I walked into a café as I often barge into such places: dumbfounded by the day, dwindling in self-confidence, dressed to attract nothing but house-flies and famished enough to devour a horse; provided it was an Arabian one and served with a side of fries. I must confess it was a rather cozy place, somewhere in the vicinity of nowhere I call Gulberg. The first thing that hit me was the aroma of semi-burnt espresso, topped with the fully-burnt dreams of the underpaid baristas. I looked around to locate a seat. There were more than a dozen; empty, however, there was none but one. I elbowed my way through the narrow space and reached the seat near the glass-window. Outside, as I sneaked a peak, continuous people-watching was in progress: that scenario, you know, where people judge strangers for free.
I looked around then. To my left, I saw the two creatures that looked like professors. Somehow, they had some loud, unmistaken professorship written all over them. The aged one had a beard so wild it looked like it had staged a coup against his face. The damn thing (beard, I mean) looked graduated; half white from the existential threat and half-dark from self-denial. His wrinkled face had more lines than a Shakespearean play and it made him look even more confused than he actually was. If confusion were an art, I thought, this guy would be the Mona Lisa of befuddlement. The younger one wore glasses thick enough to spot life on Neptune, or, if you wish to stay closer to earth, Mars. With glasses as thick as a dictionary and vibes of academically-elevated stupidity, his name could very well have been Prof Brainiac. He had been nursing his latte long enough for it to evolve into a cappuccino.
"Now you see," burped Beard, gesturing wildly with his biscotti, "Even the non-living matter has some level of consciousness".
"Nonsense!" retorted Glasses and slammed his medium-sized cup down so hard that his latte freaked out and jumped beyond the edges in protest. "Does that mean a cucumber shall curse me when I eat it for salad?"
Eavesdropping is ill manners, admitted, but O boy! Was I fascinated by their seriousness? Never could I imagine Salad-Philosophy being a subject of such animated passion. I was so tempted to inquire more about the psychic dilemmas of a plump tomato or the effects of infidelity in couples of carrots; but somehow, I avoided sparking the professors' fancy.
To my right sat a couple mid-argument. The man, as bald as a ripe watermelon, looked like middle-aged mediocrity personified. His head shone brighter than the brightest plates in the café. He could have been deployed on a rooftop as a solar panel; on commercial basis. Though he sat there in an awkwardly ill-fitting red suit with the price tag still hanging down his sleeve, he was nothing short of the human embodiment of a bounced cheque. Beside him, though at a safe-to-flee distance, sat a very pretty girl with a face that could launch a thousand ships, or in this case, sink a few. He was loudly trying to lure her mentioning his yachts, mansions, servants and diamonds.
"Sweetheart!" he leaned forward and crooned, "Only last week, I acquired a yacht so big they had to widen the ocean for me."
"Really?" she seemed more amused than impressed, ready to burst out in laughter at any moment.
"Why, of course, yes," he said as he puffed his chest out to exhibit his pride. Sadly, it only served to highlight the hideous blot of ketchup on his purple necktie.
"And in the West End of my mansion," he went on, "I've got on display an array of diamonds as big as your ... err ...," he paused to silence the inappropriate simile he had in mind, "err ... your personality." He abruptly settled for a replacement as grammatically-stupid and out-of-place as he himself was in the café. Next, he burped and as a reflex action to suppress the aftereffects, bragged about his "countless" servants.
"How many exactly?" she eyed him with the anxious suspicion that a mouse has for a cat inviting him out of a hole for a piece of cheese.
"Well now, if I could count them, they wouldn't be countless, Sweetie! No?" he grinned.
Before I could hear more ramblings by our Prince Charles, the waiter appeared; a tiny, miniscule of a fellow with the expression of someone who didn't know which planet he was from.
"What'll it be, dear Sir?" he questioned, holding his notepad upside down.
"I'll have a cappuccino," I said. "And maybe a brownie."
"Brilliant," he chirped. "Would you like your cappuccino with milk or milk?"
"Milk, I suppose," I said, after a detailed consideration of the available choices.
"Excellent choice, I must say, Sir," he replied. "And how would you like your brownie - sweet, extra-sweet, or mysterious?"
"Surprise me," I smiled, "but hey! if it bites when I slice it, I'd return it right away."
Meanwhile, in the far corner, a man with an eyepatch on his left eye was pacing like a pirate who had recently discovered his skills in poetry. He suddenly faced towards the customer-side and began reciting loudly. "The ocean of life doth ebb and flow," he almost sang, "Like a latte's foam, so high yet low!"
Some of the customers clapped sheepishly, quite trapped between social politeness and the urgent urge to get the heck out of there.
Just as I thought of making my escape out of the poetic torture, a rude knock on the glass-window startled the daylight out of me. It was a beggar with a face that could frighten Count-Dracula. He was pointing his finger quite accusingly at me.
"You with the green eyes!" he bellowed through the glass. "You owe me a sandwich. Large. Add tea if you wish to go to heavens. Look away if you're ready to rot in hell."
I wasn't sure whether to show him the proverbial finger or to buy him his carefully chosen menu. Either way, I shifted to another seat recently emptied by a customer.
Finally, after I had enjoyed the last sip of my coffee, it was time to pay. I handed my credit card to the waiter, who slid it into the mouth of a weird-looking machine. Instantly, the damn thing beeped. Then it totally froze for a few seconds and then, screamed out a strange beep again, like a dying robot trying one-last-time to communicate with the mothership.
"Uhhh," sighed the waiter.
"Uhhh? Now, what does that mean?" I asked in frustration.
The poet-cum-manager swooped in and tried reciting an adlib haiku upon the situation. I had to shut his beak before he went on. He then attempted to wrestle the machine. Meanwhile, the scary beggar was still knocking on the glass-window; the professorial debate had upgraded itself to the morality of peas; and, of course, our Prince Charles was still showing his non-existent estate off to his potential fiancé.
As I escaped the café, card finally unstuck and dignity in tatters, I decided two things: One, I'd definitely write about this. And two, next time, I'd order hot chocolate and a slice of pizza.
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