Originally written in May 2013 but wasn’t published then for unknown reasons.
A few months back I needed a new set of passport photos for work. My office insisted on a particular photo-studio miles away from where I lived. So at 10 am on that Saturday morning, off I left donning a freshly laundered shirt and freshly washed hair whipped all the way back. An alien stared back at me from the mirror. But isn’t that the whole point of a passport photo?
It started raining as I hailed the auto. Not a thunder-storm but not a drizzle either. It was a quiet, steady rain, soothing when you are inside with a cup of tea, depressing when you are outside & trying to salvage your files. The air turned cold. My straight-jacketed arms were a tenuous shield against the flat fisted fury of the wind as my auto whipped past puddles of rain water.
After my lack of photogenicity was duly reaffirmed in a velvety room that reeked of falsehood and claustrophobia, I left the photo studio with an hour to burn before the photographs were due. The rain had slowed by then and I fancied a walk.
It was a nicer part of town. Despite the rain the roads were teeming with life. Restaurants were filled with happy people brunching with fruity cocktails. Exhausted shoppers lugging their bags and slurping colorful beverages. People shouting into cell-phones, couples in a scène d’amour under an umbrella, beggars huddling against the cold, a senior citizen with an irrepressible dog — urban India. I dropped a fiver to an old lady sitting under the metro line, hugging a cold pillar for imagined warmth.
My morning cereal long digested, my tummy grumbled for attention. The rains had picked up again and luckily I found a place that claimed to be inspired by the road-side dhabas of Amritsar. It was a good selling pitch on that inclement day. The insides didn’t resemble a lorry-joint; everything was sterile yellow with a yellow washing machine by the cashier. Probably a post-modern art thing I will never get. It was self-service and I joined the lengthy queue, full of wet umbrellas and dirty shoes. A few places ahead of me was a girl. Fully covered in a black shawl and huge sunglasses, she had very short hair and was as tall as me.
The service was excruciatingly slow, but eventually I faced the (distinctly non-Amritsari) cashier and ordered a vegetarian combo meal. Armed with a beeper I sought out an empty table, reluctant to intrude upon couples occupying tables meant for six — the blindness of love I suppose. I had to settle for an empty one by the window. Occasionally the rain would sweep inside, garnishing the food with acidic rain-water but at least it afforded a great view of the street below.
As I was aimlessly scrolling my Twitter feed, I saw the same girl sitting at the table across me. She had exchanged her shawl & sunglasses for a fat book. She was not uncommonly pretty, inured as we are to the constant bombardment of celebrities in every screen. But she was striking — a sense of surity, uncommon among people constantly thirsting for attention. She had a long, tapering nose; a thin lock of hair would occasionally escape her ear. She would draw it back only for it to break free again — waves crashing against the dike. She was out of this world! Such was her utter concentration in the book. I am no stranger to the time-warping powers of a good book, and as badly as I wanted her to look up and see me, I was loath to take her away from her state of enrapture.
A green sleeveless kurta and blue denims. A blue scarf was tied around her neck, a little bit of a pirate. Occasionally, she would glance at her watch, shiny black metal against burnished skin. Around her neck was a most unusual necklace, jagged jade (?) rocks strung together with gold nuggets in between. In that yellow hive pretending to be a dhaba, she was a carnival of colors.
Suddenly the siren on her table came to life, wailing for attention. Her spell broken, she was flustered, lost for a moment. I imagine the slightest tinge of color flooded into her face as she moved lazily to the service desk. A few minutes later, it was my beeper’s turn to blare — no doubt an authentic Dhaba tradition.
The food was mediocre. The rice was cold and straw-like. The parathas were tasteless, dripping with ghee. The rajma was at least hot but too salty. The potatoes were good, a little too dry. With mouthfuls, I surreptitiously looked up. She delicately balanced a spoon in one hand and the fat book in another. Occasionally she would scoop in a distracted mouthful.
I was fascinated by this scene. Every so often, I would grow conscious and hastily return to my food, but eventually my attention would go back to the girl and her book. The rains picked up as did the honking of scooters on the road. The sun slipped behind the inky clouds and a shroud of darkness fell upon the restaurant. Her lighting disrupted she looked up with annoyance. She glanced at me. I hurriedly looked down at my food, pretending it the most interesting food ever made . I furtively looked up to she her beckoning an employee to turn on the lights. Suddenly swivelled her face towards me and once again, I dived into my food. I did not look up again. I scooped up the last bit of rice and left the restaurant.
Do I wish I had made a move on her? Sure. Did I have the guts to do it? Nope. If she had approached me, would I have been able to string together a sentence or two? I hope so. At least I am left with a unique memory and a burning question, what book was she reading?
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