The Coffee House

Looking out of the glass door with the wooden frame, it feels like fate has led me to a time long gone by. Seated on brown rexine chairs I sip my coffee, tingling my sweet tooth in the process. I gaze at the soothing blue walls, and while I’m at it, I can’t help but marvel at how time here has truly frozen. The chipped floor has lost its shine long ago, but in its muddy complexion I notice the footprints of generations which have walked on it, in the thirsty endeavor to enjoy a relaxing hour or two. The open kitchen door allows a constant flow of verbal obscenities and the racket of wrestling utensils, a surprising, yet welcome change from the prevailing Enrique.
Different sorts of people walk in, but in their diversity I sense certain similarities. I strive to identify them, but fail miserably. Babus from nearby government offices, retired college professors, young couples in search of a cheap joint, a few loafers like me and my friend. Some walk in with a look of unconcealed skepticism and take a prompt turn towards the exit. And then, there are those who have left their days behind, or vice-versa. Grey wisps of hair, thick glasses, loosely fitting shirts and leather sandals, they come in and plonk themselves here in a manner as if one was in a friend’s drawing room for an evening cup of tea. The waiters greet them with their orders (which by the way, aren’t ordered, but understood) and toothy grins of familiarity. Perhaps these men come here to escape the profanities that the world beyond the door offers in abundance, or maybe, just to spend another evening as themselves. They seem to be a part of this place just like the chairs, the noisy fans, the poster of the south Indian lass on the wall behind the counter, and the waiters of course.
During these contemplations, my eyes wander to the glass door for the umpteenth time, only to be met by huge shades, tight jeans and rebonded hair walking past. Smiling, I get up, to cross the door and walk decades ahead in one step.