It is 32 Degree Celsius on a Sunday, a criminal level since the summer hasn’t arrived yet. If I didn’t know better, I would say that the fuchsia bougainvilleas seething their flowers were almost angry with the heat. The sun followed me as I finally manage to find a parking spot in a by-lane parallel to FC Road. After much bending, peering and searching, I make sure that I park on the right side of the road since it is odd-number date.
I walk around in college, hoping for a building’s shadow to give some respite and the cool stone walls to lean against. Green leaves, just shooting from demi-dead trees, wiggle their way and shine an ungodly colour in the harsh day light. Couples scurry into the corners, finding excuses to sit closer than needed in the extreme space. Leaving home under the pretext of getting extra study time, they leave their books open on their laps, while their hands, clenched together and their heads bent far too close for meaningful conversation.
The odd young man sits on parapets, white ear phones plugged in, listening to Sunday’s love songs special on the radio. A dog snoozes a step below him, his head on his paw, his right ear flicking the occasional fly, content for the stranger’s company on a holiday.
The canteen is shut and even though the campus is empty, my solitude feels breached. I make my way to the pretentious coffee shop across the main gate. I order benevolently for my nature, knowing that I pay for the AC and the fancy loo, than for the pretentious coffee. It’s impossible to find an empty table here too. How is it that so many people stay at home on Sundays and yet so many crowd the place you want to be? I sit at my table, nestled between a shelf of oversized coffee mugs (“Free if you spend *an ostentatious amount* until 30th March!”) and tables with low settees, occupied by young men and women. The guy right opposite me, an in-between of young and middle-aged furiously types at his golden iPhone, revering it like a Father does his Bible. He looks up occasionally, between messages I suppose, turns his eyes left to right, and gets back to the task at hand. Every time the door opens and someone walks by his table, he pauses, interrupted by the heat that the new customer ushers in. The girl behind me, clothed in a bright green scarf, sips her cold latte, dabbing at the corner of her mouth, flipping pages to the book she is immersed in.
At a another table, a husband and wife sit, requesting water from the counter. They wait and wait and wait and are served after ten minutes. “Water is free of charge,sir” the waiter informs him, with the trained smile he was taught before he joined work. They feel out of place but maintain their cool, looking around and smiling at anyone who catches their eye. The husband stares at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the pipes jutting out, made to look cool. Back in his hometown, his civil contractor brother would tut at this fanciful bohemian interior. The wife twists the corners of her pink dupatta between her fingers, hands never leaving her laps, the way her mother taught her. They are shortly joined by a smartly-dressed young man, wearing a black suit and aviators. He sits at the table, shakes the other man’s hand and politely nods at the lady before leaning back, pulling off his shades and sweeping his fingers through his hair.
The barista calls out his name. That is the only loud sound, louder than the supposedly subtle jazz and the din of inconceivable conversations.I eat hungrily, grateful for the oven-toasted carbohydrate and the molten cheese. Not wanting to fidget with my phone, I pull out a book from my backpack lying at my feet. I eat and read, devouring bite and word. It’s now been an hour since I sat at the table, the one between the coffee mug shelf and the couple-laden tables. I ignore my phone. I ignore the calls and I ignore the messages. It rings in silence and it rings in vain.The crowd just keeps increasing.
My laptop battery is about to die. My book is read. My phone flashes and silences. I have nothing else to offer now. I pack my things, smile at the barista who thanks me and leave. We can take a break every now and then, but we eventually we have to face the heat.
