Into His World

INTO HIS WORLD

A murky day. A decent yet unspectacular arrangement of concrete and bricks. A modest table in a shady corner. Couple of flickering candles. A strong aroma of caffeine effusing through the nice looking room, gradually working its charm on its sober consumers, who were spending the gloomy afternoon warming their self and soul, after being numbed by the chill in the atmosphere. The soothing melodies of Yiruma dripping, from the tiny speakers surrounding the room, enhancing the silent serenity of the place. Only occasional whispers were breaking that serenity.

An old fella was sitting at the corner table just besides the glass pane, gazing out thoughtfully, probably contemplating the life bygone, and the end that beckons. A young girl, dressed in a Victorian gown after the warmness of the heater forced her fur jacket off her pretty self, was sipping her coffee, on the table just behind him, as her red cheeks glowed with a cheerful smile, perhaps engrossed in the thoughts of her soulmate, appearing in stark contrast to the weather outside. A family of four, the once pretty mother in the days of her yore, still beautiful though, gulping her tea scattily sitting in the middle of the room, lost in her seemingly complex world of worldly stuffs. The little boy was carefully inspecting the discrete droplets dripping from his dad’s frappe glass. The wiser sibling was whispering, barraging her dad with her curiosity about the barely visible picture of a strange exotic looking dish pasted on the wall in that dark corner and the blissful chords in the melody. Dad was equally clueless about the former. On the other side of this tiny world, was sitting a lovely couple, immersed in each other's eyes, the lady owning a pair which were a shade bluer than her companion. Perhaps weaving a world of their own, oblivious to the vagaries of this world.

This world and its surreal reality had enveloped his world, who was sitting in that eccentric table in the shady corner. the other tables were glistening and seemingly well maintained, and had an aesthetic charm which would rush in the nostalgia of old world design for those older folks, who as often visit this serene café, as those delicate lovebirds. But this one was utterly out of place, as if existing on an estranged island in this small country boasting exquisite array of caffeine. Surprisingly, both the chairs are drawn out, as if he was waiting for some special one to join him. His rugged appearance had an air of unsettling calm, as he silently scanned his co-customers. He was facing the reception desk, eyeing every ongoing activity with a curious detachment. He suddenly clasped both his hands above the elbows, pulling his pullover closer to his body, yearning for more warmth in the warm confines of the air heated café, as if his soul is still wandering in the chilly street just behind his back, separated by a pane of transparency. The luminous presence on the table, was the trademark of this place though, as his eyes, for the umpteenth time, casted a glance on the artistic fonts of the centre text engraved on a flamboyant and vibrant menu card, reading “Lonrúil caife” in bold.

The thoughts in his mind were on a constant loop, reminiscent to the piano music playing there. He was not being able to pause the train of thoughts, which was sucking him again into that excruciatingly familiar world. His simple and sublime world was the first link in those chain of events, which had nestled him in its inexplicability. What was he like, in those days? Yes, he vividly recalls them. The new, unexciting job in one of the most illustrious restaurant of Dublin was not what he had foreseen in his meticulous upbringing, as he always wanted to pursue his academic ambitions. Until one day. After his grandfather immigrated to England two decades back, in an era when it was not quite the norm, he managed to run a successful business there. Though things weren’t quite the same for his father, as he couldn’t get a hold on his father’s business and eventually, they were facing a survival challenge, as they lost almost everything. He wasn’t quite ready to share his father’s financial responsibility, until one day. That day came like a rampaging tornado and ravaged his life. Both his parents had gone for their jobs, which were quite low paying and unsecure, to somehow meet their ends. He couldn’t really experience the deafening sound of the blast as he was giving finishing flourishes to his Biology project, so that he could earn the scholarship on offering in the science exhibition and ease things up for his parents, who were struggling hard to allow his studies to continue. The IRA had cruelly snatched his world from him and he was too stunned to react, stranded in an unfamiliar world, no one to hold his hand. He couldn’t manage to continue his schooling, had to leave his home as he ran out of finances. He couldn’t manage to find any work to arrange even a proper meal a day. One of his distant uncle, who was a family friend and who was himself not in quite good shape financially, convinced him to go to Dublin. He even helped him in finding this apparently trivial job.

After the initial shock and pain subsided, he accepted the bitter truth that he is all alone in this unforgiving world and it’s for him to ensure that he could take care of his needs by the virtue of his abilities. As the sun rarely appeared in this part of the world, dark grey days were trailed by the darker evenings. And as the last ray of sun would touch the stylish fonts of the words engraved on the upper wall of the elegant restaurant, his tedious and unglamorous job would begin. Those grey chilly days were the setting for his other job though. A wooden box, on which his mother’s initials were engraved with an intricate design of folk art accompanying it, was specially designed by his father and was presented to him on his last birthday before they went to their abode in heaven. It was one of his very few precious possession. The box would be kept on a platform constructed in the side walk, its cover placed neatly beside it, as the coins and notes could make their way to its inviolable confines. And why do they come there? In appreciation of his hair raising, emotional rendition of soul songs and Irish folk songs on his battered guitar, another of his prized possession, his parents had left for him. The busking was, any day, more satisfying than his paid job in the restaurant. He continued doing both.

Then came the person, whom he was not expecting at all. That unmistakable Indian face, a faint dimple on her left cheek as she smiles, those ever talking eyes and neat eyebrows, the black hair among the infinite auburn ones in the city, falling over her forehead from one side and exposing the other side, forming subtle locks on her right ear, that proud yet pretty nose flowing from her forehead until stopped by her stretched lips, as that smile was so overwhelming, an unknown bunch of words and a never before used combination of chords started making their way through his vocal chords and his strumming. She stayed, long enough, to witness his whole array of performance that day. And that was one of the most remarkably beautiful days of his life. She worked in a tailor shop and got a day off after her owner’s grandfather died. She’d to take responsibility of the family after her father died in a rampant attack of Tuberculosis. She’d to support her mother apart from herself and she was somehow managing. She was fascinated by his music and they started a conversation, as both exchanged their struggles. It was cut short due to his primary work commitments.

Days went uneventfully, as they got engrossed in their work. Though he hadn’t forgotten her face and exclaimed in joy, the moment it appeared in front of his wishful eyes, on a chilly Sunday morning. He won’t stop busking even on Sundays as it was more than just a work earn aspect to him, it was the source of joy and contentment in his difficult and lonely life. She peacefully sat on the platform, besides the wooden box, spellbound by his music. As he stopped for lunch, she approached him, “Hi!” “Hey! Nice to see you ‘gain.” “That was honestly, exceptional.” A genuine expression of appreciation appeared in her eyes. “I appreciate that.” He said with a sublime smile. “Would you mind having a cup of coffee?” She asked in a delicate manner, so as to expel the hint of awkwardness that creeped in asking out a stranger. And those words were melody to his ears, he had already had a sense of restlessness, which was there in his heart from the day he had first saw her, but realized that only now. “Now?” “Yeah! Nothing better than a dose of caffeine in this cruel weather.” “Great! Let’s go.”

She took him to “Lonrúil caife”. A modest café, which was affordable and even though was utterly unspectacular with its ordinary aesthetics, tables and chairs, the lit candles on each tables was what they based their USP on. She was quite fond of that place. They sat on the table right across the room on the farthest corner from the entrance. A silent gaze into the depths of each other’s eyes followed before broken by the waiter, who’d come with two shabby hand written menu-cards listing the wide array of hot beverages available. “Good afternoon sir! What’d you like to order?” He asked, his eyes scurrying through the rates as it kept increasing as his upper eyelash started converging towards the lower one. “Thick Irish Coffee! It’s my favourite.” He casted a quick glance back on the card and calculated that he’s five bucks short of its price. He hadn’t receive his wages yet and the earnings of busking had been spent too, all he had was that day’s earnings. In a dilemma what to order, he chose simple coffee. She was looking outside the glass panes as he was mulling over any way to pay for that coffee date, suddenly she said, “We’d pay for our bills. Each of us won’t pay for the other. I don’t want those absurd niceties to creep between us.” Her definitive tone had an inherent charm associated with it. He really wanted to pay for her as it was his first date, but her words relieved him from the constraints he’d put himself into. Still he insisted, “We’d share the bill.” “Then, effectively you’re paying for me.” “Not exactly! Not the complete expense.” “Fine. As you wish.” The coffees arrived and the conversation flowed like a river meandering and warbling through a rocky plateau in its endeavour to ever move forward.

It was the start of many such Sunday coffee dates and both of them would spend the whole week yearning for those couple of hours of bliss, as they entered deep into each other’s soul. There conflicting working hours ensured that their meeting would remain confined to Sundays only. The weekly treatment of her mother had also ensured that they don’t have the Sunday evenings to spend together. A pity it was, as the attachment grew stronger and deeper. Both of them now had a knowledge of each other, inside out. Even though they couldn’t visit each other’s home, they’d discovered a way to remain in contact. They started exchanging notes by the kindness of the café owner, who’d assist in the exchange. Her birthday arrived on a Saturday. The burdens of their lives had coaxed her mother to forget it and she herself hadn’t remembered that day, until her shop owner called for her. As she emerged from the inner room, contemplating the possible mistake for which she was being summoned, her jaws remained open and eyes gleamed with an unforeseen joy. He’d somehow located the shop following the references she’d keep on dropping in their conversation. “Many many happy returns of the day! Always stay blessed.” “Oh my! Actually… thank you so much!” She suddenly realized the day before responding to his wish. He wasn’t empty handed. As she excused herself from the shop for a moment and held his hands to take him out under a lamp post, she noticed the package in his hand. As she unravelled it, a beautiful black gown emerged. Tears welled up in her eyes, as she run her palm through the attire. Black was her favourite colour. “It appears expensive, why did you spent your hard earned money on it?” She said in that subtle, gentle manner, which’d sway his heart away like a gentle wind sweeping the dry leaves away. “Don’t worry. I’d received a bonus for my sincere job and I have spent just some of it on this.” He said with a genuine smile, as his arms started stretching out. Impulsively, she leaned ahead and rested her head on his right shoulder. The warm embrace ended swiftly though, as her owner called her name. Before she honoured her employer’s call, she placed both of her palms near his ears, half covering them, before leaning forward to plant a kiss on his forehead. He bid her goodbye and started walking down the road. As he reached the place of his busking, he opened his wooden box, which was empty. Five months’ earnings of busking expended on a single gift. Though nothing was more important to him than her happiness. Those gleaming eyes and warm breath were infinitely more worthy than his earnings.

   

As that vivid imagery was about to reach its climax, the waiter interrupted. And in his thick Irish accent asked, “Sir! Is there anything you want?” He definitely knew him. How wouldn’t he. It’s not the first time he had appeared in that shady corner. It was a routine, a ritual, the devotion to which border-lined on madness, sometimes. After casting a vague glance at him, he waved him off accompanied by a feeble shake of head.

They didn’t have to wait long for their next meeting, in fact the next sun rise brought the opportunity to immerse into each other’s soul, again. This time, they planned to do something different from their lovely little coffee date. Not that they were bored, but for an unusual request by her. She loved water balls and though the probability of getting them in Dublin in those days were almost nil, fortunately, her mother had the skills, among much more superior cooking skills, to make the floury dish, which she learnt long back on a trip to India, when she used to go nuts for them in those unhygienic stalls. She wanted him to enjoy something really indigenous and although there were innumerable more sophisticated options before her, she chose her favourite snack. After she disclosed her plans, he gave a bemused expression. “What? Do you really mean we’re eating water balls in this chill sitting on an Irish pavement? No way!” Her smile vanished and her eyes dropped a little, though words flowed from her mouth as sublimely as ever, “Ma has made it after a long time with so much zeal, has sent it especially for you…” Before she could finish, he interrupted, “Wait, wait, wait! What did you say? For me? Did she know me? Have you told her everything?” “Yeah! I tell everything to her. She’s the only one, apart from you, who makes my life as wonderful as it is.” A warm smile had appeared on her dry and cold lips. He couldn’t help himself giving a smile too, a genuine smile of appreciation and satisfaction. “Thanks for the compliment. And when would you allow the kind lady to see this poor soul’s face?” A giggled dropped from her mouth intensifying the dimple before it opened to utter, “Soon! Very soon indeed. Be ready to face a barrage of queries in a matter of minutes.” “Always be at your service ma’am.” He produced a fake receptionist’s tone. Her chuckle was met with few faint droplets, as the dark, pregnant clouds could no more bear the attraction of gravity. “Let’s go to the café, we can savour your mom’s speciality there.” “Okay!”

He really savoured the taste and both started devouring the water balls before the curious owner inched towards their table. As he enquired about the dish, in no time she’d pushed one into his hand and the cumulative taste of its various ingredients swept over him. He really liked that and to their surprise, a guy, must have barely experienced thirty springs of his life, approached them. He was damn curious about the content and arrangement of the bowl in front of him. In no time, brushes, canvas and oil paints appeared out of his bag, as the budding painter painted the amazing scenery in front of him. And his focus were not the lively couple, but the fascinating dish in front of him. “Can you make one for me?” The deep voice of the café owner requested the young man in a typical Gaelic accent. “Sure.” He seemed rich, passionate and importantly, quite jovial. In no time, a replica had been produced. Though he wasn’t accepting anything in return, he bought it from him at a token price of couple of bucks. He straight away called his assistant and instructed him to hang it on the wall adjacent to the table we sit on, without fail. “I’d have stories to tell to the curious lot of my customers about this mysterious dish. Besides, you two are the perfect representatives of this poor little café.” The old man turned away. He definitely had a special spot in his heart too, for them. Their eyes and smile met in a perfect straight line and he saw those spiralling black locks in front of her left eye, for the last time, probably.

She neither left any notes on any of the days of the week, nor did she appeared on Sunday. He continued strumming the chords as he thought it to be a one off goof up. But the weeks after followed the same trend. Neither having any means of contact, nor knowing her address, he reached at the shop she was working in. He found out that she wasn’t coming from the following day itself. And they never cared to find out why, as apparently, there wasn’t any dearth of good tailors in the city. He stopped busking and searched around the city, but to no avail. Apparently, everyone was oblivious to her existence. Besides the city was just too big without any solid reference. He desperately went to the café and asked for that picture, explaining the situation to the owner. He readily handed him over and though the faces weren’t quite focussed, it had enough sharpness for anyone to recognize if they knew her. He was in complete disarray, had stopped eating, tears were unstoppable, sleep was miles away from those tired eyes. He tried and tried, in vain. He filed a police complaint, but accounting for an ordinary tailor, having very little information about her, was never a cake walk.

The wait just continued. The tired eyes grew drowsier before they lost their ability to get tired. The inexplicability had been replaced by a lingering, undying hope. That, she’d come, emerge out of nowhere, maybe from the painting, which was again hung in its place. The owner had appeared again to satisfy his curious, wise little customer, saving his father from her persistence about the picture on the wall at the shady corner. Life went on. But not for him. Nothing compelled him to continue his paid job. Those stretched vocal chords and battered strings could only create songs of melancholy and pain. The kind owner honoured his request to let that shady corner of fond memories untouched, as the low key café carried out its transformation to a nice hangout destination in the fast changing city after it overcame its overwhelming prejudices and limitation. Eight chilly winters had passed but not a Sunday passed without his visit to his temple. And this murky day was one of those.

He was trying to decipher the face of everyone sitting there, whether their life were as miserable, or he was the only one, facing the consequences of his deeds in previous life. Suddenly, beads of sweat started appearing on his forehead. Is it the heater? He was contemplating, before something twitched beneath his pullover. A familiar face superseded every other visible entities out of his eyes, that resonating voice consigning Yiruma to a distant background. He was on the verge of being overwhelmed by a combination of joy and anxiety, before that face turned towards its left and the façade unfurled. He couldn’t clearly see the face as the guy in that aristocratic greyish jacket turned past her in a blink of an eye. The immediate instinct was to run to the farthest distance possible in that room from where he was sitting, and finally unravel the inexplicability and this added layer of exploding eccentricity that grey jacket had covered his life with, quite reminiscent to those grey clouds out there. Though, suddenly a switch flicked in his mind. The past vanquished beneath layers of myths and mistakes and unfortunate was the only word pounding his active memory. A swish of his palm was enough to extinguish the rays of his hopes, the symbol of their blooming love, as the blue eyed couple instructed the waiter to reignite their pair of candles. A wave of inquisition was nipped in its bud, as his rationality and yearnings gave way to his detachment. His pen had stopped scratching the soul of the poor paper. He rose slowly, walked for an eternity, the last drop of attachment left in him yearned to see that face of the possessor of that grey jacket. Though before it could be quenched, the waiter appeared between him and his line of sight. . Even before his exit, the bending of the waiter to arrange the candles robbed him of the chance, though he had a close look of that familiar face, as her eyes moved downwards on the menu-card. Nothing had changed about it. Before losing his control, he moved quickly towards the door and pulled it.

“Good afternoon sir! What’d you like to order?”

Before they could’ve a glance on the menu card, a voice from the door emerged, sweeping the land beneath her feet, and sucked away into the chilly air of Dublin, “Thick Irish Coffee…”

Tears started welling up in her eyes. Before her partner could’ve noticed it, she made an excuse of going to washroom, and immediately walked up to the shady corner. As she unfolded the poor paper, tears stopped dripping, they started gushing out…

If I could see you again

I would tell all those were lies,

The tinge of unknown pain that I gave to you

And the words which I said to you.

If I could see you again, somewhere in the next lane

I would cry, for you ain’t my best friend now

That you didn’t mail me once, to ask if I’m alive

That you didn’t miss me, missed the misery of mine.

If I could see you again, on a different plane

I would smile, ‘coz I’d seen you again after a long time

I would hide, ‘coz the awkwardness would be hard to fight

Yet all I want is to see your smile, once in this lifetime.