At Coffee Day

We are an impecunious lot. At least, I make it a point to reiterate the fact to myself every now and then, lest I end up exhausting my entire monthly stipend in a fortnight. (That I end hard up within a fortnight anyway is quite another thing.) Of course, I have these rare surges of extravagance; I go for the latest movies, Bollywood or Tamil, every alternate day; I enjoy the selfless profligacy of commuting to every place by an auto rickshaw; I welter in the goodness of my own noble philanthropy when I treat my friends to a dinner every week at Pizza Hut. Yes, coming back to the point, I like to think of myself as a frugal being. I love the effect it creates on me when I picture me and my ascetic life of endless self-abnegation.

Last Saturday was one in which I found myself in one such fit of prodigality. My friend and I asserted categorically to each other that hereafter we will not brook any more of this over-cautious attitude; we will not, this time, squander a salubriously sunny afternoon to our languor. We pulled ourselves out of our bed sheets and strode to Coffee Day in a sprightly saunter. Then, like all inveterate bustlers, we realised that the first fortnight was nearing its end; our wallets had thinned as much and as rapidly as Salman Khan's hair profile.

The waiter pampered us with the menu card after we entreated him twice and threatened him once. Both of us had already taken stock of the ammunition in the purse. I had, to be precise, Rs. 65.50, and he, Rs. 80. My friend took up the opening gambit, " One samosa please." (Samosa was the cheapest item on the list; fifteen rupees.) The waiter gave him a denigrating glance. My suspicions of him deeming us scavengers in a topiary garden did not seem very far-fetched even to my better senses for those three seconds. There was some silence. The waiter then gathered himself and replied with disgustingly counterfeited courteousness, "I'm afraid we do not have samosas, sir." He said that with an impeccably forged urbane politeness that often wills you to get up, stare at him a rusticated stare, bare your chest and challenge him to slap you if he had the guts. But my friend was more cheek than mouth. He ordered, with a glint in his eyes, a vegetable roll, which was the second in the ascending order of cost with a price tag of Rs. 25. The waiter let the disappointment show on his face for a second before he covered it up with his smug grin of politeness. I ordered for myself a sandwich and a cappuccino, and with it some salvageable dignity.

The orders were given and orders were taken and we let our attention meander on to a better scenery that surrounded us. The next table had two young women -- I must say pulchritudinous women -- and a swain whose overly greased hair stood on one end (I hear they call it Spikes these days). The women were nibbling the fudge like mice that nibbled at cheese while the boy was wistfully watching the action. Such delicate fussy helpless things these dames are; I must tell you it is quite a pleasure to watch these dainty creatures nibble prissy bites of chocolate fudge when you don't have to pay for them. I could fathom why the boy's hair stood on one end.

Half an hour must have passed when my stomach growled a threatening growl. I wontedly grew a little concerned about it. As a rule, I am reckless, but when it is a question of the stomach, I am an antithesis of myself. The waiter placed, rather disdainfully I may add, the plate that had four bits of bread on the table. In India, it is customary to propitiate the crows with small offerings before we guiltlessly glut everything down our throats; I thought the place also expected me to endorse the custom. I later found out that the four bits of bread were for me. The bits were charred; the waiter peremptorily assured me they were grilled. I asked him if he could get me some sauce. He replied that he had sauce and slithered away to a couple sitting at the table to my left with the urgency of a rattlesnake that had lost his rattle. The two were what we'd call at school, "Single Milkshake, double straw." Near the boy, on the table, was a book whose title, "Kleptomaniac", attracted the eye in bright red font; ostensibly, a by-product of a sudden maniacal urge that boys of his age often have to dissipate money. The girl asked him what it meant. The boy all-knowingly lectured, "It is a temporary loss of memory." My stomach urged me to go tell him that there was something permanently wrong with his memory. The waiter all-importantly rushed to them, apparently for orders. But they casually brushed him away. Hapless, without a choice, he stood rooted near my place in a moment of acute indecision. My stomach and the 'grilled' bread did not allow me to give up. I summoned him and posed the same question to which he posed the same answer. My stomach was now furious. I retorted, "I can see that you have quite some sauce, but can you bring me some of it?" I frankly cannot tell you if he understood the meaning of it in entirety, but he most definitely understood the tone. The sauce helped the bread a lot. And the cappuccino tasted like powdered limestone and Digene dissolved in water. My friend seemed very contented with his vegetable rolls. They were too small to cause him any discomfort.

It was the last day of the fortnight, I realised, when I left the place.

- posted by Dileepan @ 6:34:00 am

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