Tuesdays at the coffee house have been a part of my routine for over a year now. Writers try many things to motivate themselves into writing. Perhaps chai in a glass and a cigarette. Maybe coffee in a pretentious mug. Sometimes none of this works. Despite that, I go to the coffee house. I have my spot- The cane chair at the back; tucked away between a pillar and the window. The waiters know me. They know my order too. When I walk in, they give me a distant smile.
He has been coming there for the past few months. His spot isn’t anywhere near mine, but its close enough. He has a small face and very thin lips. He always wears a Rangers cap. Sometimes he wears a shirt. Most days it’s a loose sweater and khakis. His sandals look painfully tight. I am not sure how often he comes in, but I see him every Tuesday. I don’t think he has noticed me. If he has, he pretends otherwise.
I observe him from my spot. He reads a lot. Mostly books that are covered in newspaper. He takes notes furiously in a leather bound book. Maybe he is a critic. Or an enthusiast. I am very curious to see which books he reads. I deliberately pass his table to get some paper napkins. I peep- he is reading The Middleman. I glance at his notes. His handwriting is untidy. As is his hair.
On one rainy Tuesday, he has a female friend. She is pretty and touches his arm a lot. I get a little angry and drink my coffee with a vengeance. He laughs and shows her something on his phone. She laughs too. That irks me even more. She lights up a cigarette in a non-smoking zone. She signals to the waiter and he rushes over. He has never quite shown that sort of enthusiasm towards me. She says a few words and gets away with the smoking. I dislike this woman.
This Tuesday, our man has a broken arm. He winces a lot. I wonder how he broke it. He doesn’t read today. Instead he listens to his I-pod and stares blankly at the ceiling. I bitterly think about his pretty friend and her whereabouts. She, much to my relief, doesn’t make an appearance. He looks blankly towards me. I smile a little. He looks away. I can see his neck has gone red.
I consider coming to the coffee house on another day to see if he is there. I come in on a Friday- he isn’t there. I quickly take my coffee and leave.
The Tuesday that follows is Christmas Eve. The coffee house is bursting at its seams with people, streamers and other Christmas decorations. He is there- sitting in his spot and drinking some brown slush from a tall glass. He looks up when I walk in. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even smile. I sit there until midnight, that day. At midnight, amidst the ringing bells and laughing children, our man smiles at me.
Finally, we speak. It’s a surreal Tuesday. We both walk in almost at the same time. Both are spots are taken. It feels like it’s a set-up. Only it’s not. Some teenager has turned 16 and her whole class is there. She shrieks and hugs a female friend every ten minutes. I leave, feeling strange. He isn’t far behind. “You’re a writer?” he asks. I nod. I can’t really find my voice. “I like reading. Perhaps you can show me some of your stuff.” he says. “Maybe.” I reply. “Tuesdays, isn’t it?” He smiles- as though sharing an inside joke. I nod again. “I look forward to Tuesdays.” He says, his voice non-committal, but only just. I smile- “Me too.” I say and mean it.
The Tuesday after that we meet again. We still continue to sit at our own spots. We don’t even make conversation. We just give each other knowing looks. Sometime that evening, I run into an old school friend. Between all the gossip and catching up, I don’t notice that he has left.
It’s Saturday morning. I am holding a pot of coffee when I see his face. In the newspaper. He is smiling, his untidy hair set in place with copious hair gel. Under the picture, it reads- Joy Bannerjee. June 18, 1979- February 27, 2010. A hundred thoughts come to mind. I consider checking with his family. Was it a car accident? Cardiac Arrest? Suicide? I skim through the rest of the article. At the bottom it reads, Loving brother, caring friend. Pleasant stranger- I silently add and drink my black coffee.
