Black Tea And Weak Coffee

“Anything else, sir?”, asked the sweaty waiter dressed in the typical grey railway uniform, placing our order of two masala dosa, a black tea and a weak milk coffee on our table.  Notice the sexism there? Anything else ‘sir’?  Invisible, are we? Can’t have a greater appetite or make up our own minds about what we want to eat? I bet he’s going to give the bill to the male at the table too. My angry train of feministic thoughts were interrupted when I felt the stare of male at the table sitting across me. “are you not hungry?” he asked. I wasn’t. I was still shaking and the blood that drained from my face three days ago still hadn’t returned. I wasn’t sure if it were butterflies dancing in my stomach or acidity. But hungry was the last thing I was and I sure wasn’t going to tell him that and invite more questions. I smiled curtly and started to pinch a piece off my dosa.  And so, the male returned to his breakfast.

Earlier that day we left home at 4:30 am, 45 minutes earlier than we needed to. All my life I’ve never known a train to arrive earlier than the said time but, Mr. Punctual insisted on it. My mother cried for a long 10 minutes, all the while claiming they were tears of joy. When Mr. punctual came out to the foyer, I was picking up the last of the suitcases to be stacked in the trunk of the taxi. By the time he rushed down the stairs to help, I was closing the trunk. “I could have done that” he said and eyed the trunk. “She doesn’t like to be helped, son”, my father’s voice echoed from the foyer. You could hear the laughter and pride in his voice. “Come say goodbye, children” he said opening his arms wide as he waited for us to run into his embrace. 

As I slowly took those three steps forward and three upwards, I took a long hard look at everything that was in front of me. In the foreground of the frame stood my parents. My mother, with her tender eyes moist from all the tears, dressed in a typical Kerala saree with gold and sky-blue border and her gentle smile, embracing my father who was a rough looking man, with his thick moustache, trim beard and fat belly. Only I knew that the rough exterior was just a distraction so that no one would really see the marshmallow he really was. He was an engineer, mechanical, and mother was a doctor, both very noble and rare professions during their time. Father was quite the ladies’ man back in the day with his fair skin, curly hair and rugged boyish charm and of course the tiny belly. Mother was quite the opposite, a studious introvert not so great in her looks, just chasing her dream of becoming a doctor.  In the background, the only house I ever called home. I grew up here, in these 1700sq. feet. Peach walls and mosque tiles, mahogany beds and grilled glass paned windows, wood burning stove and stone grinder, two tv’s- an old BPL and the 36-inch flat screen. Mom watched overly dramatic serials on the flat screen while my dad watched the same in another room on the oldie. I laughed at the thought of how ridiculous it was. I took a long hard look and took it all in. Goodbyes were said, hugs were exchanged and another batch of ‘happy tears’ later we were in the taxi, off to the railway station.

No one had spoken in the past 15 minutes. The male was now digging away into his second dosa while I was still playing with my first. The eerie silence and awkwardness finally got to him. “did you sleep well last night?”, he asked in a low voice, words coming out of his mouth unsure whether they want to fall on my ears. I sat there staring into my glass of tea searching for words as the awkwardness at the table grew. “I slept okay”, I finally muttered to my glass. I’m an architect, and sleeping isn’t something I’m good at or usually have the luxury to do. “You?”, I asked, arching my neck up and making eye contact for a second. “I slept okay too”, he said, I nodded and we reached the end of the conversation. 

We decided to take turns washing our hands to guard the luggage. Him being the gentleman he is, made me go first. I started at my reflection in the spotty washroom mirror. Till yesterday, I was just me and now I have another title upon me too. I kept looking at the reflection trying to find another person looking back at me. But, I didn’t. It was still me, the same me that stared at the mirror yesterday, before it happened, hoping that to find another person staring back. Instead, found a makeup covered face which felt unreckonable, yet familiar, with a body draped in a deep burgundy saree, covered in ornaments made from precious stones and metal. It was hard enough having to sit still for hours dressed in such heavy garments staring at yourself while relatives try to imagine for you, what the rest of your life was going to be like. The loud traditional instrumental music playing in the background didn’t help with the nerves. Each tap on the thavil felt like a bang on my cranium. I finally stood up and started walking towards the window. Some of the relatives in the room tried to get me to sit back again but, one cold stare from me and they all found their places back on the bed gossiping away to glory. Everyone knows not to mess with the bride. But that wasn’t the case here. Being the black sheep in the family sometimes had its perks. Not that I’ve done anything to

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get ‘black sheep’-listed but, since we lived in the suburbs most of the kids in my generation were educated in the locality and I was sent away for higher education. Little me went away still being the girl from the suburbs but, came back five years later in ripped jeans and a t-shirt. Initially, when discussions used to happen during joint family meetings, I’d express my views and try to open their minds to new experiences. This was later perceived as being outspoken and disrespectful and my parents started receiving complaints on how I was dressing ‘provocatively’. Hence, I became the ultimate black sheep in my family.

 As I peeped out the window, I was instantly hit with the smell of fresh flowers. There were shamiyanas decorated with yellow and orange chrysanthemums, garlands of jasmine on every ladies’ hair, huge gold urulis filled with water topped off with roses. The sound of laughter filled the air, children were running around, the smell of delicious spices and curries from the sadhya that will be served to everyone after the ceremony. So many people, so many unfamiliar faces. Amongst the happy crowd I spotted the woman who birthed and raised Mr. punctual. She was talking to a few unfamiliar faces, probably from their side of the family. I’ve spent a lot of time with her, very genuine and good at heart, so is her husband. And her son, I’m assuming. Who knew it’d be easier to communicate with the creators of the person you’re going to spend the rest of your life with that the person themselves.

I returned to the table only to find him gone. I could feel my eyes widen as they frantically searched for him all over the tiny restaurant. Unable to find him I checked the luggage to see if any of it was missing, just his laptop bag. Sudden chill up my spine and the feeling of butterflies or acidity in my stomach turned into something that made me want to regurgitate. A small man, not our waiter, dressed in the same railway uniform as the others walked up to me and addressed me, “ma’am”. I looked up in his direction from the luggage I was rummaging through. He looked back at me, reciprocating the concern on my face before he pointed towards the entrance. Through the open entrance, framed by bright orange walls I saw him, pacing, attending a phone call.  It was absurd how relieved I was to find him there. I believe I overreacted and panicked more than the situation called for. So much for him wanting to keep our luggage safe. I thanked the waiter and smiled at him as he nodded and walked away.

I surveyed him as he was sauntering about in the hall, tall, broad shouldered with slightly muscular arms emerging out of them, skin the colour of wheat, his brown hair on the comparatively longer side. But most of all what stood out are his eyes, at first, they looked like raw umber but, if you look closer its hazel in the middle and when sunlight hits them, these green rays appear out of nowhere! It was transfixing. But other than the fact that he had mesmerizing eyes, I knew not much about the man. I met him six months ago when he came home with his family to see me. Little did we talk that day and little do we talk now.  I have friends whose friends know him, and they say he isn’t the quite kind. Infact, he’s very friendly and easy to talk to. It’s probably because its arranged that things are so awkward, I know I would do better than this if the circumstances were different. It’s not that I’m opposed to getting to know him or anything, I guess, I’m waiting for a sign from him too, that he’d like to get to know me since were in this mess together now. Every girl likes for herself a little Bollywood drama, despite whatever front they put up and everyone wants to be swept off their feet at least once. The intensity and category of it depends on the person but, just because its arranged doesn’t mean I should miss out on it. But then again, I just met the guy so... no expectations.

I pretended to look busy with the luggage as I saw him walking back from the washroom through the corner of my eye. He sat down on the chair across me and apologized for the call, “it was an official call, I’m sorry”. And I shrugged it off with an, “it’s alright”. The waiter bought the bill and oh! Surprise! He extends it to the male at the table. But he looks up at me and smiles, bearing his teeth. I looked at him with a funny face, confused as to what is happening. He then exhales sharply and says, “this is our first proper meal together. Would you like me to be a gentleman and get that? Or should we split the bill and do it your way?”, he smiles a bit more and arches is eyebrow towards the end. I sat there shocked and in admiration. “Sp…split the bill”, I was finally able to mutter and then he motioned the waiter to give me the bill. The waiter, although unsure of what was happening did as he was asked. After the waiter left, the man across the table stretched a little closer, and said “well, maybe we should get to know each other since there’s no way out of this. And the bill thing was literally the only thing I knew about you so, I’m going to need more information for future gestures”. As I laughed and agreed with him I knew I’d gotten my Bollywood moment. And the weird acidity in my stomach? If it wasn’t before, its butterflies now.