One Hour
One Hour
There is no sun that shines here. The only light that comes through is from the tube light that hangs above me, the other one is broken. There are flies everywhere, on the tables, on the walls, inside dishes, on haggard faces and sun burnt hands. Scribbling love letters and smitten with disease.
This diner is very small and claustrophobic, crammed up with people and old memories, which wait for lunch and endless cups of strong tea. People that haunt this place are mostly workers, those who build houses and some who tear them down. Some are junkies that only come out at night high on crack or drunk on cheap liquor. Washed out writers, those salesmen who wear fancy ties and sell deodorants and these burqa clad women who avert looking at anyone or anything.
What you can hear is a mixture of traffic noise, old Punjabi songs, sudden explosions of animated laughter and muted conversations. What you can smell is sweat, spent tobacco and burnt tea.
The paint on the walls is white and fresh. Instead of chairs, there are benches which are small and worn out. The off-white paint is peeling of them and they are extremely uncomfortable. The tables and the floor are made out of marble. The floor covered with cigarette butts, tea stains and brownish liquid that looks like spit. The table is decorated with a plastic jug full of water and a glass that is chipped from many places and looks like it was washed in the last century.
An old beggar, who is wearing a shocking pink shalwar kameez, appears outside. His head is shaved; his long beard, unkept and dirty. It’s his eyes that are all wrong. The pupils are yellow and his irises don’t seem to stop at any one place. He starts shouting, “Give me five thousand rupees! Give me ten thousand rupees! In God’s name! He then runs away.
The small dark man who is sitting on the next bench looks at my face and smiles. “He went mad when he couldn’t arrange for ten thousand rupees for his daughter’s dowry,” he says. “The engagement got broken off, his daughter cut her wrists and killed herself and he went mad,” He adds, sipping his tea. Stories like these one hears everyday in this place.
And there is Safu chacha; the waiter who walks extremely slowly, the waiter who mumbles obscenities at everybody and everything the waiter who serves all of us and who in spite of everything else has kindness in his eyes. He is old probably in his late fifties. He has a full set of hair which has totally gone white. He is short with small, strong hands and his face is like looking at a Jackson Pollack painting, lines etched out vertically and horizontally all over his face. I order a burger and a soft drink, Safu chacha asks me if I need anything else. I tell him that some special tea would be nice. He looks at me and smiles.
A young man behind me orders plain biryani and two cups of tea. Three men sitting across me are having an animated conversation about film actresses Meera and Reema and seem to agree that Meera might be more beautiful but Reema is more capable in the acting department.
Outside, two young boys start fighting. The taller boy hurls insults in Pashto, the other boy fires back with Punjabi. No one takes much notice. Young boys fighting, is not uncommon here and after a few minutes, it subsides.
Waiting for the food, one can see the furnace, and the hot vapors creating a mirage. How whenever a female arrives and starts going up the stairs to the family section, conversation stops, sentences hang in mid air and eyes move as the legs move, it seems like no one has ever seen a female before. You notice people’s hands here and how strong they feel. Here eyes do not judge you. Here eyes reflect hope and a belief that tomorrow is another day. Here people smile and that these smiles are far off from being fake smiles. These smiles are very real, they vertebrate acceptance and joy. In this tiny diner, in this revolving square where the floor looks like a chess board and the fans hang naked without their wings, it feels strange for this one hour. It feels like time has stopped and that life has become much simpler.
neha says:
And… He’s Back!
March 14th, 2007 at 02:54 pm
anirudh says:
man this sounds like some lines cut out of a bestseller..!
March 14th, 2007 at 08:09 pm