Broken Hug

Pablo's Cafe

Rohan

That evening Rohan called her.

By now you know who her is. Yes, Charoen. Charoen playing the role of Fai. In her mannerisms. In her gait. The manner she sat crossing her left leg over the other. Like Fai the way she looked at the table, nibbling her lower lip, concentrating on the one spot as if that was the world to her and no one else, not even Rohan for that matter, existed. On the centre of her forehead rested a bothered look furrowed by three lines. Of deep thought. She was Charoen-Fai. Cha-Fai.

As her cell phone rang on the other side, Rohan bit his lower lip, turning his head from one bookshelf to the other with quick looks. Impatient glows squatted in his eyes as he switched the speaking toy to his left ear and back again to his right. Where is she? Why is she taking so long to take up the call? And he began pacing about.

“Hello.” Her voice sounded after some seconds but to him it was hours.

“Hi. I was wondering what took you so long.” His anxiety came naturally and he made an effort to control it.

“No, I was feeding clothes into the machine. And it took some time to realize the phone was ringing.” Her voice was slow, measured.

“Did you reach home on time?” He didn’t know what to say but said something, anyway to let the flow of the conversation going.

“Yes I did. Though quite a lot of traffic was bottle-necked at the Park Circus point of the A. J. C. Bose Road flyover.”

“Oh, is it? That’s usual but not at the time you crossed it.”

“Yes. An accident. Another youth committing suicide. Disrupted the entire traffic system.”

“Charoen-Fai,” and after saying this name Rohan became conscious. “Sorry I blended your name with Fai’s…”

“…But that’s okay.”

“If that’s okay, then you should call me by my name.”

“Umm…” she nodded. “Perhaps.”

“So what I was going to say is let these suicides not bother you too much, you know.” He allowed his words to sink into her mind. Perhaps that way she would feel at ease. “Umm, by the way, can you keep some time free tomorrow?” Then without waiting for her to answer, he continued, “Actually, I was wondering if you could come to this side of the city and join me for coffee.”

“Umm…” A lot of umms later she asked, “What time do you think would be good?”

“Let’s say ten, if that’s okay with you.”

“Umm,” she said.

As she weighed the time, he pictured her looking out of her window and considering.

“I think that should do fine.” She said at last.

“Then meet me in Pablo’s Café at Ekdalia’s.”

*

That night Rohan could hardly get healthy sleep, what with the picture of the bother in her mind standing out in his mind now, and along with this, the coffee-meet tomorrow.

He tossed and turned from one side of the bed to the other in excitement, sat at the edge, looked out through the window at the street ahead. The glow from the street lamp shining on the quiet street had fallen on the yard of the house across his. On the sky blue tiles he thought he saw a shadow, no two shadows – that of a man and a woman. No, how can that be? It’s all in my mind – the smoky beings. The male with a silver stud and the woman with earrings and a choker gently clasped around her throat.

He lay down in a short while.

When he woke up, light was streaming into the room through the curtain.

*

The coffee shop at Ek-Dalia was situated at a side street and was about a kilometre away from his town house. He decided to walk all the way. If the weather is my friend, then why not? The air was light and crispy, quite strange and contrary to the April month as it caressed his hair and touched his face with delicate baby fingers. Perhaps the smoky beings had conjointly decided to grace this day. His and her day.

Yes, Rohan and Charoen’s day.

Lightheartedness invaded him in slow measures; he pictured his heart lifted and hovering above his head like feelers.

Cars zoomed past. Most shops were yet to pull up their shutters. Smart young men with gelled hair and young ladies with smooth faces and striped shirts sauntered out of the HSBC Bank, files in hand. A middle aged lady, attractively confident in her walk was being checked with a metal detector at the entrance to the Ste-Loon mall.

Young working ladies, Mongoloid featured, in white tops and black skirts six inches above the knee waited for the air-con buses at Gariahat crossing. Above the roadside eatery to the left, its name – China Blues – appeared in red. Two ladies sitting on red blow-plast seats, with similar dress, were having noodle soup. Their mouths moved more with the conversation they were involved in than with the food. One of them picked up a red sauce bottle with her left hand with precision and Rohan observed, gently tapped it above the spoon on her right hand, saying like a prayer, as if throwing a spell, Only two drops, only two. But three fell, and her friend produced a full-throated laugh, loud and clear.

A light laugh escaped from him at the sight as he crossed the eatery. Would Charoen and I have done the same? Ahead, the pavement turned to Ekdalia Road and the café ahead on the left.

Save one lone man with salt-and-pepper hair with his nose into the T2, the café was empty. Light music emanated from the four speakers, the sound of the kettle drum followed by the rhythmic strike on the cowbell distinct in his ears.

At the door, he debated whether Charoen would prefer the chair or the cane couch. The couch would be cozier. He took the double one at the corner with the glass door hidden from view, yet the entire café within one sweep of the eyes.

It was nine fifty-eight by the digital clock on the wall when the door opened. Someone with a white sleeveless dress and black Roman sandals; someone with a light streak of kajal on the edge of the lower eyelids; someone with straight open hair till the shoulders stepped in.

A light smile played on her parted lips and the teeth sparkled as, locating Rohan, she came and stood in front of him. He rose, offering the empty place next to his. The smell of wet hair lingered in the air around her. She was a lily bathed with mineral sea water, watched by the moon shining on the rocks.

“It was by luck the air-con bus arrived on time.” She sat down. “If not I would have been late.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s not college.” He smiled.

She smiled at his remark.

Confused as in how to start the topic, he allowed the conversation to drift in its natural course.

“It was quite depressing yesterday.” Her eyes were at the poster on the wall.

He nodded but waited for her to continue.

“The ghastly news of Samita, followed by the suicide on the road.”

He nodded again. “I know. It’s quite shocking. What a loss for her parents.” He visualized the old lady with hollow looks. Should he tell her about his becoming unconscious?

“There was this old lady, perhaps Samita’s grandmother. She had this sorrowful look. Mingled with this sadness, was certain pain etched on her face.” He paused, looked into her eyes. “How painful do you think it is for a grandmother to see her grand-daughter’s dead body?”

Charoen discovered his face too filled with pain. “I understand,” she said. “Try to forget it.”

He gave a slight nod, his eyes at the LED screen on the wall. “You too have to forget all this, Charoen.” His eyes fell on her fingers, their slenderness capturing him. “Think of all the good things life has to offer.”

“Yes, I know. I’m trying to.” She stopped as if hesitating to open up further.

The waiter was standing.

“Yes, what would you like to have?” Rohan asked and slid the menu towards her.

“A mojito.”

“Anything else? A Black Forest or something?”

“A brownie is fine, but it will be heavy.”

“No worries, we’ll share it.” He turned to the waiter. “One mojito, one cappuccino and a Brownie, please”

“I’ve almost forgotten about mother. But it’s so difficult at times.” She looked away, staring at the opposite wall.  

So that’s what’s bothering you.

Rohan shifted his leg and straightened them under the table, finally leaning back on the back cushion. “You may not tell me anything if it makes you uncomfortable.” He paused and fixed his gaze at the wall too. “But if you think it will lighten your burden, I’m always there.”

She coughed, and when she turned her face and her eyes met his, they were misty. “The best part of mom was her voice. It had all the medicines to cure you.” Her mind took her to an earlier landscape. “I remember I was six years of age. I came back from school feeling unwell. Mom rested her hand on my forehead. High fever. The house physician arrived, checked and found I had chicken pox. My fever rose to nearly 102 that day. Medicines brought down the fever, but the headache continued. I lay in Mom’s lap, her fingers running through my hair, as she said, Charoen, I’m here. Everything will be okay, Baby. I didn’t know when I had fallen off to sleep. When my eyes opened, it was night. Some faint murmur reached my ears. Turning my head, I found I was still in mom’s lap. The murmurs were emanated by her as she continued repeating, Charoen, I’m here. Everything will be okay, Baby. It was like someone constantly praying to God. Like a monk telling the beads of rosary, but repeating the same mantra over and over again at every bead, determined and fiercely confident that the prayers will be answered.” Charoen looked at her hands. “The medicines and rest cured me of the chicken pox. But the strength I received from Mom’s words was incredible. So,” she looks at Rohan. “I always tell myself, everything will be okay.”

She looked away again. Resting his hand on hers, Rohan gave it a gentle squeeze.

Her left hand was on her thigh. Her purse stirred and she could feel the vibration on her palm. The wrinkled lady’s face appeared. Remember.

            Yes, Charoen murmured