A wicked cup of coffee

Raman’s Narration

It was one of the big American brands that had set up shop at a prominent spot of the circular market that was the famous Connaught Place of Delhi. CP was a remnant of India’s colonial past, created originally by the British for their entertainment and fashion needs.

After independence, it retained some of its elite atmosphere. How could it not?, punctuated as it was by elegant victorian arches and facades housing designer boutiques and fine dining. Still, it had become less exclusive, a little more crowded and dirty, with red betel stains colouring the once pristine white walls and budget shops and cheap general stores rubbing shoulders with the more rarefied locations.

In a lot of ways, Connaught Place symbolised the contradictions that existed in Independent India. On the one hand, were the rich clients, nursing large bags decorated with foreign logos, while outside the shops, hands outstretched were throngs of malnourished mendicants, waylaying determined shoppers for money and food. The parking spaces of the market were lined with cars ranging from budget vehicles to luxury automobiles. The less fortunate trudged into the market wearily from the metro station. Connaught Place was located above a major underground junction of the Delhi Metro. Understandably, there was plenty of traffic at this particular station.

I belonged to a bracket of society which had the luxury of being an outlier. I was not yet wholly independent or responsible for myself, yet I had a limited financial space within which to manoeuvre, to satisfy my needs and desires. I was a student, relying on allowances to maintain myself.

Luckily for me, my college was only a couple of metro stations away from CP, so I could generally manage to keep myself entertained within my limited means.

So, it is no surprise that I was curious about the addition of a branch of a famous American Coffee franchise to my favourite market. I learned that the signature feature of this brand was providing comfortable, calm environments for its customers to do their work, for as long as they wanted. This was an interesting concept, as most proprietors I knew would “kindly request” a customer to clear out if they were not ordering anything.

My college coursework was fairly rigorous and i had begun to dread the library, so I imagined shifting to the new cafe would serve the purpose of satiating my curiosity as well as help me get a change of environment to boost my productivity.

One day, as soon as college ended at 4, I packed my stuff and headed to CP on a stuffed metro. On the way I chatted with a few of my batchmates who commuted daily to college from their homes in Delhi. I lived in the hostel on campus. It was a pretty big storefront, begging for attention. From outside, I could tell that business was brisk. It had been crowded ever since it opened, which is why i had waited a week after opening day to pay my visit. When i walked in, the first thing that struck me was the smell. My senses were assailed with the strong but pleasant smell of roasted coffee. In fact the whole decor theme seemed to be centred around coffee beans, with couches and mahogany tables the colour of coffee. The noise outside was blocked out, leaving behind a droning of voices, punctuated by the occasional sounds of blending, mixing and pouring. Immediately i relaxed. The environment was certainly welcoming.

I took my place in the line before the counters. A cursory glance told me that the clientele was certainly refined. Men and women in suits, with laptop bags and impatient expressions were everywhere i looked.

I seemed out of place with my jeans, and disheveled appearance, highlighted by a wide eyed out-of-depth expression. But i dismissed any self consciousness with my brazen youthfulness. I switched focus to the items that were displayed behind the counter. My eyes grew round. It was much more than i could afford. Even the cheapest drink was worth a week’s tea money for me.

I shrugged my shoulders, resigned to the evils of Capitalism. I would just have to forgo my evening tea to pay for my study session.

After giving my order to the fashionable barista behind the counter, i headed to the first floor to find a place where i could sit down with my books in peace. All around me, people were working on their laptops, intermittently talking in hushed tones.

I settled down on a hard bench in the corner, stylised as a log of wood and placed my bag on the table in front of me. I took out my book and a marker and settled down to study. Half my attention was attracted by the people around me, like it always is in a new environment. I was particularly interested in the only other person in the room who was not dressed professionally. She was dressed in a hoodie and jeans with delicate, conventionally attractive features but nothing that particularly stood out. She had a gently sloping nose and big eyes lined by long lashes. She had placed her maroon strap bag on the adjacent seat and was balancing a tablet on her knee twirling an oddly long and broad pencil which i saw she was using to mark her tablet. I assumed she was an artist.

I snuck surreptitious glances in her direction from behind my book, each glance pushing me further to the edge.

My daydream was broken by my name- “One small cappucino for Raman“, called out the waiter walking between tables. Suddenly self conscious, I raised my hand and received my drink. With a start of childlike surprise I realised that the cup had my name scrawled on it in permanent marker. The warm coffee slowly trickled down my throat before i registered the sharply bitter flavour. I winced and put the cup down, deciding to focus on my book. I couldn't help occasionally stealing glances and between that and bitter coffee I didn't get very much work done. However, by the time I got up to leave I had firmly tumbled into the abyss. I was too scared to approach the girl on the first day. I told myself i would take the leap if i saw her the next time I visited. I was busy for the next two days, making up for my unfinished work, and also my dented finances. I decided to have another go at studying in the cafe on the third day.

Following routine, I ordered the cheapest cup of coffee, this time a little more sure of myself and then i settled down, opening my book, but eyes searching the people around. Then, my heart skipped a beat. Immediately i noticed my idol sitting on one if the benches along the opposite wall of the room. A part of me groaned as I realised that i would be unable to get any work done. I promised myself to at least try to initiate a conversation with her by the end of the day.

After trying futilely to focus for an hour, I gave up. I got up and drumming up the little courage i could find i began to awkwardly shuffle towards her, hands fidgeting with my jacket. I racked my head for something to say but conversations had never been my strong suit. Then all of a sudden, my eyes went to the name written on her cup of coffee.

Anjali’s Narration

The hard wooden bench dug deep into my back when I tried to rest against it. I arched my back and picked up my cup of coffee. I thought i would have gotten used to the seating over the past week. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and went back to studying the tablet in front of me. It displayed a book page, covered in tiny scribbles of my digital pencil. I couldn’t afford to get distracted. I had come to the cafe to get away from the suffocating environment of my hostel. Everybody aiming for the number one spot, pulling each other down, hiding themselves away for long periods. If it wasn’t them, it was the constant warnings and rules of my parents and college. Everyone telling you how unsafe the city was, to not go put alone, to be back before sunset.

I was breaking every single rule coming to the coffee shop everyday. I figured it was important for my sanity at this point. I needed to have control over something. If not my downward academic spiral then at least my daily routine.

And so far I had no reason to believe that all of the restrictions were anything but paranoia. Nothing had bothered me this past week, neither in the cafe, nor on the metro. That hadn't stopped me from keeping my guard up though. I had never given out my name to the barista. I knew it was paranoid, but i had come up with a goofy alternative.

Every time i would request an adjective to be scrawledon the coffee cup instead of my name. The first day, the day of my inspiration, it was “mean”. Just so it would be - “a mean cup of coffee”. With a week over, with terms like “roasted” and “smoking” over, i was running out of inspiration and i had fallen back on the original. Today my cup had “wicked” scrawled on it. To be fair, it didnt have the same ring to it, but i didnt really care. It still made heads turn when the waiter called out - “ One Cappuccino for Wicked”.

As i was settling down from my momentary break, some movement in front made me look up. Standing awkwardly in front of me was a casually dressed, jacket clad 20 something boy with half rimmed spectacles, medium height with lean build, nothing exceptionally striking and wearing a forced smile.

“Hey, I’m Raman, I saw you there from across the room. I saw your cup and couldn’t help myself. Have you got a wicked cup of coffee or is that just your name?”

I winced at the stumbling attempt at humor and immediately put my guard up.

Still a little surprised at the suddenness of the exchange, I looked up at him and coldly asked, “I’m sorry, Do I know you?”.

The smile withered, “Not at all. Actually, I just wanted to introduce myself because I’ve noticed you before as well. I come here occasionally to study and wanted to know if you’re a regular too. Do you mind if i sit here a while and talk with you?”, he said slowly, with growing confidence.

I was alarmed that he had noticed me before. I had never seen this guy or his sparkling white teeth anywhere. Still i considered that the request was polite enough and it would be unfair to immediately shut him down even if that was my instinct.

“Yeah, sure, I guess”, I sighed, moving my bag to my lap to make space.

He settled down and there was an awkward silence. I looked down at my tab signalling disinterest.

“So what do you do? college?”, he asked

“Yes”, i replied

“What are you studying?”

“Architecture.”

“Wow” , he said, impressed.

“What do you use that for?”, he asked, pointing to my tablet and pencil

“I use it to study”, i replied, at the end of my patience.

Bravely trying to keep up the one sided interaction, he began to tell me about himself, “I’m a medical student in the second year of coll-“

Just then, i interrupted him.

”I’m sorry, but I really have to finish my work. Maybe you can talk to someone else?”.

Even as I was saying them, my jaw clenched and I realised that the words sounded harsher then I had intended.

He looked mortified and crestfallen, immediately getting up.

”I understand. Im really sorry for wasting your time, Goodbye”.

With that, he got up, collected his things and left.

Afterwards

Raman rushed out of the shop, blood pounding in his head, body shivering. All of a sudden he felt a sudden release of pent up emotion, that was welcoming, which was then followed by a wave of indignation. “There was no need for her to be so dismissive. I wasn’t intrusive at all. I was polite and wanted to know about her, that’s all.”

His self esteem was hurting and he had no outlet. He pushed roughly through the crowd of cursing people, emerging on the road outside the market.

“All girls are the same. They only want attention. But, “real human connection”?, Nah, they’re too busy for that”. He bundled himself into the next metro back to college, promising himself to never return to that cafe.

Buried in all that angst, a rational part of him knew that the girls reaction was only smart, considering the dangers of Delhi. She was only looking out for herself. But rationality seldom prevails in young minds

Anjali sat there, stunned, trying to process the emotions. Her mind was more conflicted. Immediately, she felt remorse. “Maybe I was too hard on him. I should have acted more sensitively”. All the same, another part of her was cursing the boldness and thoughtlessness of the approach. “What did he think? I would start chatting to him, a stranger? Just because he approached me? In Delhi? All boys are the same- entitled and self important.” She wrinkled her nose and tried to shut out the remorse. Finally, she got up and left.

She left behind a half empty cup of coffee with the words “Wicked”, sprawled across it, the lower half appearing darker because of the coffee.

Outside, the raindrops began to fall heavily on the bustling streets of Delhi, a city where meet-cutes don’t happen