coffeecats - by subroto mukerji

8/9/2019 Coffeecats - By Subroto Mukerji

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Coffeecatsby SubrotoMukerji

If you ask me, there is no lower feeling than being an out-of-work writer with a yen for coffee but only fifteen rupees in onespocket. Id been there before, and I knew what to do. I headed straightfor the Madras Coffee House, where a cup of genuine (none of thatyucky instant stuff, or the fancy-flavoured, frothy Espresso they serveyou at Barista while neatly scalping you for fifty bucks) brewed coffeecosts exactly fifteen rupees, they dont kick up a ruckus if you smoke acigarette or two, and a single unaccompanied woman doesnt attractthe unwelcome attentions of any of Delhis perennially-prowling,predatory males...for the simple reason that they give the place aclean avoid. Theres a bouncer, you see, which is a massive point in its

favour.

Fifteen bucks may not be the national lottery BumperPrize, but fifteen bucks is fifteen bucks to the near-broke, though in CP(Connaught Place, New Delhi to the uninitiated) especially, it doesntget you very far. Maybe a couple of oranges from a pavementhawker...or the coffee I was telling you about.

Apparently, a fair section of the coffee-swilling populace ofDelhi with the requisite amount of currency in their pockets had gotthe same idea, for when I reached the joint, the dimly-lit, rectangular

room with its atmosphere of better times that clung to it like grimeabout fifty feet by twenty-two feet, give or take a footit was awashwith coffee drinkers. I couldnt spot a single vacant seat.

Just fools luck, mind you, but as I stood there lookinghelpless, the couple at the table right next to me got up to leave, andwith a sigh of satisfaction, I slid smoothly into one of the three chairsavailable, the fourth having been commandeered by a very vocalgroup at the adjoining table.

It was inevitable that, sooner or later, one or two peoplewould join me at my coffee, and I steeled myself to be courteous tothem by politely ignoring them or pretending they didnt exist (whichamounts to the same thing). I sort of dislike quaffing my coffee withstrangers goggling at me and mentally counting the many spoonfuls ofsugar I add to my cup. Im very defensive about my sweet tooth, Iguess, and though I aint The Fly by a long chalk, three or four spoonsof white crystalline dont seem to me as if Im heading for diabetes,and the management havent objected so far, either, so whos tojudge?

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And any wisecracks about my waistline gets you a bustedtooth, see? Its still only twenty-eight inches, and Im not in a veryexalted frame of mind right now despite that, which Im sure yourealise by now.

I fished my compact out of my bag with some difficultythe darn thing had hidden itself in the folds of the imitation-sandalwood folding fan Rohan had given me last year when we wereseeing each otherand gave my nose a quick pat or two with thepowder-puff, right out there in the hall where I sat. If youve seen theloo in the place, youd understand why. Then I deftly added a quickswipe of gloss to my lips, anyway the lipstick was genuine YardleyKissproof and wouldnt leave any residual smudges on my cup forthe waiter to fantasize over. Not that I cared tuppence...any man whohas the stamina and forbearance to work as a waiter in a coffee housedeserves his kicks, no matter how kinky.

I was putting the make-up stuff back in my bag when afemale sat down at my table without so much as a by-your-leave...which suited me just fine. She was lean though well set up, andabout fortyish (meaning she was more than ten years my senior). Shedidnt look it, I had to admit, but Im always glad to concede anadvantage in years if not in looks. Next to dust, Time is a womansworst enemy.

She wasnt too bad looking, actually, but she had thisunhealthy pallor that often goes with too much boiled cauliflower curry

and too little sunshine. I think her frame was meant to be a littlemeatier, if you get the drift. As things stood, she was heading foranorexia, which was the real reason why I was actually thoroughlypissed with her the moment I saw her. I cant stand people who arethin by cosmic diktat coupled with fanatical dieting. Its not fair, see,when there are people like me who cant workout but love chocolatefudge and black forest pastries as much as the next woman; but I justhave to glance at confectionary to add five pounds at the hips. Walkingpast Wengers drives me dotty, homicidal even.

She had bags under her eyes, however, to compensate for

the unfair advantage, but nothing that eight hours of solid sleep and acouple of slices of cucumber left on her eyes overnight wouldnt fix. Itlooked as if she was worried about something, which is as good areason for insomnia as any. Otherwise, she was the average fairly well-to-do New Delhi working woman on the lookout for Mr. Right (oh, yes,us women always know).

Shed had one or two near misses, I could tell, though Ididnt think the experience had slowed her down appreciably. On the

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contrary, theyd probably made her even more desperate to connect:the pale, shallow indentation where the ring had been on her ringfinger told its own story. Well, I didnt blame her for wanting to catchher man quickly: fortyish is cutting it mighty fine, no matter how wellone has maintained herself. It would probably be her last catch, ifshe

managed to pull it off at all. I didnt rate her chances too highly,though. Most Indian men prefer more flesh on the bones.

She glanced at her wrist (bony, no bangles, Titan gold-plated day-date chronometer, about two thousand bucks), and eyedthe door impatiently. She ignored me totally; apparently she hadntgotten round to slumming yet. I could sense I was very much beneaththe kind of circles she moved in, which would be upper-middle classsuburbia, probably a flat she shared with her parents, a car, a pet, andsome potted petunias. Then she was waving her handkerchiefdiscreetly, and she half rose to put a languid hand on the shoulder of

another as they touched cheeks in the ritualistic peace greetingglobalized by New Yorkers and smooched the air around each othersearlobes as insincerely as possible before sitting down.

I was curious to study what the other half of the twosomelooked like, but she hadnt noticed me either. The new addition was just as blind as her friend to the presence of the hoi polloi, whichdefinitely included me. I admit I stared, but it was no crime since I wasobviously made of glass, rendered transparent by my lowly station inlife and attendant penury. Well, thats always been an advantage for

me, in many ways, seeing that ushers at film festivals never notice mewhen I sneak past them to poach a seat for myself in the stalls. And ifone of the glitterati asks me, by some hideous case of mistakenidentity, as to what I do for a living, I just say Im into penury, and theynod their heads sagely and turn away satisfied, as if theyre sure that ithas something to do with penmanship. Handy word, that...and le motjuste for a writer.

The new arrival was in Delhi after twenty years, shementioned (and I overheard, since I couldnt help but eavesdrop), asthe old school and college chums warmed to the ordeal of catching up

with each others lives. The second woman was vaguely female, short,plump, fair of skin, and she wore contact lenses and favoured Mystiqueby Dior, a perfume I wouldnt be caught dead wearing in a coffeehouse. Dont ask me how I know so much about perfumes: Im good atthese things, even though my rent is overdue and I havent usedCharlie for years.

She was expensively dressed in what appeared to be asecond-evening-out silk sari that had enough gold embroidery

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embedded in it to sink the Titanic, and the heavy mangal-sutra aroundher ample neck, and the four rows of gold bangles on each pudgy armwould have further ensured that she reached the bottom far ahead ofthe bows. Her avoirdupois made me feel better, but her obviousaffluence neutralized that, leaving me feeling all shaken and stirred

inside with nowhere to bond.

I could sense my low feeling trying to crouch even lower asI discerned the beginnings of a headache. Gold did that to me withunfailing regularity, laying me lower than a Kryptonite-zappedSupergirl. If the gold was on someone else, that is...which it usuallywas. The closer it is to me, the worse the effect. Im mass over volumeequals density, and the good old inverse-square law jolly well appliesto me, too. Gold does have this kind of effect on women who donthave much of it. Hey! I do have a chain, but its worn so thin that Implanning to pawn it. I need the cash.

Inevitably, the talk got around to their love lives, the usualtechnical and statistical stuff.... Women are so much more comfortablediscussing the details of their amorous activities among their own kindthan men are, dont you think? I like to believe this is because we areless guilt-ridden about our bodies and their natural functions than men.We dont have their hang-ups; we have a more honest and realisticapproach to such things.

The conversation drifted into the rarified atmosphere offinance. The first woman (Aasha) claimed she wasnt exactly rich but

her young, virile and handsome husband more than made up for that.Bishan (as he was named) was a great home-lover who often did thecooking and the dishes, and even took the garbage out.

Sudha (the pudgy one) returned serve with a deft lob tothe baseline. The servants did all the housework in herhouse. Sudhirwas so considerate: he always phoned whenever he was going to belate at office (which was very frequent: he was Head of Operations atMercantile and United Bank), and always sent the car over to pick herup so that they could go dine at the club and play a few rubbers ofbridge. Why, last October, hed lost ten thousand rupees cash at

Delhis Gymkhana Club playing poker, but had bought her a diamondpendant as a token of his guilt at his extravagance.

Aasha matched the lob with another baseline lob,admitting that Bishan wasnt very high in his firms hierarchy, but whatthe heck, he was so young; there was so much time left to climb thecorporate ladder, like Sudhir had done before him. First blood had beendrawn.

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Sudha frowned and coloured. Charging the ball, shevolleyed to the vacant forecourt, fast and deadly.

I know Sudhir is eighteen years my senior, but hes asactive as a man half his age. Why, he still has all his own hair and

teeth, hes very successful, and hes so slim and handsome. After all,he has a daily workout and massageperks of the jobat the gym inthe Oberoi at Nariman Point. Only Gold Card members are allowed in,you know, Aasha, she purred triumphantly.

Aasha returned with a backhanded topspin, coaxing theball low over the net. Of course, Sudha. An older man can sometimesbe so much more enjoyable. After all, hes more experienced. Thatswhy they are such wonderful lovers...but often a little stressed out.Even if hes rich, a man needs a change of scene now and then to keephim in top shape! Anyway, why worry about all that stuff. No matter

what, youve got it made!

Sudha sniffed, somewhat mollified, content to shuffle outand hit the ball back ambivalently back to centre-court. She couldntget what Aasha meant, but it had a ring of insincerity to it. Herantennae were quivering, and there was adrenaline on the way.

Aasha moved smoothly into position for the down-the-linebackhand passing shot, her favourite. Now take my Bishan...hesthree years younger than me! I had to teach him everything! He issuch a buddhu! She giggled, and blushed incompetently. Her coyness

was designed to be excruciatingly off-putting.

Can you imagine the embarrassment, Sudha, when wehave to fill in application forms and hotel registers and railwayreservations and stuff like that? The clerks all give you the glad eye,knowing youre well looked after...if you get my meaning! she addedwith a sly wink as the ball whistled off the catgut.

Sudha failed to address the ball competently, and turnedfrosty again.

Age is only a feeling in the mind, Aasha. Id rather have amature lover than a wet-behind-the ears greenhorn to put through hispaces, I really would. And being rich has its compensations...Yes, itsgreat to have a rich man around to pick up the tabs. Youll know whenyour turn comes and Bishan makes his pilewhich, I hope, will besooner rather than later. Which reminds me... lets order. She wascontent with deuce. It rhymes with truce, too.

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Whatll you have? The treats on me!

No way, Sudha! insisted Aasha. I asked you to meetwith me here, and Im lifting the check, darling! It was turning out tobe an entertaining rally.

Oh, well, have it your way, conceded Sudha. By thelooks of the place, we could stuff ourselves on a mere hundred bucks.Good shot! Advantage Sudha!

It was Aashas turn to colour, but she served well,practically an ace. Tasty grub they serve here, and I remember yourlove for genuine south-Indian food. I didnt pick the place because ofthe prices on the menu, dear lady. She always made someone dearwhen that someone was particularly un-dear at the moment. Besides,south Indian fare is good for the figure! Shed put everything she had

into that serve. It turned out to be an ace, the ball thudding dully intothe blue canvas backdrop. Deuce again.

The cheek of this nouveau riche gold-digging bitch, shethought to herself, trying to get snooty with her, when she knew jollywell that during her college days, shed have given an arm and a legfor a chance to pig out at the Coffee House. And as for that rich manshed hooked, one wondered exactly what bait shed used. Shecurrently looked like a lump of lard left over from last nights sausage-fest, and it wasnt as if she was overflowing with gray matter oranything like that, by way of compensation...

Sudha preened inwardly. She was holding her own againstthe local champion. Imagine the gall of this skinny, jaded, middle-classhussy, trying to compare herself with someone higher in the peckingorder. She, Sudha, had put her firmly in place. As if ones husbandsage or possible infidelities were of any real consequence.

In the final reckoning, all that mattered was ones bankbalance and status in society, a l the Clintons. Such a pity: thesethings were so far beyond Aashas reach that she failed to appreciatetheir importance.

I could practically read the unspoken thoughts as theyhung silently in the air around the table, like the thought balloons yousee in the Sunday supplement funnies. I could have chopped up theatmosphere with a meat cleaver, it was thatthick. It felt greatto havea grandstand seat. The tension between the two women was palpable.

Why, I didnt wonder. Thats the way it always is, secretly,between women. We never have any real friends of the same sex: at acellular level, its invariably a scrap to the death, irrespective of how

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deep the (discernible) surface layers extend. Its an ancient oestrogen-driven thing, and theres no point in sweeping it under the carpet.

They munched their way sullenly through a masala dosaand a plate of idlis apiece with commendable dedication, eating

delicately with knives and forks, like genteel folk do. Conversation was,for the nonce, suspended. A wedding band now gleamed on Aashasfinger, I observed. I wondered when shed slipped it on. Shed probablydone it surreptitiously when her friend entered the coffee house.

At last, replete with good food, a comradely warmth ofsorts stealing over them as they contemplated the cups of coffeebefore them, they appeared to call off the engagement, tacitlyagreeing to a draw. Dont ask me how I knew: I just did.

The Press gave Aasha an honourable mention for lifting the

tab, and by way of magnanimity, she invited Sudha over to Delhiagain. Sudha responded gallantly by giving her Sudhirs cellphonenumber in case her own handset was switched off and an urgentmessage had to be conveyed.

Aasha lingered on, saying she was expecting a colleague,so Sudha upended her bag, located her make-up kit, repaired thepaintwork, carelessly swept the cornucopia of visual delights that werethe contents of her voluminous bag into its open maw, pulled the ziphalf closed, got up, wished her friend an airy goodbye, and left thecourt. I noticed she waddled as she exited the room, dropping a card

as she negotiated the door.

After a few moments, Aasha withdrew her cellphone fromher bag and dialed a number. With a sudden flash of insight, I knewwho it was that she was calling. I admit I was an intentionaleavesdropper by now. The human drama always appealed to thereporter in me. This hunch was pure intuition...and right on target.

Sudhir? Hi, baby! Aasha! Guess who I had lunch with mejust a minute ago! No?...Well, brace yourself...it was your wife! Whydidnt you ever tell me Sudha is your wife? Listen, we two go way, way

back...Yeah, school andcollege! Small world, isnt it? You could haveknocked me down with a feather when she started talking aboutyou.....Yeah, you said it: ate me out of house and home, too! How doyou put up with her?.....Kitne behude harkatein hai uske...Why, thatsawfullysweet of you, honey, I know how much I mean to you....

Missing you? Darling, ofcourse Im missing you. Im simplydying to see you again, ASAP! To see you ... and love you! Kab miloge?Youre what? Whats DTFYT? What kind of daft acronym is that? ...Oh,

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I see! Ha Ha, I should have guessed! Naughty naughty! ...... Kya kahatoonein? Youve what..?! But thats not just extravagant, thatsobscenely extravagant! A diamond necklace! ...... Dyou know, sheactually boastedabout your dropping ten thousand at a poker game,last October. Shell never guess where you reallylost it, tee hee!

*

Never have fifteen rupeeseither before or sincegivenme such excellent mileage. I paid my bill and left, impulsively pickingup the card that was still lying unnoticed on the doormat where Sudhahad dropped it. It was Sudhirs, of course.

Overwhelmed by weltschmertz, I slowly made my wayhome, feeling as if life was passing me by. It was just a game ofnumbers, like the fabled satta of Mumbai. Everywhere I turned, Life

seemed to be all about cards with numbers on them. When the onewithyournumber on it came up...

On an impulse, I memorized the digits on Sudhirs cardbefore tearing it to shreds. Who knows when or whyI might need to goto Mumbai. To clinch a Match Point, perhaps?

Subroto Mukerji

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coffeecats - by subroto mukerji

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