Through the gloom
Oopss!
It was already 4:30 pm.
I was getting late, and above that, the climate didn’t seem to be in my favour. Gloomy clouds roamed over me with little flashes of lightning—it was going to rain.
Devil spoke… it was pouring.
Midway to my destination, I stood motionless in a deserted side street, peeking through side eyes but finding nowhere to cover my head from getting soaked.
My whole clothes got drenched, and the V-shaped bra line was clearly visible through my black t-shirt. Moreover, a vintage model Everose gold Rolex watch with diamond gemstones over the round bezel and side of the strap, which had cost an arm and a leg, also got soaked.
Water droplets hitting my face clung to my spectacles, making me almost blind.
Far away, I caught a glimpse of warm amber light through the waterlogged specs and the giggling of people.
I started following the light and the giggling; as I approached, the sound became loud and clear.
Finally, I found a dhaba giving vibes of the 1990s, occupying a small space where people sat cosily on chairs in the dark background, with vibrant yellow candlelight, a cup of tea with aloo pakoda, and cards on the table giving an authentic inviting atmosphere.
At the corner, there was a kitchen counter where a middle-aged man in a brown kurta and dhoti with a red turban on his head hummed some melody while pouring tea into a transparent single-layered glass cup. The tea seemed perfectly brewed by its reddish-brown colour, and the spicy aroma with lemony notes of coriander and cinnamon fragranced the whole environment.
A lady in Rajasthani attire, wearing a colourful chanya choli and big bangles on her arms and hands, offered me a tissue and a towel to wipe my face and drenched clothes.
I pulled out a chair at the front row, which was vacant.
People took a glimpse at me and again got busy with their work. I took my place.
The lady came with a lighter and lit the candle on my table. Just beside my table, a portable large wireless FM radio was placed on which a song was broadcasting in channel 97.7 in remainder of someone's love.
The rain pitter-pattered on the roof of stainless whitish-green steel, rolling down and making soft drip-drop plink sounds when colliding with water collected in the roadside ditch.
Some kids tried to float paper boats in the water of the roadside ditch, made from Mahajan accountant books, giggling and checking with bright eyes in their innocence.
I wrapped my hands around my own body in support of the table and assured myself, "Sometimes going slow is the best choice rather than hurrying." Fifteen minutes ago, I had been running on the road in slingback peep-toe stiletto-heeled sandals and a Persian-coloured Zouk canvas with abstract design on a shrugging shoulder, trying to grasp air for breath so I could reach my destination in time.
But now, sitting cosily in a dhaba and enjoying this magical breeze full of affection and tenderness, I felt at peace.
Suddenly, a man in his early thirties, about 6 feet tall, moderately built, wearing a white loose t-shirt and black cargo pants, stepped into the dhaba. His clogs were muddy, and he tried to wash them with rainwater but was obscuring my view.
"Hey mister, please move, you are blocking my view," I said.
Oopss! It had been too loud. People again glanced at me.
I apologized for my impulsiveness, and people got back to their own world. I moved back to him.
The yellow light of the flame radiating from the side gas stove glowed on his face and body. It had been a downpour. His hair and clothes were plastered, and I could see through his clothing.
He was approaching me, but my eyes stuck to his body—his prominent pack, wait, maybe six; his bulging chest and black firm nipples poking his t-shirt, his long slender neck with a prominent Adam’s apple, a long silver chain with an embroidered rectangular locket around his neck, and a V-shaped sharp jawline.
Was I drooling over him?
Wait.
In a second, he was standing in front of me.
He was big and had broad shoulders.
He bent down; his face was 1 cm away from mine. The light from the candle on the table illuminated his face.
The center of attraction was his almond-shaped eyes with a dazzling gaze, sparkling like the white sea in morning sunlight, radiating crystalline black opal-like pupils, holding the innocence of a child giggling and the softness of rose petals. His bushy black eyebrows and pinkish plump heart-shaped lips with a little crack seemed like a Greek god.
He moved a little forward toward my ear and whispered in his low husky voice, "Hey miss! Take a deep breath; you are turning blue.
I literally forgot to breathe, grasped for air, and my heart pounded too fast; my ears turned red.
He pulled out a chair and sat in front of me.
"By the way, what were you looking at, miss?" he said, looking away toward the child playing in the rain, but I was still stuck on his long neck and sharp jawline.
"Stop looking at me with that fond eye," he said, slowly turning toward me.
I looked down and muttered, "Why do I always end up in awkward situations?" But I noticed a glimpse of a smile lifting his cheek from my side eye. He ordered two cups of special tea.
Now there was pin-drop silence between us. He had closed his eyes, humming a melody, and gently patted his hand on the table with the flow of the tune. I tried to divert my mind from him and focused on Mahajan, who picked up a rose from the kitchen garden at the side of the dhaba, put it in boiling water for a few minutes, synchronously placed a kettle over the low flame, poured milk, and added some water. Then he added a mixture of tea masala along with rose petals. After a minute, a sweet fruity spicy aroma of tea began to spread in the atmosphere.
Mahajan poured tea into glass cups and served our table. He opened his eyes and said, "Thank you, Mahajan."
"Here’s your special tea, Miss. Don’t worry, it’s on me," he said.
"Oh, thanks," I uttered, encircling my finger around the mouth of the glass cup.
"By the way, I am Elodie."
"Elodie Shetty," he whispered, looking down. I got stunned by his words, looking at him with questioning eyes. Again, taking a sip of tea, he said, "Elodie Shetty, Chief Accountant of State Bank of India."
I got confused and then realized it was about the batch hanging on my t-shirt.
"By the way, what’s your name?" I asked.
He interrupted and asked, "Mahajan, did you forget to add sugar?"
"It’s plain tea," Mahajan said. A lady served a sugar cube on the table along with tongs and two spoons and moved back to her work.
He opened the lid of the container, held a sugar cube with tongs, and asked, "You want?" I nodded my head.
"How many? One or two?"
"Two," I said. I grasped the spoon to blend my tea, but the spoon slipped from my hand. I bent down to pick it up and bumped my head on the corner of the table. Ouch! It hurt.
He stretched out his long, slender, veiny arm toward me in concern and said, "Are you okay?" But in reflex, I withdrew my head back and replied, "I am fine."
He grabbed my tea glass and started blending it with his spoon. His long fingers caught my sight, and a watch—same Everose gold vintage Rolex—on his right hand. He again said, "Stop watching me," while stirring the tea. I turned red and darted my eyes around the dhaba.
"Your tea, Miss Shetty," he said. I brought the glass of tea to my nose; the aroma was so fruity and refreshing. I took a sip; it tasted aromatic, with high flavours of ginger, coriander, cinnamon, and black pepper, giving sweetness and spicy notes.
"Your pupils dilated and face seemed to be more relaxed; it means the tea tastes good," he said.
"Yes! It tastes so good," I replied, staring at him. He avoided my gaze and blew a whistle in my direction thrice.
A golden retriever with a red fabric leash around its neck and long, wavy golden-brown fur appeared from the back door of the dhaba and came straight to him, jumping over his body and licking his face.
"Stop, buddy! Stop," he said. The dog sat in front of him with its tongue sticking out. He stood from the chair and moved toward the kitchen counter, grabbed two eggs from the egg crate placed on the counter, cracked them into a silvery-white dog bowl placed at the side of the kitchen garden.
"Bunny, come," he said, making a hand sign. The dog jumped fondly over him and enjoyed his dish. He gently stroked his back and ear while the dog wiggled its tail side to side, slurping eggs from the bowl.
I watched his gleeful smile playing across his lips while sipping tea.
"This was the second-last song, and there was a break before the last one. Anyone interested in making a request was free to do so," the radio host announced. On the break, news about the ongoing protest of taxi drivers was broadcast. I took out my mobile phone from my canvas bag and sent an SMS.
After a minute, the radio host announced the last song, requested by Ms. Elodie Shetty in reminiscence of her first cup of tea with a stranger. He paused, glanced over at me, and moved straight toward me.
"It’s you, Miss Shetty, isn’t it?"
I nodded while taking the last sip of tea. He bent down and moved close to my ear.
"Strangers are the scariest; be aware, little princess," he said in a soft, low hunky voice. A chill of fear rushed over my spine, giving me goosebumps. Then he gently patted my head and went toward the kitchen counter to pay the bill. During this, a microchip fell from his side pocket.
It was still downpouring, but he started his Yezdi Roadster, black and red, parked across the street, and disappeared into the thick fog. I could only hear the vroom of the bike engine and the “whoff whooff” of Bunny. I put the microchip in my canvas side pocket and waited for the rain to stop.
