What do you observe when you first pass through a small café? Some collage girls giggling, boys in their flannels and soccer caps roaring with laughter remembering one of their teammate's foolish deed, some men putting in their last cigar they might be having for the last time on that day which they bought from the savings of their retirement money. I would say the coffee drinkers are mild in nature but strong eventually, just like coffee – warm to feel, strong to drink. Anyhow, there were colors too. Colors of coffee, colors of nail polish, colors of coffee mugs, colors of colors. But our dear, Harry was not in mood for colors. He wanted something to make his pen run out of ink. He wanted a flower to paste in his journal, a book to cherish, a lamp to light him and in all these he wanted a muse.
Our Harry, himself had a striking appearance. His features included – green eyes, soft curly hairs of chestnut color (Ah! We are back to colors.), not-so-manly lips and a voice every woman wants to hear even when she puts the paste on her toothbrush at morning to dusting off the all day's dust from her shoulder at night. Basically, he was a neat handsome man of not more than twenty-three. Indeed he turned twenty-three last month. During a timely expedition, I had once asked him.
"Harry, do you mind if I get a girl for the gathering at my place for you?"
He had simply shaken his head and replied to me.
"I hope you succeed. But fairly, there are least possibilities that I might not skip it."
I was astounded at this reply and I remember that I had given him a nice smack over his broad shoulder.
Now going away and coming back to the café, I want you people to tell a story. No, I don't want to hear yours obviously because I know this perfectly that after hearing about this friend of mine, you have already created a visual image in your inner mind and have sparked some romantic thought. Today, I am going to deal with a story and this of course includes our and your Romeo, Harry – who rather seeks Jane Eyre than Juliet.
It was a summer day and I would say, it was a wild summer of sweats and smells. Going through the busy crowd was like walking through a zoo, where each species has different smell. Harry, my friend had a brilliant mind and on that day a thought popped in his mind where he was determined to find his muse.
He walked out of his quiet home and started walking towards our infamous café. He was a determined writer, you see and a poet in himself. As he crossed the door of the café Miss Yardly, a woman of forty rushed to him, telling how long it has been since she last saw him. Now, this Miss Yardly had been married thrice and every time it has ended on a sad note. At last she started working in this café as a head server and instructor, a recent post she has withhold, leaving her dream for fourth husband but she had a son like feeling for Harry as she sometimes tells that if she only had a child, she would have love to have Harry as her son.
Harry smiled and gave a side hug. Pulling away from her, he made himself sit at a table. Suddenly, as he started pulling off his jacket and taking out his journal in the process, he noticed something. Something similar to purple colored silk lay near his feet. Not intending to destroy the material, he leaned down and picked up the material. Upon holding the material, he discovered it as a scarf. A beautifully dome embroidery was there in it with silk texture. It was seriously a sight. At once, Harry felt a strong connection to this scarf; he took the scarf in a fist and shoved it in his pocket. Now he knew, this was wrong – it was some way related to stealing. He thought if next day the owner of this scarf come over and asks for it, what the situation would be like. He felt guilty but not much guilty of leaving the scarf as it was – under the chair.
