That afternoon, the city burned with the flames of the tormenting summer sun, the people in their minimal, cotton clothes melting through the labor of their day, their scowled faces broke. The blueness of the sky dipped, reaching it's milky hands delicately to the surface of the sea, washing its face to cool down the retreating froth at the seashore. The sound of the rustling, crawling water was balm for the fishermen.
Rustom walked around the crowded tables, greeting and smiling, his now graying mustache covering his dry and cracked lips, his hair tired and busted, and the body seemingly exhausted- with a face so welcoming, so fresh, one could be fooled that this was the happiest day of his life. But it was not. He was always that way, in the coziness of his vocally violent cafe, so perceptive, happy, as if life happened here and only in this building of ragged walls, where every guest that stepped in with dirty shoes and long life knew him dearly.
He chatted and laughed with stomach, walking, and patting backs, continuing to hold a parker pen and tiny, single-lined notepad, twisting, keeping it by his fingers as if he knew where and by whom he had to collect orders of chai or kheema. He walked by the kitchen then, in his small yet pricking strides, and then would holler in the kitchen- Chai! Bun-Maska! And the Maharaj inside would stir, stir, and more, then pour the chai through a thin cloth and into transparent, thick glasses.
After he made sure that every person's table was occupied with some food, he walked towards the old and rusty bookshelf that stood rigid- and straight to a section with small and thin collections of Byron, he picked one up of romantic poetry. He made his way again to his throne behind the counter, where a man was standing with a satisfied stomach, and Rustom collected the money and put them in the drawers. He saw the man put the bill in his pocket and smiled nonchalantly. It reminded Rustom of the time when he was nothing more than Rumi and would work at this very restaurant on salary. Every time he was paid money, how proud he always felt. Owning a full pocket, meant that the pocket-wearer had possessions— secrets lying around with them with a sense of absolute authority.
Before reading, he looked at the crowd again, only to make sure someone wasn't looking for him, and then dipped his head, his neck bending slouchy, eyes narrowing ever so slightly and nose pointing straight towards the book. He read-
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow—
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
-and he sipped his milky tea with a silent slurp, his thin mustache moving with his lips, and his eyes still buried under the words. He read on, unbothered by the growling warmth of the summer dust and, as usual, was lost in the heat of the rhythm instead, the artfully set rhyming words of the romantic Byron. His eyes rattled above the book only for a second- to look over his patient and smiling customers, to make sure nobody needed him at the moment, and he'd obviously walk up to them, not preferably as he did not like any disturbance while he religiously read poetry:
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well—
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met—
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.
He remembered how his wife once told him how much she loved this piece in particular, how she read it for the first time in a textbook, and never forgot a line. She had told him the context- more of a rumor behind it, that Byron had written this for a parted lover, in Greece, where he'd spent his fortune on a young boy, but the boy only pretended to love him for the money, and that whether the lover this poem was written for was a boy or a girl- no one really knew.
The day sank and swirled with the shabby wind of the cracking heat. By the time evening clawed in, the traffic had become noisy. Rumi had told him that he would go home instead of coming to the Cafe today as he wanted to concentrate on his homework. And so, Rustom remained sunken in his chair.
Just then, a gentleman walked into the partly full restaurant, and Rustom recognized the man quickly- with the pale skin, he would recognize this customer in the sea of the Wednesday market. The hair was slightly golden, the face flustered and pale, a shade of light pink torched through the cheeks. It was Charles.
"Rusty!" He chided with affection, and Rustom frowned, not minding to hide his expression, his ears sour from the sound of his name. He plastered a smile, nevertheless.
"Yes! Tea- Coffee, Charles saheb? Tea, milk one?"
"Tea, of course! Rusty, how can I not drink Irani tea?" Charles said and took a seat at the closest chair to Rustom's desk, sitting sideways. "And those biscuits too, eh, those- nanna— butter ones," he said, his eyes squinting, trying to pronounce the name correctly, positively, but upon realizing he'd only make a fool out of himself, he just turned around and pointed at the jars full of it kept far behind him.
"Chotu!" Rustom called out, and a young man, thin and tired, walked out of a corner of the large room, only wearing a torn shirt and striped pair of— shorts? Boxers? with a towel hanging at the side of his shoulder. He dragged his feet with rubbery and worn-out slippers towards the jars and the steel lid of the glass container, picked out a couple of long biscuits and placed them on a tiny saucer. When he kept the saucer on Charles's table, Rustom shooed him and commanded two glasses of chai.
"Hmm.." Charles trailed off, and took a bite of the biscuit and then chewed a little loudly, and continued, his eyes locked on the tiny volume of poetry in Rustom's hands, "You like poetry? Byron?" And then he swallowed and looked at the man he spoke to with a smile.
"Yes," Rustom replied, "Byron's poems. Romantic, very lovely. You read too?"
"Oh, I do! Not Lord Byron, no, but Shakespeare, yes. I do not read too much. I rather like to look around, travel."
"Oh, but books take you around, don't they?" He said and then turned a little to turn on the fan that hung from the ceiling, and when he did push the switch, he looked up to check the speed, his chin rising high in the air and forehead dipping lower, and when he thought the breeze was enough, not as much to make the tea cold, he looked back at his customer.
"Rusty—! How far can books really take you?" And then paused for a moment when Chotu came and served tea in thick glasses. Then he went on, "With books, it's all in your head," and he made his point by tapping his index finger to his temple. "I strongly believe that if one wants to understand the world, one has to travel— to see what lies afar. Especially when one is young, eh!" And then he sipped his tea and said, "It is never too late to see the world."
Rustom never knew him, and they almost never spoke, which if they did, it was never about themselves. But he felt those words from Charles directed towards him. And he felt aggravated. All his life, when Rustom had nothing, he only looked at books as a company. His companionships lied in characters from stories that traveled or stayed back, but that told him life was too real, and in some cases, unlivable. Life was a vile creature, so loud, so powerful, that he felt himself shrink in silence, tired and no longer alive.
He looked at Charles with disgust and distrust now. Who is he to come to my place and talk about my beliefs, my life? So child-minded! What about responsibilities? He didn't want to talk anymore, his tea getting colder by the minute, his nose flaring, and mind uncomfortable. But he couldn't ignore; it wasn't what he was taught. His father's words rang in his head— Customer is God!
He cleared his throat and straightened his frown then. He thought and adjusted his words carefully.
"But how far can someone go? One can only go so far before life gives in to its restraints. Why bother to go around the world when the world fits into your hands so perfectly?" And he shook the book in his hand to flaunt, to indicate.
"But Rustom," Charles said now, with a heavy voice, and Rustom looked at him with seriousness, because he barely ever called out his whole name properly, "the world is so beautiful, really. One only needs to look."
Charles's words began to feel like a diatribe, and it began to feel directed to Rustom. He licked his dry lips, and then reached under his pant-pockets and pulled out a cigarette box and a matchbox, lighting one and blew streams of smoke through his nostrils. He didn't like smoking inside the restaurant as people would protest, but there was no other shadow there except his and Charles's, and all these talks had begun giving him whiplash.
He looked lost for a moment, and let his tea remain where it was, while his customer sipped soundly, and munched satisfyingly on the table. He smoked again and again in a rhythm until the cigarette reduced to the size of a small pencil-battery.
His voice dropped to a reasonable tone. "But... but what about responsibilities? Family? Wife— children?" His voice dropped so low, it felt like it cracked and sounded as if he'd crumble himself the next moment, but he didn't.
What Rustom didn't see was that Charles had suddenly frozen. He just sat there; mouth gaped to sink his teeth in a now sunken bite of biscuit, the tea in his hand- off the table and eyes lost. The silence grew, dipped, and spread like sand around— bits in corners. None of them realized it. But just sat there, recklessly lost in their thoughts.
"What if these things happen to you— unwanted as they may be?" Rustom shrugged and puffed then and put out the large line of wasted ashes.
Charles chowed on the remaining biscuit and then drank plenty, downing the warm drink in a gulp. His empty fist then clenched, knuckles turned white and the fingers knitting themselves into each other where hair grew in tufts— small and bright brown. An involuntary sound escaped his mouth— of discomfort and disapproval and he didn't justify it by not interpreting. He suddenly felt burdened by the conversation that he didn't want to go on any longer. An empty lump formed inside his chest, and it spiraled into a large ball and then began pumping in size. He felt uneasy and quickly got up, startling Rustom and putting a couple of coins on the counter.
When he turned to flee he saw another customer walk in and he greeted Rustom.
"Kem cho, bhai?"
"Aavo! Come! Kem cho, kem cho?"
Charles walked past the old, known customer and down the steep cement-stairs and then onto his way home, while the sun set in the sullen murk of dried ashes.