Coffee and Cigarettes

She occupied the seat by the window, in the far corner of the restaurant. Although, to be honest, both 'occupied' and 'restaurant' would be a rather deceptive choice of words. Her petite, nervous frame barely took up any of the ample space offered by the large, tattered sofa; and this place - with its mildewed walls and crooked picture frames - could hardly be called a restaurant.

Her appearance was, in a word, careless. Her choice of clothing was a haphazard assembly. Her hair was seemingly reluctantly held in place by a pencil struck through the loose bun of curls at the nape of her neck. The fingers of one hand absentmindedly fidgeted with the fraying edge of the tablecloth. The watery coffee, long cold, stood at the forlorn edge of the table; It was merely an excuse to remain seated and keep the nosy waiters and their questions at bay.

She scribbled on the menu card, each doodle flirting with the idea of completion, of being more than a half finished sketch of the coffee cup or the curtains or the lonely old owner of the restaurant…but no. She never could finish what she started.

Behind the glazed over eyes, her mind reeled with questions. "How could I let this happen? How did I stray so far away from everything I wanted? When did I become this person? "

The door creaked open to let in a young man, handsome and impeccably dressed. He paused for a moment and took in his surroundings, but he was far too polite to let what he thought of the place flash across his face for more than a split second. He decidedly made his way to the seat by the window, in the far corner of the restaurant. He unbuttoned his expensive blazer - finest Italian cut, no doubt - and took a seat opposite her. After a cursory glance at the menu, he ordered an espresso (strong, please) and a tossed salad (dressing on the side, no tomatoes, thank you). He unfolded a newspaper and made his way through the developments of the day. Front page, local news, business, international, skipped the comics, and ended with sports. He drank his lukewarm and weak coffee in silence. He picked at the salad for a few minutes before asking for the cheque.

He deposited the money for his meal along with what most would deem a generous tip, thanked the waiters and promised to visit again, buttoned his blazer and made his way out onto the street. After the appropriate amount of time and hesitation, she followed. A chauffeur driven car pulled up to the curb. He held the door open for her, and she got in.

"Lovely weather," he said, after a few minutes.
"It is", came the stony reply.
"You know it took me over 4 hours to find you? We looked everywhere. The servants have interrogated every shopkeeper on the high street about your whereabouts. We even called your father."
"Hmmm."
"I should have known to look for you here. Darling, I know it's a quaint little place and special to you…I only remember it because it's where I first met you - to discuss having your paintings on show at the gallery…but it is not somewhere a lady of your standing should be seen! You are no more the poor artist, you are the gallery owner's wife! It is not befitting of you to be seen in the places you used to haunt when you could afford no better! Now, for heaven's sake, get out of those old clothes - the servants have picked up your dress for the ball tonight, but you need to call mother about the flower arrangements…."

She looked out the window.
"How could I let this happen? How did I stray so far away from everything I wanted? When did I become this person? "

Nana & Nani

My memories of this place are safe in the bubble wrap of time and distance. In my eyes there are no cracks in the crown moulding, the yellowing paint is white, the now threadbare rug is still plush, the fraying lace curtains look no less decadent than they did 15 years ago and I still hear the cuckoo clock that nobody has found the time to wind. Most of all, my grandparents are still young.

My feet skip nimbly over the slew of medical paraphernalia attached to their big comfortable bed when I land myself squarely in the middle of it. My eyes somehow glaze over the mountains of prescriptions littering the bedside table. My mind pretends not to notice how their hands tremble when I hold them in mine.

Until this year's visit, I was scared. Petrified. I refused to acknowledge it. Nothing was taking them away from me, especially not this proletarian concept of Old Age. But life has a funny way of trapping you in a tiny room with your worst fears until the two of you talk things out and part ways with a mutual respect. So they both fell ill. Unreasonably ill. Why? Not because they weren't eating all their vegetables, not because they'd smoked themselves into cancer, not because of any fault or neglect on their part. Just because they were old.

So this year, I saw them as they were - tissue-paper skin, porcelain bones, salt and pepper hair. They weren't all that different. I'm not claiming that they have maintained the same mental and physical agility - but they are the same on the inside. They are not blighted with bitterness - there is no vitriol in their speaking or thinking.

What does it matter that my grandfather now has to lie down while playing teen pati with me, what does it matter that my grandmother forgets that story of Krishna and the Gopis half way, what does it matter that they now tire after walks around the house rather than walks around the building. What matters is that they still love us, they still want to do all these things with us.

If I ever do get to being old, that's how I want to do it. Fighting what I can but accepting what I must.