Books

A Week in Translations: Ghachar Ghochar

an excerpt from…

Vincent is a waiter at Coffee House. It’s called just that – Coffee House. The name hasn’t changed in a hundred years, even if the business has. You can still get a good cup of coffee here, but it’s now a bar and restaurant. Not one of your low-lit bars with people crammed around tables, where you come to suspect that drinking may not after all be a wholesome activity. No, this place is airy, spacious, high-ceilinged. Drinking here only makes you feel cultured, sophisticated. The walls are panelled in wood to shoulder height. Old photographs hang on the sturdy square pillars in the centre of the room, showing you just how beautiful this city was a century ago. The photographs evoke a gentler, more leisurely time, and somehow Coffee House still manages to belong to that world. For instance, you can visit at seven in the evening when it’s busiest, order only a coffee and occupy a table for two hours, and no one there will object. They seem to know – someone who simply sits there for so long must have a thousand wheels spinning in his head. And they know those spinning wheels will not let a person be. Eventually, he’ll be overwhelmed, just like the serene spaces of those photographs that buyers devoured and turned into the cluttered mess we have around us today.

Let all that be – I don’t mean to brood. Returning to this Vincent: he’s a dark, tall fellow, a little over middle age, but strong, without the hint of a belly. He wears a white uniform against which it’s impossible not to notice an extravagant red cummerbund. On his head is a white turban, its tuft sticking out like Krishna’s peacock feather. I can’t help feeling when Vincent is around – serving coffee, pouring beer at a practised angle, betraying the faintest of smiles as a patron affectedly applies knife and fork to a cutlet – that he can take us all in with a single glance. By now I suspect he knows the regulars at Coffee House better than they know themselves.

Once, I came here when I was terribly agitated, and found myself saying out loud as he placed a cup of coffee in front of me: ‘What should I do, Vincent?’ I was mortified and about to apologize when he answered, thoughtfully: ‘Let it go, sir.’ I suppose it might have been a generic response, but something about his manner made me take his words seriously. It was soon after that I abandoned Chitra and whatever there was between us. My life then took a turn that led to marriage. Now, let me not give the impression here that I believe in the supernatural – I don’t. But then, neither do I go hunting for a rational basis for everything that happens.

Today, I’ve been sitting in Coffee House longer than ever before. I’m desperate for a sign of some sort. Part of me longs to speak to Vincent, but I’m holding back – what if his words hint at the one thing I don’t want to hear? It’s afternoon. There are few people around. Directly in my line of sight is a young woman in a blue T-shirt, scribbling something in a notebook. She’s at a table that looks on to the street outside. Two books, a glass of water and a coffee cup sit on the table in front. A lock of hair has drifted on to her cheek as she writes. The girl is here at this time at least thrice a week. Sometimes there’s a young man who joins her for a coffee and they leave together. It’s the same table at which Chitra and I used to meet.

Just as I begin to wonder if her friend will turn up today, I see him at the door. He takes the chair in front of her. My gaze trails away distractedly, then returns to their table with a jerk when I hear shouting. She’s on her feet now, leaning across the table. One hand holds his collar. The other is slapping him across the face. He’s blurting explanations, forearms raised to fend her off. She releases his collar and throws a book at him, then another, all the while screaming abuses that implicate all men. She pauses, eyes darting over the table in rage as if looking for something else to attack him with. He shoves back his chair and flees. She takes the glass of water in front of her and flings it at him. It misses and shatters against the wall. She’s surprisingly calm after he’s gone. She picks up the books and her bag. For a few moments, she sits with her eyes closed, breathing heavily. One of the boys sweeps up the broken glass. Coffee House had fallen silent as the few people present watched the scene unfold. Now the usual murmur resumes. On cue, as if this is all a play, Vincent goes to her table and she raises her head to order something. It appears Vincent already knows her order and has it ready in the wings. A gin and tonic appears on the table suspiciously quickly.

I wave him over as he returns from her table. ‘What happened?’

Someone else in his place might say the couple is breaking up, or speculate that the man has been unfaithful. He might even observe that this is the first time the young woman has ordered a drink here. Not our Vincent. He bends down and says, ‘Sir – one story, many sides.’

harperbroadcast

Recent Posts

Read an Excerpt from ‘The Keeper of Desolation’

Surreal yet gritty, violent yet poetic – such is the world of Chandan Pandey’s fiction.…

7 months ago

Mitali Mukherjee’s Favourite Books

From books on financial frauds to a graphic novel based in Gaza, Mitali Mukherjee reading…

7 months ago

Between the Lines with Mitali Mukherjee

Mitali Mukherjee's chilling and unputdownable new book Crypto Crimes traces the murky underbelly of the…

7 months ago

Mastering Money: Essential Reads in Finance and Business Books

Hey there readers! For today’s blog we have brought you a collection of finance and…

7 months ago

Explore The World of YA Novels Perfect for Teens

Hi readers! In this week’s blog we have some Young Adult recommendations perfect for teens.…

7 months ago

India’s #1 crime writer S. Hussain Zaidi is back with a riveting thriller – The Black Orphan

is proud to announce the release of THE BLACK ORPHAN   Inspired by true events,…

7 months ago