Coffee & Crosswords

For a long time Mak considered the world he co-habited a madhouse, and himself its protagonist, villain and the court jester, all locked in one. One persona, different personalities. For years he thought that he inhabits a world within the mad house that he is different, born in the wrong era. No, he didn’t consider himself to be a perfect man, rather far from it. He was happy in his world and not so happy in the madhouse. But he never complained, realizing that for the existence of his being it’s important to have both the shades of life: white and black, for he enjoyed treading the grey. Grey, yes, that was the color of his present rainbow, a rainbow with different shades of grey, a rainbow, which like a chameleon has changed its colors with different seasons of his life. Sometimes these days this rainbow looked no different from the smoke coming out of the endless cigarette ends dangling between his fingers. With every cigarette he thought that he will cover the black with grey-white smoke. But then isn’t white combines all the colors of a rainbow?

One afternoon, he was sitting cross-legged, reclining back on the wooden chair at Barista. As usual, he had ordered a ‘bristtaa Frappe with chocolate sauce’ and a ‘smoked chicken sandwich. Over the years he had just ordered the same for the fear of trying something different and ruining the taste. He sits in the middle section, not that it is his most favored seating position. Though he avoids sitting in the corners as it makes him feel that the madhouse is closing up on him, encroaching his world. Yes, he loves and fiercely guards his space. Today he is half pensive, half dreaming, lost as they say. He’s in between his random, jumbled thoughts and observing people around at the same time. This is his lab. His subjects perform experiments on their own without him initiating them or acting as a catalyst. They are nothing but muted distractions, subdued, gentle yet harsh, as if not knowing, just like an insect to the burning fire. But will they continue to exist like this, forever?

Out of blue, he hears a distant sound, someone calling over and over again, Mak…Maak…MAK! He’s back from his reverie and realizes that the coffee stewardess is calling his name, as his order is ready. He clumsily gets up, half knocking the table, and walks down, still dreaming to the counter to get his food tray. He checks the contents of the tray, returns back the sugar sachets and asks for serviettes. Every time he has to explain there what serviette means as he make a mental note like all previous times to ask for tissues. He waits, a bit annoyed, and still he thanks honestly. Once seated at the table, he stirs the coffee, looking vacantly, aimlessly outside the glass wall, only to see the curtain of dark drops drumming on the ground. He sees nothing, his mind blank, or was it?

Then suddenly he gets up, goes to the newspaper rank and retrieves a daily. Yes, he would do his regular past time, he will solve quick crosswords. Not that he is a pro at it, but some days are lucky when he gets them all. But he doesn’t care more. It’s therapeutic for his frayed soul. He looks for a pen in his pockets and not finding one, his eyes pleadingly darts around trying to discover one with someone friendly or non-threatening looking person around. His eyes catches a girl sitting with colored pencils, solving crosswords and he requests for a pencil for sometime. He’s on the first clue, but all he can he can hear is a bad remix playing harshly in the background. He closes his eyes, shuts down his existence in the madhouse, and gets back to his world where the music playing is the most soothing violin by Oscar Shumsky. This music helps him thread his frayed being. He returns back to his crossword, with the red pencil in his fingers and Shumsky playing in his mind. He’s engrossed with finding words, nodding his head with the movement of bow on his imaginary violin and all of a sudden his eyes get focused on the girl with colored pencils and the crossword. He’s lost in the thoughts of colors and black-white chequered blocks on the newspaper. He’s trying to figure out the relations between the two, the puzzle. The puzzle looks similar, familiar again, as if it’s a link to something else. He can’t put his finger to it.

He’s feeling dizzy between the bad remix, violin, red pencil, frappe, remmanants of the chicken sandwich, half dirty serviette, daily, the girl with colored pencils and her crossword looking like a clown amidst the subject of the madhouse. A clown with features and shades, which define life that has defined Mak over the years. His life like a crossword with all the letters in different colors each changing with every new arrangement. He sees the answer to his puzzle and chuckles.

He looks outside the glass wall, the gray clouds have moved for bluer skies. It’s time for Mak too to move ahead on his way.