Every evening, at exactly six-thirty, he took his place at the farthest corner of the café—by the window, facing the street. The table was small, slightly wobbly, but it was his. The wood had darkened with time, the edges smoothed by years of elbows resting, fingers tracing absentminded patterns. A single overhead lamp cast a muted yellow glow on its surface, highlighting the tiny cracks in the varnish.
The café hummed around him—a blend of clinking cups, murmured conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter from a table near the counter. The air brimmed with the scent of strong coffee, toasted bread, and something faintly sweet, perhaps vanilla. Outside, the city pulsed with life. Neon signs flickered, their reflections dancing on the wet pavement from an earlier drizzle. Cars honked impatiently. Pedestrians, bundled in scarves and jackets, moved briskly, their footsteps blending into the rhythm of the evening.
He sat with his hands wrapped around the warm ceramic cup, inhaling the familiar scent of adrakwali chai. The steam curled upward, dissolving into the dim light. He took a slow sip, feeling the spice settle on his tongue, the heat spreading through his chest—a comfort he had come to rely on.
His eyes drifted to the glass, not really looking at the street but beyond it, into a time when this city had not felt so distant, when the days had not felt so heavy.
There was a winter evening, long ago, in this very café. The laughter of friends, the scrape of chairs being pulled close, the clatter of spoons against cups as stories were exchanged. He remembered a girl—her voice like soft rain, her fingers tapping against the table as she spoke, eyes sparkling with something he had never been able to name. They had sat here for hours, the world outside forgotten, lost in a conversation that felt endless. She had left a doodle on a tissue—just a rough sketch of a book and a cup of tea. He had tucked it into his wallet, meaning to throw it away later, but never did.
He reached into his pocket now, fingers brushing against its frayed edges. The ink had faded, the lines barely visible, yet he could still see them as clearly as if they had been drawn yesterday. She was gone now—like most people eventually had, from his life. The city had swallowed her up, just as it had, with everyone.
He sighed, tucking the tissue back where it belonged.
As the evening grew, the streetlights flickered on, casting long, distorted shadows on the pavement. The café would close soon. He would leave, just as he always did, slipping into the night as unnoticed as when he arrived. But tomorrow, he would return. The same corner, the same chai, the same quiet ache of remembering. He smiled as he got up, feeling charged up to face another day.
Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2025. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used
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