60 minutes in a London café

As a child, I found bars and cafés to be mysterious places which saw shady people enjoy sinful indulgences. My distorted conjecture was born out of my parents’ unwillingness to let me walk alone past a bar close to our house, which had been busted by the police for its illegal activities. Over the years, I visited a few bars and cafés reluctantly, almost judging everyone that I saw around.

After what seems like an eternity, I recently visited Little Portland Café which is situated on Little Portland Street, London, as part of my blog assignment. The cafe is a tiny, frenzied place which is brimming with a diverse crowd, right from selfie-loving teenagers to typical English gentlemen, coffee aficionados to the vegan youth. I was fortunate enough to find a table on a Saturday afternoon.

I felt dreadful for the first fifteen minutes after taking my table, reconsidering my decision to sit in a “café” and observe the ongoings. The menu was listed on a giant blackboard. “One hot chocolate and one cheese chilli sandwich please,” I said to a speedy waitress, before she asked me to be comfortable. It wondered if working in the café and dealing with hundreds of visitors everyday, with each one coming from a different walk of life, had taught her to read their minds with consummate ease.

The table on my left was filled with an eclectic mix of food items. It turned out that the bunch of teenagers seated there were making the most of the student discount that applied to their orders. The sound of constant giggles, gossips and incessant laughter coming from the youngsters demanded that I loosen up, but then, the two elderly Englishmen on my right held their own. Black suits and matching hats adorned their tall statures, while their self-standing (and black) walking sticks were placed exactly parallel to their right legs. They bonded like two old friends who were reminiscing their past glories and reveling in their life learnings. Upon further observing them, I noticed how none interrupted the other while talking. It seemed that one could see the wisdom through their wrinkles.

I was almost going to spill my hot chocolate on my white pants in a bid to keep up with the activities on both sides. I pulled myself back in my chair, before realizing how I was actually bridging a vast generational gap between both the tables. While the group of teens were full of young energy, dreams and rebellion, who could blow up with the slightest provocation, the gentlemen on my right were oozing wisdom and laughing away all their misgivings with calm.

As easily as I could laugh with contentment in the comfort of the knowledge that I was well past the phase of my life that the teenagers were experiencing, and marvel at the sight of the two elderly men who took pride in the wisdom and perfection attained with age, I wasn’t able to see myself in them. It was one of those rare occasions when I didn’t want to fit in. I just wanted to pause my thinking and live in the moment. For once, all I wanted to experience was what being a twenty-five-year-old really felt like.

My state of mind had changed completely from the time I entered the café. I soon finished my hot chocolate and sandwich and decided to make an exit. Just as I was about to leave the café, a voice behind me went “Bye, ma’am. I hope you have been comfortable.” My doubt had been confirmed. The waitress could indeed read minds. 

The Halo of Pride

                                              

April 7, 2002

“I shall take you wherever you wish to go,” my father finally made the promise to his ten-year-old daughter, who never ceased to dream about traversing the world with her dreamy eyes. It was the day when months of anticipation and persistent efforts had come together, to give me something that eventually set the tone for the rest of my life. My father was obliged to fulfill his child’s wishes only to see her give an outstanding performance in academics.

 
My father had always been a man of his words. He was honest to the point where he would choose to get reprimanded for his actions over speaking lies to cover his mistake. He was a proud man, for he was one of those people that had achieved success with sheer integrity and goodwill. Growing up, his principles interfered even in the most innocuous of my actions. So clearly was the picture of the right and the wrong embedded in my mind, that I had grown to fear any encounter with mistakes. But then, my father always stated, “All you must ever fear is fear itself.” Knowing full well my father’s regard for truthfulness, I mastered the art of keeping conditions in exchange for all that he expected of me.

In May 2002, we took off to explore what urban dreams are made of: London. Having grown up in Mumbai, India, what I really fancied about the Western countries was the cleanliness and the  kind of space dedicated to public entertainment and refreshment. One of the best things about having a wish granted on a condition was that it entitled me to make many subsequent demands along the rest of my trip with barely any objection.

Soon after we landed in London, I chanced upon some people riding their bicycles around Trafalgar Square. “Look, there are so many cyclists here! I, too, want to ride a bicycle. Please, Papa,” I exclaimed in sudden desperation. My first wish on the trip was granted in a flash, much like how I decided on the destination for our trip.

The best part about the London summer is its long days. It was almost 10 p.m. and the sun was beginning to immerse amidst its plentiful rays. As the winds started blowing with more gusto, I began pedalling harder. For the first time, I was experiencing a sense of coming closer to my dreams and there was no way I was anywhere close to ready to let go of the fervour of freedom. The feeling of independence was indeed addictive. Everything around me soon started to get dark. Not realizing how far I had come, I turned around to look for my father. I was filled with trepidation when I did not find him anywhere around. People around seemed too occupied to even glance at my distraught face. With every passing minute, the shade of red on my face was intensifying. Little did I know, then, that my father was always going to have my back.

I was almost on the verge of tearing up, when I saw my father silently watching me from the corner of the lane. I shoved aside my bicycle and ran towards him. “You were so engrossed in soaking up all the excitement of your freedom, that you may probably not have realized that your father had not moved an inch from where you began cycling,” my father said, placating me, while I firmly clutched his hand. “But why did you not reach out to me when you saw me looking for you?” I asked, while my tears seamlessly continued to roll down my eyes. Wiping my tears, he said, “The reason you got scared was not because you had taken off in another direction, but because it got dark and you were unable to find me. In order to get a taste of thrill and success, you ought to step out of your comfort zone. Most of the times, we restrict our own success, for we fear that we might become alone in the journey of life. Through the rest of your life, I want you to be your own motivator. I want you to find solace in your company, for you can tap into unlimited potentialities if you learn to enjoy your company. And if you ever happen to lose your way, you can always turn around to find your father waiting to show you the way.”

 
As I tried to wipe away my tears and catch my breath, I promised my father how I would dutifully follow his advice, provided that he allowed me to stay in the embrace of his hug for a little longer. There came the second wish! Little did I know, then, that my father was holding back his tears.

Through the rest of our journey, I cycled into every by-lane of London, with every sunrise and sunset marking the start and end of my two wheeled expedition respectively. With every step that took me further away from my father, I was given an assuring smile that allowed me the freedom to choose my own path. I realized how warm and eclectic London was. It had presented itself as a potpourri of world cultures. It was an unusual combination of countryside-like beauty and unstoppable frenzy. The entire city felt like it was a part of some systematic chaos. Maybe it was the tall buildings that my ten-year-old self got lured into counting, or witnessing men and women dressed in the most elegant manner on the busy Oxford Street, racing against time, or just being in close proximity to Buckingham Palace, the enchanting landscape of the city was hard to miss, but there was one thing that I wasn’t able to get enough of. The British Library captivated my attention right from the time I set eyes upon its larger-than-life presence. Little did I know, then, that my father had well anticipated my third wish.

The British Library was a world within itself. It looked every bit the biggest national library in the world. There was an air about the gigantic structure that was quite stimulating. I was quick to grab my favourite Harry Potter book and sit in one corner. The Harry Potter books had created a massive rage in India then. It had become a common topic of discussion among the students in my school. For someone who was obsessed with literature and the arts, I couldn’t stop fantasizing about writing novels and becoming famous. “One day, you will find my books in the British Library!” I exclaimed to my father with new-found pride. Little did I know, then, that my father was the loudest one cheering for my success.


April 7, 2012

The moment I had most carefully envisioned had finally arrived. I was setting foot in London after ten years. London was still the same; warm and eclectic. Summer was settling into the city, while the sudden showers continued to add to the spontaneity of a Londoner’s life.

 Surprisingly, I found myself to be the same girl who never ceased to dream about traversing the world with her dreamy eyes. Almost everything in my life had changed from the time I had first visited London, but then, a lot still felt the same. I was still around unknown faces. Men and women were still dressed in the most elegant manner. Oxford Street was busy as ever.

 
The British Library, over the years, had carefully nurtured my dream, only to bear testimony to the promise I had made to my father in its premises a decade later. After fighting countless battles and taking many an unassured stride along the years. I was back amidst the grandeur of The British Library and a frantic bunch of book lovers and aspiring writers, that had turned up to witness my first ever book launch.

As I was called upon the stage to launch the book, a packed auditorium roared to give me a loud cheer.  This time around, even with hordes of unknown faces surrounding me, I did not worry about finding my father. All I did was silently look up for the skies to see my proud father smiling back at me and giving me an assuring smile.