The Suited Man
One coffee. Black. No sugar.
He is here again today. The man in the black suit. He always comes in at 2pm and has his coffee. The order is the same as always. One coffee, black with no sugar. And like every other time, he has his coffee with the daily news. The ever dependable Daily Delhi latest edition could always be seen rolled up underneath his arm as he enters the premises.
No one knows who he is. He doesn't work here, the gossiping canteen dwellers have seen to that and have confirmed that little fact. So who is he?
Day in, day out he comes without fail on the clock to have his coffee. No words, no chit chat. Just a gentle nod at the counter and his order would be brought up to him. When he is done, he leaves behind his payment by the saucer, exiting as quietly as he comes.
Word has it he has been coming to the canteen like this for the past 2 years. What do I know? I've only just started 2 months ago. Shuklaji has told me what his orders are and how to prepare the coffee to his liking. He says he doesn't care for the mystery man all that much as long as he pays for his coffee and does not cause any trouble. And yet I'm intrigued.
And so I stare. I stare at his straight back, his lean form and stubbly cheeks. I stare at his chiseled face, his handsome nose, his small cupid's bow, and his gelled, floppy hair. I stare at the way he grips his cup as he drinks his coffee, the way he turns the pages of the newspaper, and the way he rolls it up as he is about to leave. I stare, and I wonder - what is his story? And why does he interest me so much?
I closed up the stall myself today. Shuklaji had a head cold in the afternoon and I told him not to worry, and that I'll wrap up for him when I leave. I walk towards the lifts when I see the familiar straight, lean figure I've been observing for the past 2 months. My breath hitches and I stare at the ground as I walk closer to him. I cringe slightly at all the noise I'm making. My jingling bag and footfalls are impossible to ignore and I stand back slightly, trying to make myself as small and hidden as possible. Meanwhile I pray to Devi Maiya he hasn't noticed me. I'm having a hard time breathing like a normal person as it is.
The lift chimes open and I wait for him to enter first but nothing happens. I look up, puzzled, to see him staring back at me with his beautiful copper eyes. His eyes are framed with the longest and darkest lashes I've ever seen. I realise I'm standing there staring at his face with my mouth agape and I scramble to regain some sort of propriety. I see the first twitches pulling the corners of his plump lips and register belatedly that he was amused. Amused at me.
"After you" comes the sound of a husky, low timbre and for a moment I am swept away by the experience. Was that really his voice? And if so, how could he be so selfish as to not share it with the world more often?
My consciousness reminds me he has in fact issued a directive and I feel my legs move into the lift, embarrassed at the jingling sound and awkward gait I make. But the beautiful stranger doesn't mind, and so we wait together in silence as the lift descends. I get off the ground floor, expecting him to follow but he stays put in the lift. As the lift closes, he smiles at my baffled expression and it hits me that he was getting off at the basement. I wondered how on earth I missed that? Was I too busy breathing to notice?
The next day, the stranger comes in and I serve him the usual. I expected him to have forgotten the encounter but to my surprise he looks at me and smiles.
"Thank you Khushi", he says and returns to his copy of the Daily Delhi. I walk away stunned, realising a little too late that I walked away from him without returning his smile. He knew my name! How did he know my name? And more importantly, why?
I decided I was being stupid. Why does it matter? He was just a customer. A customer that comes in every day. Of course he knew my name. All our patrons did. I reigned in my imagination with a healthy dose of realism and told myself to stop dreaming. Running away with fanciful thoughts isn't going to do anyone any good!
And yet, as I take the lift back home it stops on the 2nd floor and lo and behold, my beautiful stranger walks in. He looks at me stunned for a moment. And then the strangest thing happens. He smiles widely at me.
"Good evening Khushi. How are you?" he asks casually, making small talk.
To say I was shocked would be an understatement. Was he actually initiating conversation with me?
I stumble to find my words quickly.
"G..g..goo..d, thank you. And you?"
I was so proud of myself that I was at least slightly coherent.
"Good."
The doors slide open, and I walk out again, turning around to look at him to see him once more before the doors close.
"See you again tomorrow" he calls and the doors ping shut.
I walk home feeling a strange mix of elation and curiosity. What was happening? Had we all been wrong? Was he just an introvert and not unnecessarily unfriendly? Have we ever given him a chance?
The next few months pass by in a flurry. In between serving his coffee and sharing the lift we make small chat now, much to the amazement and interest of the office staff. I find out his name is Arnav, and that he has a dry sense of humour. Beautiful as he may be, he was a stranger no more. A budding friendship developed and I enjoyed his company for what it was - uncomplicated and warm.
That was until one day, instead of leaving his perfunctory payment behind with his cup, he had also left beside it a small red rose.
Not knowing what to make of this gesture, I pocketed the rose and walked back into the kitchen. When I met him in the lift later that evening, I returned the rose to him and said, "You left this behind."
He looked at me over his nose in a matter-of-factly manner and replied, "It's not mine."
My heart sank. I didn't know why I thought it was his. While I had refused to ponder on the gesture I couldn't help the small seeds of hope that grew despite my wishes.
"Oh? I mustn't have cleaned the table properly. Sorry Arnavji.."
"No Khushi." He looked exasperatedly at me, reprimanding me softly like a small child.
Then, I saw his arm rise slightly and his hand reached for mine. I stare dumbfounded as he closed my palm around the flower with his.
We stare at our enclosed hands when he hesitantly spoke. "It's not mine, because it's yours."
The lift doors chime open and I vaguely register that I am meant to get off the floor but I don't. I just stare at Arnav, unable to process his words and his gestures. Every fibre of me is telling me something important is happening right now, at this instant, and that all my beliefs have been true. Arnav likes me. He actually does. The soft petals pressed against my skin are a gentle reminder of that.
Arnav smiles softly at me as the doors slide close and we head to the basement together. Slowly, he pulls my hand to his lips and presses a small kiss on my wrist. All this while, I'm marveling at my ability to stand upright.
The doors chime open once more and Arnav tugs me out of the lift. As we walk towards a white SUV, Arnav reaches inside his pockets for his keys and grabs something out of the front seat. As he emerges, I see him don a handsome black hat.
"I've never told you what I do for a living have I?" the man winks at me.
I smirk right back. "Did you think I would never find out? This is Khushi Kumari Gupta you are talking about. You always go to the basement every day. Did you think that I wouldn't know?"
His rumbling laugh echoes across the car park.
"Well, hop in. I'll give you a lift back."
"What? Are you sure? Won't your boss mind?"
"Aakash Sir is putting in some hours tonight. Relax. It'll be fine, don't worry."
And with that, I drove off into the sunset with a smile on my face, a rose in my hand and my beautiful stranger by my side.
A/N: Something different. Hope you liked it!
My other works:
OS: Do I Have To Spell It Out For You?
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