An old establishment, holding values
post partition, catering to the very old class of Freedomfighters of the
Ghandian era. Honest working men, philosophers, idealists, agents of
change and stoicism, now their progeny and theirs honour the spaces. A hint of
the Raj lingers with seemingly efficient attendants, often wafer thin forms
dressed in white uniforms with an 8inch Cumberland strapped around their waist.
The headwear, a small turban adorned with the end fabric starched crisply into
a peacock fan on the right hand side slightly hiding the green band
circumventing the head. Trays aloft and full they navigate the ramped dark
quarters crammed with small tables, latticed chairs or ones that look to have
padding until you sit on them and can identify the well worn postures of many
patrons in the moulded shape. Never a drop finds the floor as the attendants
dance is grace and poise. A cup smashes in the kitchen to break the atmosphere.
The crockery used resembles relics from the Raj. White stone wear plates and
cups with petite handles impossibly small and best guess is purely decorative.
Chips and cracks adorn the vessels and continue to write a history of patronage
until meeting the floor unceremoniously.
Hidden along the busy MI Road only a
small black and white placard identifies the dark alley entrance opening into a
small courtyard filled with pushbikes, scooters and motorcycles. From the
outside the painted insect screens mask a dark interior. They creak and
identify your entry, no need of a bell or electronic beeper here. An honest
clang as the spring on the door slams shut has patrons glance and resume their
banter. There is a realization of time warping upon entering this street
sanctuary.
Acknowledged, no fuss is made, searching
for a seat, the first smell is an honest, bitter coffee aroma. Not the
refinement of the cafes or as seductive. The decor intrigues. Colours that
should not work together do with an intense olive green and deep maroon gloss
paint across the walls. This is broken with an egg yolk yellow which is the
menu. In the corner, the customary sink, bright pink, for hand washing, above a
mirror, to the side a towel that needs to either be steam cleaned or tossed,
invites one to remove the dirt of the streets from ones hands. The displayed
menu speaks of fare that is simple and economic. The variety is South Indian in
the dosa, North Indian in the rice and snacks and remnant Raj with white bread
and butter, sandwiches and chips.
The Coffee House is a respite from the
busy streets providing a relaxing atmosphere with tables surrounded mainly by
animated male chatter. There are always a few characters sporting handlebar
moustache or layers of khadi like extras directly out of the Ben Kingsley movie
Gandhi. Adjoining here main room are two ante rooms for 'Ladies and families'
reminiscent of the old pubs plus one for smoking. The regulars belong. They are
evident.
Facing the entrance door is an
accountant/cashier poised on a stool processing each order landing in front of
him relaying the payment information into columns as quickly as if using a
computer to itemize and stock check. He dispenses the change without
recognition always with coins or well worn notes, which becomes a tip often for
the attendant. Patrons move from a table and he wipes the surface of detritus
and spills onto the floor with a well used towel one hopes is replaced daily.
There are a few scattered around India
and well worth searching for.
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