At the Restaurant

Once a friend of mine was sitting on the verandah on a rainy day, doodling away. I asked him what he was drawing, and he showed me. It was very clumsily executed and I could not understand what it was about. He explained: It was a sketch of his hands holding the paper and the pen in his hands, and the sketch on the paper itself....

“I was working as the manager of a restaurant in a small city. Business was good, as we hardly had any competition. Within the limited means accessible to us, we tried to make it as posh as possible. The lighting was warm and mellow. The furniture, though not elaborate, was simple and comfortable. The air coolers inside and the tinted glasses were a welcome respite from the cruel heat outside. It used to be pretty crowded in the evenings and at dinner time. But in the summers it used to be deserted in the daytime. The workers and the waiters would be lazing around inside, and I would be sitting at the counter, adding up the totals or attending the occasional phone call or flipping through the magazines. It was on one such day, with the temperature outside soaring like never before, when it seemed like all the people and animals outside had buried themselves underground to escape from the heat, that a young man made an entry into the restaurant. He was shabby in appearance, though his clothes did not indicate anything in the nature of poverty. He evidently did not care very much for his personal appearance. He was sweating, and the peculiar torpidity and slowness that marked his movements gave me the impression that he had just woken from sleep. His bespectacled eyes were bleary, and his long hair, I should say locks, were unkemptly swept back, as if he had swept his fingers through them countless times. His pock marked face was red and bloated, as if he was trying to drive away the sluggish feeling by repeatedly rubbing his eyes and face. He walked inside with slow groggy steps. He walked in a straight line from the door, neither looking to the left or right, and made his way to a table and chair that lay directly in his path. It was in front of me and slightly to the right. Generally when the place is so empty, the customers take their time to decide on a convenient place to sit. They look about here and there, weigh the pros and cons, and sit at a place which offers the perfect combination of light, ventilation and coziness. He did none of these things. He looked about here and there uncertainly, darting quick glances, and sat down, as if he wanted to call someone without attracting attention. I sent for the waiter and told him in an imperious tone to attend to the customer. I always do this, as it makes the customer feel important. Though he tried to look nonchalant, I could see that he was grateful at having succeeded in his objective- that of not attracting too much attention and still being attended to. The waiter hurried across to him with the menu, and after running his eyes through it, he placed his order. It was a cold coffee and an ice cream. The waiter left, and he sat there waiting for its arrival, with his elbow upon the table, and his cheek resting on his palm, gazing abstractedly into the distance, sometimes looking at the carpet, or the trees outside the window. After a while the abstract look left his eyes and he started looking a little uncomfortable. He started looking in the direction of the closed kitchen door, or sometimes in my direction, but without actually looking at me. I took it that he was getting impatient. I yelled at the waiter to hurry up, to go and look if it was ready, sir is getting impatient, etc. of course, I knew that it would be some time before it came, so I resumed the occupation of observing him. He looked more restless now, and was fidgeting, looking in my direction more and more often. Finally he got up and approached my desk and asked hesitatingly,
“Excuse me, do you have a piece of blank paper?”
“What for ?” I asked.
“I have to write something.”
“Will this do?” I asked, taking off a leaf from a sheaf of papers that lay on the table. It was rectangular, about the size of a postcard, and felt it would be too small to serve his purpose. But he jumped at it and thanked me warmly and went back to his table. He sat down, simultaneously feeling in his pant pockets, and immediately an expression of dismay and suppressed frustration clouded his face. For a moment he looked helpless, and he looked again once or twice in my direction, then finally, making up his mind, he got up and approached my desk.
“May I borrow a pen, if you please?” he asked with an apologetic smile.

“Sure,” I said, and handed him one lying on the table. He thanked me again and went back. He sat down, and thinking for a minute or two, he slowly began writing. He began tentatively, but gathered speed as he went along, till finally he totally immersed himself in it, and became oblivious to the surroundings. Sometimes he paused and looked about him thoughtfully, then resumed with redoubled vigor. I don’t know what he was writing. Perhaps he was drafting an important letter, perhaps he was planning out something. By this time the coffee had arrived, of which he occasionally partook of a small sip. After a while I began to feel curious as to what he had been writing. But it was not in my fate to know it. After he finished the coffee and ice cream, he paid his bill, pocketed the piece of paper, returned my pen and left.”
I don’t know how the rest of the manuscript ran. After paying the bill, he had crumpled the piece of paper, thrown it into the dust bin, and left.