It was cold that evening. Shivering, we turned onto Station Road. The plan was simple. It was two and half hours before the train would arrive, and the ten of us were to have a quick supper before it did. Ofcourse, readers can safely assume that we were to board the train, and not wait for the arrival of someone in particular, in which case the priority given to the speed of our snack (as it were to be) would not have been graded so high.
Quick suppers are, as a matter of simple fact, highly improbable in fine dining restaurants. This was the first gleam of disappointment the evening brought us, as the road we had come upon was packed, on either side, with a variety of these. We stared at cars that drove into the parking lots beside these restaurants. They had time, something more important than money, for meagre incomes of middle-class families do allow you a day in the month, or maybe in a week, to satisfy any expensive tastes that you may have. The former was not in abundance, and as of now, we had little of it in hand. Helplessness dawned upon us, until we spotted a neon sign that said "Cafe", followed by its name, which my memory has failed to hold for so long a time period that passed between the incident and the event of writing this article.
Cafes are, as a rule, supposed to be quicker than restaurants. Also, one would expect lighter snacks, that wouldn't bloat your stomach until you had a rather large quantity than is satisfactorily accepted by the mind. With these thoughts in mind, we crossed the threshold of the eatery and took a seat right in the centre of it. Not that we had a choice; all the other seats were occupied. I still fail to understand how being in the dead centre of a place could allow neglect, not by one but by a whole group of waiters that roamed around, occasionally sprinting from the kitchen to a table, or the other way round. It had been a quarter of an hour before a middle-aged waiter finally took us to be a newer lot of customers, and with an air of greatness, promptly placed a couple of menu cards in front us.
Menu cards, nowadays, have ceased to be cards for according to me, they are booklets. Even leaflets would be a more suitable term for them. Misnomers have suddenly taken over the world, and we seldom realise such things until they are brought to our notice. So for the convenience of a great many people, I prefer using the term 'menu' for whatever type of publication they put in front of us. We rapidly flipped through the menu. Orders were made, and after some time of waiting, which we accept as a standard waiting time, the food was placed in front of us. We hurriedly munched through it, and based on what we may term as estimates, we placed our second orders.
This is where the real misfortune of the evening slumped down into the hearts of those sitting at the centre table. It was nearly an hour before one of us finally stood up and went in to speak with the waiter. The latter, in a manner that gave us the impression of having committed a crime, informed us with what he thought was undue kindness, that there was an order placed before us, and it would be only after having fulfilled it, would they budge towards preparing ours. It was either us who had lost track of time or it had decided to run faster that day, for when I glanced at my watch and saw only forty-five minutes remaining at our disposal, I found it quite difficult to believe.
It was a quick discussion then, and the decision was as quick. We explained to the cashier about our appointment that could accommodate no delay. He gave us a tired look, and finally produced a bill, and after striking off the items that were not served, he made quick calculations and gave us a total. We paid the bill, and were soon trotting off to the station.
It took us a few minutes to get there. The station was as silent as expected. For the place we were boarding the train at was not a major station, and the schedule gave passengers like us no more than five minutes to rush into the train. It was atleast of some relief to have sleeper seats pre-booked, I wouldn't dream of fighting for a seat in such times.
We still had one problem at hand: our stomachs growled, and growled too much. One of us even cried that he wouldn't be able to sleep, if he were made to on a nearly empty stomach. It was then when someone sighted a stall a few metres away. They served corn. Yes, only corn. We had no option. When one is hungry, the last thing one would do is refusing food. We quickly bought a cup of hot corn each.
I frowned when I looked at my papercup. The cup was no bigger than the small cups they usually serve tea in. It was with uncertainty that I took my first spoonful. Heaven. The spice, the salt, all of it mingled onto my tastebuds. Every spoonful after that was taken in with great relish. Though the spice in it made my eyes water, it was the contentment that I saw on the faces of others through these watery eyes that made me forget the little blemishes, that might have lingered then, on the quality of the snack. We had just finished, when we heard the train coming in.
Suddenly we realised that we were not hungry any more, and that we could board the train without having to go through a sleepless night. As I Iay down on my berth, I began to wonder. Perhaps even a large meal would not have compensated for the satiety that the small cup gave. What with the bulk of garnish and savoury that defines the grandeur of food, this without, we could fulfil appetite? Have we reached that stage in evolution where we complicate things to be happy? Or is it society that shuns those who indulge in the short and crude activities in life. The human mind and body are weird in such aspects; or perhaps, we do find entertainment in complex objects but it is the simple things that bring us satisfaction. It is thus, advised to anyone who may chance upon this; if you ever find yourself in a situation that does not benefit you with its complexity, look for the simpler alternatives in life, it is they that give you pleasure.
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