A growling noise it was; I could feel my stomach grumble. It was over three hours since we had the tiffin (which evidently hadn't been appetising enough). As college students, we had to seek a night snack outdoors and we hoped we'd do better than a roadside eatery serving egg-bhurji. Moments after the idea had popped up, we had rushed downstairs. The clock in the living room had been ticking towards an eleven. In a small city, shops seldom served at this hour, as was proven when we sensed the shutters stubbing the nocturnal silence. We zoomed down the lonely lanes, our bikes blight upon the breeze that blew gently against us. Yet with every metre we drove, we eased into draughts of disappointment. A little neon sign lit our incense of hope and we turned ourselves off the road, the wheels rolling smoothly upon the mud in front of the small ice-cream shop.
At the counter stood a single person, his back facing ours. He was probably packing up for the day. He turned at the sound of the door opening. For an instant, I thought he would tell us that the shop was closed for the day, and would ask us to leave. On the contrary, he nodded and motioned us to a table right in front of him. We didn't sit, choosing to place an order first. It was a sub-conscious notion that haste was required of us, for I believe it was a favour that had been proffered by the good elements of fortune. This gave me time to examine the attendant. He was young, probably just a few years older than us. His droopy eyelids and dark circles expressed lack of sleep, but he was calm and patient for some reason.
We asked for a milkshake each. They were expensive; it was a retail outlet of a popular ice-cream chain. No sooner had we ordered than the attendant pushed himself into a practised procedure of preparation. A television had been placed on a high shelf, and I sat directly in line with it. Some sort of reality show was going on, and apart from applause and laughter, I could make nothing out of it. This was the first time probably, that I noticed out of the corner of my eye, how our order was being prepared. I saw the attendant take a small packet of milk out of the fridge and stare at it with uncertainty for some time. It was possibly the last in his possession, and he might have been wondering whether it would be enough to produce three glasses of the shake. He scooped up, thrice, a particular chocolate-flavoured ice-cream and added it to the blender along with the milk. The oblong appliance whirred for some time, after which it had produced a viscid slurry ready to be poured out into plastic glasses.
None of us was in the mood for conversation. The television-set blandly let out claps and cheers; namesake tokens of sound.
"Why at this time of the hour?", a dialogue was heard from somewhere that was not the television.
It seemed to have come from behind me, and as my eyes followed my companions' stares, I found the shop attendant seated at a table. He seemed to be waiting for us to finish. One of my friends answered him, explaining our situation. He seemed to sympathise and told us how he wished eateries would run for a longer time. He believed there would be several others like us facing the same problem but most wouldn't even venture out for fear of their trip turning vain. He would have liked to take the initiative himself, but then he said he had to wake up at five the next day. My ears cocked up at the statement. I, unable to join in the conversation with my back turned to its initiator, was now interested in it.
Why would an ice-cream vendor wake up so early? Who would buy ice-cream at dawn? I continued staring blankly at the television set but my mind focussed on the story that buzzed from behind.
"I am a student..." he began and went on to narrate the tale of his daily routine. He was doing his post-graduation in science at a college on the outskirts of town. Every morning he would travel the distance from the far end of the little burg to another, attend the morning classes and the ones after noon, and would skip the last class of the day to be in time for his evening shift at the shop. He could not afford education; the salary of his part-time job seemed to be a rational alternative.
"I need the money," he concluded.
For a few minutes, we had been listening to him with empty glasses in hand. As he advanced to clean up, we rose to leave. The lights of the shop dimmed after us.
This could well have been a canard of how we realised there was someone in a worse position than ours and that we were shamed to have placed our supposedly supererogatory requirements so highly, but it is not to be as such.
As we headed back to our rooms under a light drizzle, I gave a thought to the picture presented to us that evening. I surmised that everyone, be it the outcome of one's doing or that of society or the mere play of destiny; has been installed in a situation where a small need nags them intermittently. This particular want might be an established luxury, but its fulfilment would bring comfort and ease out a bigger necessity in one's life.
This need might be a blend of multiple requirements, yet present itself as another of a different nature. This need is a consolation, this need is a 'milkshake'. It might sound humourous, but reality cannot be denied. In our case, we are students living on rent in another town; isolated temporarily from a family roof. In times such as this, where we are heavily dependent on the tiffin for our food, an expensive milkshake to cure our satiety would perhaps be an unwise alternative in other circumstances. But it was the one we resorted to, and it left us satisfied.
The attendant at the shop? He had greater needs; possibly a pay-hike, a time-off or a holiday. Yet he felt, somehow sub-consciously, our need for the milkshake. For him, an audience which heard its tale was probably the 'milkshake'.
Humans live as a large society. Perhaps not all of us possess the capacity to fill in missing links in a fellow's life, but life has been architectured as such that each of us can fill in the little emptiness in the lives of others. Each of us can, and even will serve a 'milkshake' at times.
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