Waiting At Woody's

I was killing time at Woody’s on C. Street. After a lazy coffee, I had slowly taken in a dosa. When the waiter irritated me with the second bill, without me asking for it either time, I repaid in kind with an order for a second coffee. I saw him talking to the cashier-cum-manager near the door, probably putting their heads together on how to evict me from the table for four at that rush hour. They gave me dirty looks but left me alone after the waiter deposited my coffee, quite obviously noisy and clumsy with his task.

I was sitting at the third table on the right, facing the door. I kept looking outside every now and then. I had noticed that the guy in front of me at the second table, with his back to me, did the same. He had taken that seat before me. He must be waiting for someone, I had thought – a date, a pretty woman, or maybe a good friend. He looks that type. I could make that out from his crisply ironed shirt, neat haircut and cool relaxed posture.

His companion joined him when I was midway through the dosa. I was surprised to see the rough unkempt guy shuffling in, looking tense, eyes darting around like that of a prey sensing a predator, his large hairy hands stuffed  in the front pockets of a scruffy jacket. He took the seat opposite his companion, facing me. I leaned forward, hunched over my table, listening to their conversation, trying to understand how I had got it wrong.

 They didn’t speak much. The smooth guy spoke with an educated diction and the rough guy mumbled or muttered in a hoarse dialect.

‘What took you so long?’ the smooth guy asked.

‘Police...for that big a-hole coming here…I got stuck on the other side for some time,’ the other mumbled.

‘It is the 21^st century and we still have such feudal nonsense. Why can’t Ministers or bureaucrats move around like us and, that too, in a democracy?’

‘Yaa…’

‘And all this security, Z or A grade or whatever…in a country with a billion, why do we bother if one of those is killed…tens or hundreds die on trains, burnt to a crisp…they did not get even B-grade security?’ the smooth guy sounded agitated.

‘Hmm…’ the rough’s disinterested contribution.

Like me, they placed lazy orders. They too were wasting time. They were mostly silent and it seemed like a fidgety silence to me, like that with lovers between fights. Maybe, they are lovers after all, I thought, the butch and femme kind.

‘Why are we waiting?’ the rough asked the other when I was about to start on my second coffee.

‘Not yet,’ the smooth guy replied, unnaturally reticent.

The rough turned around and looked out. He then stared blankly at the TV, placed above the cashier’s counter. His companion and I also turned our attention to the news show. Some guy was saying that he is not trying to commit suicide.

‘It is not a fast unto death then, is it?’ the smooth guy asked.

The rough did not respond to that rhetorical question. The news shifted to the results from the Olympics and then about the disqualification of badminton teams.

‘Crazy officials…’ the rough muttered.

‘Crazy? People who try to fix like that should be shot,’ the smooth guy objected.

‘It’s to get a medal, right?’

‘But, it is just not right.’

‘Why not…? All that matters is the medal.’

‘It is the Olympics. What about the spirit of the game?’

‘Bullshit! Not bloody gladiators out there to please the crowd.’

‘I think you are wrong.’

‘Oh yeah? When football teams rest their best and save them for a more crucial match, should they be disqualified?’

‘It is not the same.’

‘Bullshit! And…those wimps crying because teams were not disqualified in their group…they should be shot!’

‘You are so wrong.’

‘Bullshit! Only the stupid media and idiotic masses think it is wrong.’

After that, there was a prolonged silence at their table. Maybe, the smooth guy was peeved. The rough looked disgruntled as ever.

I had finished my second coffee and was wondering whether I should order a vada. I saw the rough turn around and look outside once again.

‘Come on, it is peak time, right?’ the rough asked.

‘Yeah, it is time.’ The smooth guy replied, sounding strangely tense.

They asked for their bill and paid it at the counter. The waiter looked at me pointedly. I ignored him. I watched the two walk out. They were carrying identical bags. Maybe, the smooth guy had brought those with him. Maybe, the bags contain clothes for a night together. Or bombs, I thought.