THE CAFE BY THE CORNER

The cashewnut shake was too thick, in a it’s-good-for-you-so-swig-it kinda way. Around me, the evening was alive with bright lights, a happy babel of voices and old rock n’ roll… I was sitting alone at my table, but the others had a cluster of animated people of all hues, brown, black, white, yellow and everything in between, sitting around them, speaking in languages they were making up as they went along –a smattering of English, eloquent hands, with eyes that danced and hearts that spoke…

That was the German Bakery not too long ago…

I had wrapped up my meetings in Pune by evening so a colleague suggested that the Osho Ashram might be a good idea. But I couldn’t make it in time for ‘visiting hours’… I was flying out early next day. So, I asked someone what I could do to experience a slice of Osholand in the time I had, so the man said, “Try the German Bakery down the road…” And I did…

At the café, all around me was this intense friendliness… People walked in alone or in pairs and merged into these bubbling whirlpools of camaraderie and conversation. It was like a party, where no one knew anybody and yet could relate to everybody. I felt like an outsider and yet I felt welcomed. I was toying with the idea of walking up to a group and introducing myself when a couple walked in and sat at my table. The man, a Caucasian in his 50s with a scruff y salt and pepper beard and with him was a handsome woman of generous proportions, with flashing eyes and an olive complexion. I smiled. They smiled back… Then they continued to talk like an indulgent couple… I couldn’t place the language though. The intonations seemed Arabic, and yet not quite… My curiosity burst through like dammed water through breached gates… I introduced myself with an apology… They were speaking Hebrew. The man, Aaron, had moved to Israel from France when still a child while the woman, Nurit, had lived in Israel all her life. They’d met at the ashram… I hoped they weren’t upset by the intrusion, but if they were, they did a good job of masking it. We spoke of life in Israel for a while but then Nurit said, “There’s too much pressure back home… To be a Jew, to be Israeli, I understand that’s important… We’re a small country… But here, it’s so liberating… To just be Nurit. And it doesn’t matter whether I’m a Jew or Muslim… Here, we only relate to individuals, and to ourselves. That’s why most of us are here at the ashram. Love comes easy here…”.

As if on cue, a tall young man with long shaggy locks and a fl owing beard entered and embraced Nurit and Aaron and shook my hand. He seemed to know them well and kept teasing them about their cuisine. The Israelis teased him back about his… He was Iranian, a student studying in Pune… While they playfully mock-squabbled over the usual trifles between Israel and Iran, from nuclear weapons to cinema, the Iranian finally said, “Ok… Say you make better biryani and don’t want mine and I’ll concede defeat…” Nurit and Aaron started laughing… “He makes the best biryani we’ve ever had…”, Aaron confided… “And he plays the guitar beautifully… You should hear him play”, added Nurit… The Iranian laughed an easy laugh, “Yes, you must … We’re all going to my place and I’ll cook and play… Please come”. I didn’t know these people. They didn’t know me. In fact, they barely knew each other and yet they were happy to live, love and laugh together for the brief moment in time that brought them together in that café, happy to look upon each other as individuals, without being burdened by nationality, religion or economics. You may call this escapism, and maybe it is, but then isn’t this escapism the very ideal that we seek and advocate in our interactions with each other?

“What’s in a name?”, The boy said when I inquired… “When you come again, I’ll make you good biryani, play good music and Nurit will tell good stories… You’ll love it, and what else is to love… You’ll always find me here... In this café by the corner, and if you don’t, just ask for the Iranian student… They’ll tell you where to find me” and gave me a hug as I got up to go…

That night, I left two Israelis and an Iranian laughing over biryani in that café by the corner, a veritable shrine, and wondered if there were many others where love, or even laughter, even if briefly, came this easy…

Last Saturday, that shrine was razed and love and laughter died… Along with an Iranian student and 10 others. Was he the same? I don’t know… But here’s the thing about shrines… They never go away… Nor does the laughter or the love… So you could keep going in there with bombs in your bags, until one day, you too will stay back, for some biryani, some love and some laughter…