paper of observation

Last Sunday, I went to the Chennai central station to see off my friend. He was going to Calcutta by the Howrah Mail. The waiting hall was crowded with all sorts of passengers. There was a long queue in front of the booking window. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry. A passenger’s pocket was picked. But the pickpocket was caught red-handed and handed over to the police. I bought the ticket and came off. We soon reached the platform. The scene there was very interesting. Passengers were waiting eagerly for the arrival of the train. Some were sitting on benches and smoking or reading newspaper. A few were pacing up and down the platform. The vendors were having a busy time. There was rush at tea-stall. The coolies in red uniforms were sitting in a line. 

Back in the classroom, a gang of troublesome teenagers unwillingly wearing the school uniform could be seen performing the rebellious act of tying their burgundy jackets around their waists, against the school’s policies. Taking advantage of not being under surveillance by an adult, the rowdy teenagers, easily distinguishable by the burgundy wrap around their waist, pulled out their prohibited mobile phones and the sound of camera shutters clicking against each other filled the room, as they ridiculously posed for the picture using unrecognizable facial expressions. Another set of youngsters were blaring ear-splitting music whilst drumming powerfully on the unstable desks, producing a deafening cacophony that could be heard through the corridors. Paper airplanes were being manufactured with great precision at one end of the classroom and flown to the other end, hitting several annoyed children on the way and earning a good amount of foul-mouthed words in return. In the corner of the room, a set of studious youngsters wearing large circular black-rimmed glasses, snorted loudly as they laughed while wheezing constantly.

A man is seated in a corner of the room, his coffee cup in one hand and a newspaper in the other. A group of older women are chatting happily as they crochet, hooks flying skillfully through the yarn as they talk. They smile as I walk toward the counter, nodding their hellos. I place my order with the man behind the counter and he expertly creates my perfect blend of coffee, milk and caramel. My fresh hot coffee warming my cold hands, I walk to one of the dining and rest in one of the padded chairs. The whirring of the coffee grinder, the gurgling of the coffee brewing, the bubbling of the steamer warming the milk and the humming of the refrigerator create a relaxing symphony of sounds. I take a sip of my hot coffee, relishing the warmth. My eyes get heavy and I settle to the sounds and smells of the coffee shop. I can hear the man moving behind the counter and it carries me back to memories of my mother moving through the kitchen making Sunday morning breakfast. The rustling of the newspaper as a page is turned reminding me of my father at the dining table reading his paper. I feel as though I have come home. The serenity of the coffee shop is only interrupted by the occasional rush of traffic sounds as the door is opened by the next cold customer eagerly awaiting their taste of home.