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Coffeecats by Subroto
Mukerji
If you ask me, there is no lower feeling than being an out-
of-work writer with a yen for coffee but only fifteen rupees in ones
pocket. Id been there before, and I knew what to do. I headed straight
for the Madras Coffee House, where a cup of genuine (none of that
yucky instant stuff, or the fancy-flavoured, frothy Espresso they serve
you at Barista while neatly scalping you for fifty bucks) brewed coffee
costs exactly fifteen rupees, they dont kick up a ruckus if you smoke a
cigarette or two, and a single unaccompanied woman doesnt attract
the unwelcome attentions of any of Delhis perennially-prowling,
predatory males...for the simple reason that they give the place a
clean avoid. Theres a bouncer, you see, which is a massive point in its
favour.

Fifteen bucks may not be the national lottery Bumper

Prize, but fifteen bucks is fifteen bucks to the near-broke, though in CP
(Connaught Place, New Delhi to the uninitiated) especially, it doesnt
get you very far. Maybe a couple of oranges from a pavement
hawker...or the coffee I was telling you about.

Apparently, a fair section of the coffee-swilling populace of

Delhi with the requisite amount of currency in their pockets had got
the same idea, for when I reached the joint, the dimly-lit, rectangular
room with its atmosphere of better times that clung to it like grime
about fifty feet by twenty-two feet, give or take a footit was awash
with coffee drinkers. I couldnt spot a single vacant seat.

Just fools luck, mind you, but as I stood there looking

helpless, the couple at the table right next to me got up to leave, and
with a sigh of satisfaction, I slid smoothly into one of the three chairs
available, the fourth having been commandeered by a very vocal
group at the adjoining table.

It was inevitable that, sooner or later, one or two people

would join me at my coffee, and I steeled myself to be courteous to
them by politely ignoring them or pretending they didnt exist (which
amounts to the same thing). I sort of dislike quaffing my coffee with
strangers goggling at me and mentally counting the many spoonfuls of
sugar I add to my cup. Im very defensive about my sweet tooth, I
guess, and though I aint The Fly by a long chalk, three or four spoons
of white crystalline dont seem to me as if Im heading for diabetes,
and the management havent objected so far, either, so whos to
judge?
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And any wisecracks about my waistline gets you a busted

tooth, see? Its still only twenty-eight inches, and Im not in a very
exalted frame of mind right now despite that, which Im sure you
realise by now.

I fished my compact out of my bag with some difficulty

the darn thing had hidden itself in the folds of the imitation-
sandalwood folding fan Rohan had given me last year when we were
seeing each otherand gave my nose a quick pat or two with the
powder-puff, right out there in the hall where I sat. If youve seen the
loo in the place, youd understand why. Then I deftly added a quick
swipe of gloss to my lips, anyway the lipstick was genuine Yardley
Kissproof and wouldnt leave any residual smudges on my cup for
the waiter to fantasize over. Not that I cared tuppence...any man who
has the stamina and forbearance to work as a waiter in a coffee house
deserves his kicks, no matter how kinky.

I was putting the make-up stuff back in my bag when a

female sat down at my table without so much as a by-your-
leave...which suited me just fine. She was lean though well set up, and
about fortyish (meaning she was more than ten years my senior). She
didnt look it, I had to admit, but Im always glad to concede an
advantage in years if not in looks. Next to dust, Time is a womans
worst enemy.

She wasnt too bad looking, actually, but she had this
unhealthy pallor that often goes with too much boiled cauliflower curry
and too little sunshine. I think her frame was meant to be a little
meatier, if you get the drift. As things stood, she was heading for
anorexia, which was the real reason why I was actually thoroughly
pissed with her the moment I saw her. I cant stand people who are
thin by cosmic diktat coupled with fanatical dieting. Its not fair, see,
when there are people like me who cant workout but love chocolate
fudge and black forest pastries as much as the next woman; but I just
have to glance at confectionary to add five pounds at the hips. Walking
past Wengers drives me dotty, homicidal even.

She had bags under her eyes, however, to compensate for

the unfair advantage, but nothing that eight hours of solid sleep and a
couple of slices of cucumber left on her eyes overnight wouldnt fix. It
looked as if she was worried about something, which is as good a
reason for insomnia as any. Otherwise, she was the average fairly well-
to-do New Delhi working woman on the lookout for Mr. Right (oh, yes,
us women always know).

Shed had one or two near misses, I could tell, though I

didnt think the experience had slowed her down appreciably. On the
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contrary, theyd probably made her even more desperate to connect:

the pale, shallow indentation where the ring had been on her ring
finger told its own story. Well, I didnt blame her for wanting to catch
her man quickly: fortyish is cutting it mighty fine, no matter how well
one has maintained herself. It would probably be her last catch, if she
managed to pull it off at all. I didnt rate her chances too highly,
though. Most Indian men prefer more flesh on the bones.

She glanced at her wrist (bony, no bangles, Titan gold-

plated day-date chronometer, about two thousand bucks), and eyed
the door impatiently. She ignored me totally; apparently she hadnt
gotten round to slumming yet. I could sense I was very much beneath
the kind of circles she moved in, which would be upper-middle class
suburbia, probably a flat she shared with her parents, a car, a pet, and
some potted petunias. Then she was waving her handkerchief
discreetly, and she half rose to put a languid hand on the shoulder of
another as they touched cheeks in the ritualistic peace greeting
globalized by New Yorkers and smooched the air around each others
earlobes as insincerely as possible before sitting down.

I was curious to study what the other half of the twosome

looked like, but she hadnt noticed me either. The new addition was
just as blind as her friend to the presence of the hoi polloi, which
definitely included me. I admit I stared, but it was no crime since I was
obviously made of glass, rendered transparent by my lowly station in
life and attendant penury. Well, thats always been an advantage for
me, in many ways, seeing that ushers at film festivals never notice me
when I sneak past them to poach a seat for myself in the stalls. And if
one of the glitterati asks me, by some hideous case of mistaken
identity, as to what I do for a living, I just say Im into penury, and they
nod their heads sagely and turn away satisfied, as if theyre sure that it
has something to do with penmanship. Handy word, that...and le mot
juste for a writer.

The new arrival was in Delhi after twenty years, she

mentioned (and I overheard, since I couldnt help but eavesdrop), as
the old school and college chums warmed to the ordeal of catching up
with each others lives. The second woman was vaguely female, short,
plump, fair of skin, and she wore contact lenses and favoured Mystique
by Dior, a perfume I wouldnt be caught dead wearing in a coffee
house. Dont ask me how I know so much about perfumes: Im good at
these things, even though my rent is overdue and I havent used
Charlie for years.

She was expensively dressed in what appeared to be a

second-evening-out silk sari that had enough gold embroidery
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embedded in it to sink the Titanic, and the heavy mangal-sutra around

her ample neck, and the four rows of gold bangles on each pudgy arm
would have further ensured that she reached the bottom far ahead of
the bows. Her avoirdupois made me feel better, but her obvious
affluence neutralized that, leaving me feeling all shaken and stirred
inside with nowhere to bond.

I could sense my low feeling trying to crouch even lower as

I discerned the beginnings of a headache. Gold did that to me with
unfailing regularity, laying me lower than a Kryptonite-zapped
Supergirl. If the gold was on someone else, that is...which it usually
was. The closer it is to me, the worse the effect. Im mass over volume
equals density, and the good old inverse-square law jolly well applies
to me, too. Gold does have this kind of effect on women who dont
have much of it. Hey! I do have a chain, but its worn so thin that Im
planning to pawn it. I need the cash.

Inevitably, the talk got around to their love lives, the usual
technical and statistical stuff.... Women are so much more comfortable
discussing the details of their amorous activities among their own kind
than men are, dont you think? I like to believe this is because we are
less guilt-ridden about our bodies and their natural functions than men.
We dont have their hang-ups; we have a more honest and realistic
approach to such things.

The conversation drifted into the rarified atmosphere of

finance. The first woman (Aasha) claimed she wasnt exactly rich but
her young, virile and handsome husband more than made up for that.
Bishan (as he was named) was a great home-lover who often did the
cooking and the dishes, and even took the garbage out.

Sudha (the pudgy one) returned serve with a deft lob to

the baseline. The servants did all the housework in her house. Sudhir
was so considerate: he always phoned whenever he was going to be
late at office (which was very frequent: he was Head of Operations at
Mercantile and United Bank), and always sent the car over to pick her
up so that they could go dine at the club and play a few rubbers of
bridge. Why, last October, hed lost ten thousand rupees cash at
Delhis Gymkhana Club playing poker, but had bought her a diamond
pendant as a token of his guilt at his extravagance.

Aasha matched the lob with another baseline lob,

admitting that Bishan wasnt very high in his firms hierarchy, but what
the heck, he was so young; there was so much time left to climb the
corporate ladder, like Sudhir had done before him. First blood had been
drawn.
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Sudha frowned and coloured. Charging the ball, she

volleyed to the vacant forecourt, fast and deadly.

I know Sudhir is eighteen years my senior, but hes as

active as a man half his age. Why, he still has all his own hair and
teeth, hes very successful, and hes so slim and handsome. After all,
he has a daily workout and massageperks of the jobat the gym in
the Oberoi at Nariman Point. Only Gold Card members are allowed in,
you know, Aasha, she purred triumphantly.

Aasha returned with a backhanded topspin, coaxing the

ball low over the net. Of course, Sudha. An older man can sometimes
be so much more enjoyable. After all, hes more experienced. Thats
why they are such wonderful lovers...but often a little stressed out.
Even if hes rich, a man needs a change of scene now and then to keep
him in top shape! Anyway, why worry about all that stuff. No matter
what, youve got it made!

Sudha sniffed, somewhat mollified, content to shuffle out

and hit the ball back ambivalently back to centre-court. She couldnt
get what Aasha meant, but it had a ring of insincerity to it. Her
antennae were quivering, and there was adrenaline on the way.

Aasha moved smoothly into position for the down-the-line

backhand passing shot, her favourite. Now take my Bishan...hes
three years younger than me! I had to teach him everything! He is
such a buddhu! She giggled, and blushed incompetently. Her coyness
was designed to be excruciatingly off-putting.

Can you imagine the embarrassment, Sudha, when we

have to fill in application forms and hotel registers and railway
reservations and stuff like that? The clerks all give you the glad eye,
knowing youre well looked after...if you get my meaning! she added
with a sly wink as the ball whistled off the catgut.

Sudha failed to address the ball competently, and turned

frosty again.

Age is only a feeling in the mind, Aasha. Id rather have a

mature lover than a wet-behind-the ears greenhorn to put through his
paces, I really would. And being rich has its compensations...Yes, its
great to have a rich man around to pick up the tabs. Youll know when
your turn comes and Bishan makes his pilewhich, I hope, will be
sooner rather than later. Which reminds me... lets order. She was
content with deuce. It rhymes with truce, too.
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Whatll you have? The treats on me!

No way, Sudha! insisted Aasha. I asked you to meet

with me here, and Im lifting the check, darling! It was turning out to
be an entertaining rally.

Oh, well, have it your way, conceded Sudha. By the

looks of the place, we could stuff ourselves on a mere hundred bucks.
Good shot! Advantage Sudha!

It was Aashas turn to colour, but she served well,

practically an ace. Tasty grub they serve here, and I remember your
love for genuine south-Indian food. I didnt pick the place because of
the prices on the menu, dear lady. She always made someone dear
when that someone was particularly un-dear at the moment. Besides,
south Indian fare is good for the figure! Shed put everything she had
into that serve. It turned out to be an ace, the ball thudding dully into
the blue canvas backdrop. Deuce again.

The cheek of this nouveau riche gold-digging bitch, she

thought to herself, trying to get snooty with her, when she knew jolly
well that during her college days, shed have given an arm and a leg
for a chance to pig out at the Coffee House. And as for that rich man
shed hooked, one wondered exactly what bait shed used. She
currently looked like a lump of lard left over from last nights sausage-
fest, and it wasnt as if she was overflowing with gray matter or
anything like that, by way of compensation...

Sudha preened inwardly. She was holding her own against

the local champion. Imagine the gall of this skinny, jaded, middle-class
hussy, trying to compare herself with someone higher in the pecking
order. She, Sudha, had put her firmly in place. As if ones husbands
age or possible infidelities were of any real consequence.
In the final reckoning, all that mattered was ones bank
balance and status in society, a l the Clintons. Such a pity: these
things were so far beyond Aashas reach that she failed to appreciate
their importance.

I could practically read the unspoken thoughts as they

hung silently in the air around the table, like the thought balloons you
see in the Sunday supplement funnies. I could have chopped up the
atmosphere with a meat cleaver, it was that thick. It felt great to have
a grandstand seat. The tension between the two women was palpable.

Why, I didnt wonder. Thats the way it always is, secretly,

between women. We never have any real friends of the same sex: at a
cellular level, its invariably a scrap to the death, irrespective of how
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deep the (discernible) surface layers extend. Its an ancient oestrogen-

driven thing, and theres no point in sweeping it under the carpet.

They munched their way sullenly through a masala dosa

and a plate of idlis apiece with commendable dedication, eating
delicately with knives and forks, like genteel folk do. Conversation was,
for the nonce, suspended. A wedding band now gleamed on Aashas
finger, I observed. I wondered when shed slipped it on. Shed probably
done it surreptitiously when her friend entered the coffee house.

At last, replete with good food, a comradely warmth of

sorts stealing over them as they contemplated the cups of coffee
before them, they appeared to call off the engagement, tacitly
agreeing to a draw. Dont ask me how I knew: I just did.

The Press gave Aasha an honourable mention for lifting the

tab, and by way of magnanimity, she invited Sudha over to Delhi
again. Sudha responded gallantly by giving her Sudhirs cellphone
number in case her own handset was switched off and an urgent
message had to be conveyed.

Aasha lingered on, saying she was expecting a colleague,

so Sudha upended her bag, located her make-up kit, repaired the
paintwork, carelessly swept the cornucopia of visual delights that were
the contents of her voluminous bag into its open maw, pulled the zip
half closed, got up, wished her friend an airy goodbye, and left the
court. I noticed she waddled as she exited the room, dropping a card
as she negotiated the door.

After a few moments, Aasha withdrew her cellphone from

her bag and dialed a number. With a sudden flash of insight, I knew
who it was that she was calling. I admit I was an intentional
eavesdropper by now. The human drama always appealed to the
reporter in me. This hunch was pure intuition...and right on target.

Sudhir? Hi, baby! Aasha! Guess who I had lunch with me

just a minute ago! No?...Well, brace yourself...it was your wife! Why
didnt you ever tell me Sudha is your wife? Listen, we two go way, way
back...Yeah, school and college! Small world, isnt it? You could have
knocked me down with a feather when she started talking about
you.....Yeah, you said it: ate me out of house and home, too! How do
you put up with her?.....Kitne behude harkatein hai uske...Why, thats
awfully sweet of you, honey, I know how much I mean to you....

Missing you? Darling, of course Im missing you. Im simply

dying to see you again, ASAP! To see you ... and love you! Kab miloge?
Youre what? Whats DTFYT? What kind of daft acronym is that? ...Oh,
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I see! Ha Ha, I should have guessed! Naughty naughty! ...... Kya kaha
toonein? Youve what..?! But thats not just extravagant, thats
obscenely extravagant! A diamond necklace! ...... Dyou know, she
actually boasted about your dropping ten thousand at a poker game,
last October. Shell never guess where you really lost it, tee hee!

Never have fifteen rupeeseither before or sincegiven

me such excellent mileage. I paid my bill and left, impulsively picking
up the card that was still lying unnoticed on the doormat where Sudha
had dropped it. It was Sudhirs, of course.

Overwhelmed by weltschmertz, I slowly made my way

home, feeling as if life was passing me by. It was just a game of
numbers, like the fabled satta of Mumbai. Everywhere I turned, Life
seemed to be all about cards with numbers on them. When the one
with your number on it came up...

On an impulse, I memorized the digits on Sudhirs card

before tearing it to shreds. Who knows when or why I might need to go
to Mumbai. To clinch a Match Point, perhaps?

Subroto Mukerji