A one-liner about self
A cold and starry night. The shoulders of the highway is whitewashed after a snowstorm 18hours ago. Suddenly the dormant world of snow wakes up being bathed by a pair of bright beams of golden light. A bus carrying sleeping passengers is dashing towards Toronto.
A group of young college goers enter the place. And for the next two seconds they are not sure if the restaurant is open. A dim light from a low powered bulb is struggling to keep the entire area illuminated. Empty seating arrangement provided by chaste furnitures suggests a nonchalant vibe dominant in the whole spectacle. Placed in the heart of a vibrant city exuberant with motley of cultures and cuisines, where the festooned fanfare often dangles on the verge of pomposity, this nook of simplicity presents itself with an elegance almost incomprehensible.
At about half past 10, a short halt at Kingston bus terminus offers a long yearned respite from the sedentary numbness. The cozy seats and the warm air inside has been ideal for traveling back and forth between comatose state and half awaken state of reality. The incessant cries of the petrified limbs for some movements have been rebuffed by an languid brain, who seems content with the seamless transition from the faintly lit highway on a winter night to a gleaming yellow corn field that sways in the summer breeze blowing all over the world of trance. Suddenly an announcement on a microphone puts an end to that reverie. It’s time to wake up, get down and stroll a little.
The owner of the restaurant welcomes his puzzled visitors with a warm smile and with a gesture that instantly makes one feel wanted. Contrary to the first impression, it is revealed that the place is open. The host explains the way one has to choose from a variety of options of courses for a four course menu. To the food connoisseurs habituated in visiting exquisite restaurants with an ostentatiously printed menu, the verbal description seems a little amateurish and inadequate. The group finds themselves seated with a ‘what-the-heck-let’s-check-it-out’ attitude in mind. Their curious gaze hovers over the kitchen counter, where they find no one but the owner. When he comes with the first serving if the first course, three things come into light:
Kingston is left behind at least for an hour. The soporific rhythm of the fast moving vehicle casts another spell of slumber over the passengers. ‘Anyone getting down at Witby?’– no reply comes in response to the driver’s query. Silence is the indicator of negation is well understood by everyone. So, nothing changes after that cursory disruption of the mindless continuity. Ten minutes elapse and the microphone breaks the silence for the third time.
‘I am sorry. But a second bus was supposed to pick the passengers from Witby, and it seems that they are suffering from some technical difficulty which might cost some significant amount of delay. I wasn’t supposed to go via that route but in any good conscience I can’t leave those passengers behind in such a windy and chilling night. So I’m afraid I shall have to detour a little to accommodate those poor travellers waiting for their ride. Please bear with me. It shouldn’t take more than a 30 mins delay.’
This truly jolts me out of my torpor, which occasional lurch caused by lurking potholes on the snow-smeared street has so long failed to effectuate. My stupefied mind can not fathom what the driver is apologizing for. It is the night of Boxing Day that has come with promises of an impending week of holidays and every soul on this trip is searing with enjoyable moments to be spent with family and friends. Not really a scenario of an emergency that might call for the quickest end of the journey. Relaxed on a Friday night, I am sure that every individual in the bus has a flexible schedule and the assurance of a rejuvenating period to look forward to, except the announcer who perhaps has to get up early the following day to get on with his quotidian routine. ‘Why should it be him who has to apologize, let alone the possibility of us congratulating him for this extraordinarily altruistic gesture?’ –perhaps a complicated question the answer for which isn’t even bothering to get through me.
‘Which normal being can gobble this humongous quantity of food? Then again, who in his right mind could waste a food that is this good?’ Nobody among us is investing more than ten seconds in attempt to keep the conversation alive on the dinner table, but the aforementioned is the gush of amazement that has been resurfacing numerous times, making us pause from devouring the plateful of ambrosia and exchange startling gaze among ourselves. And our rational minds struggle in vein to justify the profitability for the business in providing such a huge amount of delish preparations at this insanely low price. ‘Perhaps the lack of ostentation in the exhibit of the restaurant makes up for the costs and leaves room for the profit.’ –the logical argument of our analytical minds falls short in front of pure awe that is leaving us agape in bewilderment.
We reach Toronto around 11:40. After picking up the passengers from Witby, the driver, perhaps feeling guilty of costing us more time than declared at the beginning of our journey, drove faster than usual to compensate the loss of time. At the terminus, he kills the engine, thanks us for our patience and once again says sorry for the delay. Still confused, I approach him when he is unloading the bags. ‘Excuse me Mr. Sorry for me interrupting you. I wanted to thank you for your kind gesture before when you decided to drive to Witby. Given that it was not your duty and that it is hell of a night, I believe what you did back there was quite extraordinary.’–and I mean every verse of my emotionally burdened speech. I cannot care less about being forthcoming or verbose, for I am being thankful to have met such a person, and I thank him for presenting me with an instance that leaves me humble and reaffirms my faith in us, humans. ‘Oh! You’re most welcome. But really, it wasn’t much..you would’ve done the same in my place, wouldn’t you?’
While paying the bill, my friend asks the cook a question, that by the look of the addressee, seems awfully obvious and naive. From a distance it is a little hard to comprehend but I think I see him leaving a fat tip in a container. While taking the leave, my friend delineated in precision the act of generosity of the host when he didn’t even mention the mandatory act of adding a tip to the bill and when he was offered one, his guileless smile of gratitude was a perfect blend of honesty and hermetic abstinence. ‘I asked him how he manages everything so perfectly and with so much of love and persistence? You know what he said? He simply shrugged and said: ‘It’s my job. It’s what I am good at and what I love to do. So, everything comes smoothly. I’m sure you would’ve done the same had you been me… wouldn’t you?’
A complicated question. A rather piercing insinuation disguised in a benign suggestion. I was baffled both times, fumbling for a suitable answer that is honest enough. I still am.