Caffeine

Whether it is cloudy or sunny (as one can never tell with the weather in Britain), one is always hooked to a ‘cuppa’. High up in the latitudes closer to the North Pole, one expects it to be cold, no matter how the Sun plays its dirty tricks. There are shops selling cuppas and offices storing cuppas, but they are only cuppas, and a cuppa (or more) a day can (supposedly) keep depression at bay. Which is good as our brain which is so entrained to the whims of the Sun, and our bodies so slow to recover from insult and injury can result in our psych going into an overdrive and jumping into the sea for no sane reason. The head becomes heavy, and it can’t keep itself above water (save for keeping it on an analyst’s couch with a nice satin pillow). 

As the sleep deprived crowd of human beings (biologically speaking) walk past the apple, pear and maple trees lining the streets, which slowly turn an autumn yellow, they do not for one moment observe the slow fluttering motion of the leaves as they detach themselves from the tree and fall gently in an infinite dance till they make a delicate landing on the earth. 

The thighs (not chicken thighs) work overtime to pedal uphill. There is someone behind catching up. The man in the tights looks behind to gauge the distance. He gives a passing glance at his hypertrophied musculature bursting out of his cycling tights (meant to reduce drag during the act of cycling). A rather floppily dressed Indian is pedalling fast to catch up, and Mr. Tights cannot let him overtake his cycling ego and prick it too. He wakes up from his caffeine laden drowsiness and searches for some fine motor control to tweak his racing bike through the random rusted crowd hardly in his league. The traffic signal has just turned yellow (which basically rings the ‘green’ bell in the mind) and he expects himself to race ahead of everybody else. 

A last car is trying to avoid waiting another red light at the crossroads, and is soon face to face with Mr. Tights and bike. The bike jumps, and the rear wheel is off the ground for an instant in what is a picture perfect moment, but no one to capture it (unfortunate for the photography community). 

A group of middle-aged people wait at a bus stop for what seems like ages. Their mind is filled only by the long journey ahead (to be completed in as much haste as can be afforded). One man stands against the wall with his eyes closed. The cold breeze has produced a strawberry pink in his cheeks. The folds of the skin on his eyelids aid in providing doubled up protection to his aging eyes. His chin flows down like a heavy bag of groceries pulling down the ends of his lips like the handles of a cheap plastic bag. The grim expression may be just an illusion to scare off pickpockets, for example. Or maybe he is just a tired old man contemplating on the recession and how his life has changed since 2007. 

A group of students stand in front of a pool table with bottles of beer and ale. A sign on the pool table reads, ‘Do not keep bottles on the playing surface’. It is about ten o’clock at night and a pint of alcohol can blur the senses enough to blur the difference between a table and a pool table. In the morning, the surface was re-laid, replacing the one mottled by bottled beer. A closed circuit camera was fitted to record drunken students’ indiscretion to prevent pool table related crimes. A smart looking guy with his bottle of beer on the edge of the pool table is trying a shot while also flirting with a girl sitting on the sofa opposite him. Two other players wait for him to complete his contemplation (about the shot) and conversation (with the girl in question). Farther down the room, there is little open space where people might dance if they liked to the faint music emanating from the bar sound system. A young man wearing parrot green trousers engage in a jig and then immediately after fall back into his seat. He is caught in a conversation about physical fitness (or the lack thereof) and higher education. 

It is after ten at night and there is a gentle drizzle blowing across the city. The shops are closed. In a bus stop shelter where buses no longer stop, a couple engage in a lip-lock. Passers-by see them but pretend to ignore, subconsciously feeling a little aged at that moment. Other than the dim streetlights, the only other forms of light are coming from blinking traffic signals. One or two wait to cross the road pressing the ‘WAIT’ button and waiting anxiously for the green walk signal to light up their life. In their anxious moments they accidently turn their heads to see love’s labour, out in the cold. The old woman, waiting, is filled with pity and wishes the couple would return to their centrally heated apartment to do what they are doing, in more comfort. The rigours of daily life have made her fussy and opinionated. 

Just a little ahead runs a brook inhabited by ducks. The ducks are looking at the red and green lights and wondering which one means there is food for them. They see the walk light and think it is some moss laden worm waiting for them to devour. One duck, with a dark head walks a little, tired but does not attempt to enter the brook. He and the others are satisfied to wait it out on the dry bank for the morning. An unscrupulous young man, wearing headphones with the symbol ‘b’ on them, throws his half-finished cup of coffee into the brook while crossing it over a rusted iron bridge. The ducks are suddenly woken from their stupor as the warm brown liquid slowly swirls into the cold water of the brook and the cup gently hits the bottom. They all stare at the shapes that keep forming and disappearing. 

Dwaipayan Adhya