Sourav and Alok decided to go and
have lunch one afternoon in "Lajjat", a popular
restaurant of their city. Earlier that morning, Sourav had spotted an
advertisement of that restaurant in a local daily which read "Come & Enjoy the 'Pakhala'
Festival. Before any further
is written about this story, its imperative to know that the 'Pakhala' is a
local cuisine of the state of Odisha and very popular too, especially in
summer. Its humble constituents are rice submerged in water. However the
assortment of dishes that are picked with 'Pakhala' make it quite an
unputdownable delicacy. A quintessential serving of 'Pakhala' can give its
consumer an ultimate satisfaction, both in his tummy and taste. Sourav and Alok
shared their appetite for 'Pakhala', for which it barely took any persuasion on
the part of Sourav to convince his otherwise home food loving pal for a
satiating treat of their favourite dish not prepared by his mother. Maybe the urge to eat "Pakhala" in the dehydrating summer
heat had also some role to play in it.
At around fifteen past one in the
afternoon, Sourav honked his bike horn impatiently at Alok's residence. Alok
rushed down and soon they hit the road to "Lajjat" the ever crowded,
ever sought after eatery situated at the heart of Bhubaneswar. When they reached
there, they found, to their sheer frustration, half a dozen guests in
the lounge area, already in the queue. Alok threw himself at the door and
opened it slightly just to take a peep and he was greeted by the hustle and
bustle of pervasive chatting at the crowded tables, incessant clinking of the
spoons and forks as they were being eagerly glided over ceramic dishes with
some faint familiar music humming in the background. The scrumptious mixed
aroma stole its way into his nostrils further stirring the already
ecstatic hunger enzymes inside him. He just left the door to shut by its
own and walked back to his friend who from the look on his face guessed that
'Pakhala' had just been wiped off their fates. The grand wall clock adorning
the plastic painted walls of the lounge area read two and by all means when
their turn would come "Pakhala" would be out of stock. He remembered
the advertsisment from the local daily and recalled those tiny words after an asterisk sign which had warned that guests would be served only
on "First Come First Serve Basis". A dismayed Sourav sighed "May
be tomorrow."
As both stood gaping at the
abstract design of the restaurant's name inscribed on the building, they heard someone whisper "Sir" from their behind and instantaneously
turned around. They saw a man, in about his mid fifties, short in stature but stout, with
an uncapped pen stacked behind his right ear earnestly looking at both of them.
He wore an uniform of white shirt, bow and black trousers. His shirt's collars
and cuffs were starched yellow indicating relentless use of it due to lack of
choices in his wardrobe. His stubble was in the process of greying and from
his disheveled hair it could be discerned that he was past the age
where eagerness to appear presentable and smart mattered supremely, unless of
course other factors of life dictated otherwise to one. He easily stood out among the
staff of his fellow waiters who appeared invariably below thirty years of age
and much better suited up to the occasion. He was an oddity in that flashy restaurant.
The communist in Sourav was glad that this poor man had not been sacked
for being a mismatch in the pristine display of the restaurant. 'Experience
surely has some value' Sourav reassured himself. "Yes ?"
asked Alok. The man informed both the friends, in a perfected mannerism unique to the workforce in the hospitality business, that he could arrange a seat for
them to enjoy their "Pakhala". Sourav instinctively enquired "How do you know that we are
here for "Pakhala" ? The
man gently replied in a calm tone that he had noticed Alok keenly investigating
the banner which displayed the tariffs of dishes served in the "Pakhala
Festival". The three of them smiled and Alok expressed his gratitude on
both their behalf and thanked the man. He courteously asked him his name and
the man said 'Naba'.
They were led by Naba to the table
No. 14 as they grinned at each other. It was a table for two at the
farthest corner inside the restaurant . The cool air flowing out of the air conditioning machines soothed
their crying skins. At the table, Naba pulled one of the chairs and Sourav alighted on it.
Sparkling clean water was poured into their glasses for which they thanked
Naba. After a brief discussion on the supplementing dishes to be purchased
besides their common order, a final list was scribbled down by Naba. He melted
away into the crowd, promising to be back within ten minutes. Sourav was
marvelling at the ritzy interiors of the restaurant when Alok began to grimace
in realization of the fact that they had been lured into a very well laid trap. He went ahead and notified Sourav that he should be now ready to fork out extra cash to return Naba's
favour. He did not discount to add his knowledge about rapacious servers in
such sprawling eateries, who are on the hunt for unsuspecting foodies, with the sole aim of grossing that 'little extra' in lieu of smartly staged favours.
Not happy with such unwarranted cynical expression, Sourav seethed "A
modicum of gratitude would do you no harm brother, habit of profiling
would." "How do you know that he has 'staged' his help ?', he continued with emphasis.
'Wait and watch' shot back
Alok. Sourav chose better than arguing with his friend.
The food arrived in exactly ten
minutes. It was indeed very sincere of the restaurant to stick to the printed
commitment made by it on every menu card which read "Please bear with us for at
least ten minutes to serve you your Order." Now, the
restaurant could easily choose to hide behind the term "at
least" which had
been cleverly placed in the statement. Rather it had chosen to be earnest in
its effort or so it seemed. Naba and his colleague placed the small dishes of
the assortments surrounding the main attraction. It looked like an arc with
the bulgy 'Pakhala' bowl in the middle surrounded by the tiny
dishes in a picture perfect style. Alok had already begun devouring
his lunch, even before Naba had left to attend other customers, making all kind
of sounds which one is not expected to make while eating, least of all, while
eating at restaurants. Naba flashed a warm smile at Sourav and said "Sir, I'll be at that
corner" pointing at the
billing counter, "Just
wave if there's anything you need" and
walked away. Sourav began with his food. He started to take small pinches from
each dish and put them to his tongue, a habit sheltered since his childhood. He
smiled approvingly and submerged himself in the delicious depths of "Pakhala". He kept consuming continuously for
a considerable stretch without even raising his head. Exhausted with the
marathon gulping, he began throwing random glances at adjoining
tables and their occupants. All of a sudden he caught a glimpse of Naba, who
appeared to be caught in a heated communication with the manager. Sourav
immediately waved at him pretending to be in urgent need of his
services, with a latent motive to rescue him. Naba came rushing to their table and gasped 'Yes Sir'. Sourav
delicately began to inquire about the matter and came to be informed by him that a complain has been made before the Manager that he had been inattentive
to requests which had been placed much prior to that of Table No. 14's. Enraged
at the blatant display of disregard a couple of customers had decided to walk out but
not before formally complaining to the manager. A surprised Sourav immediately
verified the truth of the allegations to which Naba confessed that he had
indeed ignored their requests in order to accord preference to the servings at table No. 14. It was
hard for Sourav to not let perplexity creep into his expression. He gently asked "Why ?".
"Better prospects I guess" Alok mumbled mockingly taking time out of mashing the potatoes inside his mouth. When Sourav looked back at Naba after
frowning at Alok he had already retired to his usual spot.
Trying to figure out the motives of
Naba, Sourav continued eating. Just about the time when they were finished and
ready to leave. They heard a commotion outside, in the lounge area. Naba was
also not standing at his usual spot. Done quickly with the payment for their
lunch, both Alok and Sourav rushed outside. They saw two men clad in flashy
attire raining down on Naba and the manager. 'Now
what ?', Sourav though to
himself and walked forward. He heard one of them yelling "What kind of pathetic
restaurant is this, where you don't honour the table reservation made
by customers ?..." Alok
stole away a staff who was witnessing the stand off and asked him what has
happened. He informed Alok and Sourav that Naba had given them the exact table which was
reserved for these two gentlemen, who are regulars to this place. Naba was
quietly standing there swallowing all the fire. But given the circumstances,
the man was not without fault. The manager intervened and said "Sir,
please come inside. Your table is now available." indicating that
the trespassers had left. As soon as they entered inside the
restaurant, Naba joined Sourav and Alok and offered to see them off to their
vehicles. As they were crossing the street Sourav was quickly making an
assessment of an adequate compensation for all the trouble the poor man
had tolerated for accommodating them. Alok continued to nod his head
sarcastically.
When they reached near their bike,
Sourav forked out two hundred rupee notes and shoved them into Naba's hand
hoping he'd not be expecting more. Naba unfolded the crispy notes and put them
back into Sourav's shirt pocket, blessed both of them and walked back to earn
his livelihood, probably praying that he does not get sacked over the incidents
of the day. Sourav stood speechless trying to fathom the last half an hour of
his life as Alok put on his helmet and inserted the keys into the ignition
slot. At this time, Sourav saw another waiter walking out to unwind as he pulled out a
cigarette from his pocket and placed it between his lips. Wasting no time,
Sourav rushed to him and after narrating the whole string of events, requested him for an explanation . With a wry smile the waiter spoke "Sahib,
Naba has been working here since its inauguration day, sincere and loyal barely complaining about anything.
Naba's son came here once to meet him at the restaurant over some urgent
matter. I remember seeing him happy after they sat down and discussed whatever
it was. He also introduced his son to all of us. His name was Baldev and he was
a Junior Engineer, recently employed by the State Govt. He was so proud of his
son., it glittered in his eyes. He also treated him, that day, to his favourite
dishes. When Baldev took our leave and both of them walked out, we followed them to see
him off. He pleaded with his father to return back to his work and promised to
take care of himself and started to cross the road." Pausing for a moment the man
continued "The next thing we see is that Baldev is crushed to his
death by a speeding lorry. The rogue didn't even stop to look back on what he
did. Naba's twenty four year old son breathed his last at the spot, right
before his eyes. Not a day passes when Naba doesn't regret working at this
place. But Sahib, what choice a poor husband has. He has no chance of an
alternate employment at his age and his present employment pays for his wife's
medical bills.". He paused again, a little longer this time and
continued "On that fateful day, Baldev had come to inform his father that the Govt. has approved his loan application for two lakh rupees for his
mother's operation." Sourav
had no strength left to query about the woman's exact ailment. The waiter's
mate summoned him to attend to the swelling crowd of guests inside. He took
Sourav's leave and started walking back. Mid way he stopped, turned back and
exclaimed softly "Sahib, the whole staff is talking about how similar you look to Baldev, just like his mirror image !!"
Sourav saw two lads mounted on a
bike, fly past him, screaming their wits out and the rider driving without holding the handles of
the bike. He let his gaze follow them till they became ants caught in the
shimmering summer air far away. The last words of the waiter hung
in his mind just like the obstinate winter mist of the hills.
************
("The Waiter's Son" is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person (alive or dead), place or incident is only coincidental.)
