It began, as many memorable evenings do, without any intention of becoming memorable. I had settled into a small coffee shop near my house, with a cup of Karak tea in my right hand and Ravi Subramanian’s novel Bankrupt resting in my left. The tea was hot, the pages inviting, and the world around me seemed determined to interrupt my reading. Perhaps that is why I remember the evening so clearly.
I looked to my left and noticed a beautiful white cat sitting beside a parked car. She appeared remarkably composed, almost philosophical, watching the street with an expression I could neither interpret nor ignore.
I was thinking about the characters in my novel, their ambitions and uncertainties. But what was she thinking? Did she wonder where her next meal would come from, or was she simply enjoying the evening without the burden of tomorrow? I envied her apparent freedom from appointments, obligations and unfinished plans.
The car beside her suddenly moved forward, slowly at first, before joining the passing traffic. The cat stepped aside, untroubled, and settled again. I watched the vehicle disappear and wondered how much of human life resembles that movement. We start, hesitate, accelerate and disappear around corners, rarely knowing what awaits us. Yet we behave as though every destination is certain. The cat, meanwhile, had mastered something we often forget: the art of remaining still.
Across the street, two men were cleaning a car. One sprayed water while the other rubbed the windows with patient, circular movements.
Their attention to every mark fascinated me. Here were men removing yesterday’s dust from a machine that would collect tommorrow’s dust.
Was this not a small portrait of life itself? We spend our days polishing what time will inevitably cover again. Nevertheless, there is dignity in the effort, and perhaps happiness lies not in keeping everything spotless but in caring enough to try.
A young boy passed by carrying a notebook against his chest. He walked quickly, as though late for something important. I imagined the notebook filled with mathematics, spelling exercises and perhaps a few secret drawings. He might have been returning from school or heading towards a lesson. Whatever his destination, he carried more than paper. He carried possibilities. The men were cleaning the present; the boy, without knowing it, was carrying a piece of the future.
“Baba! You are reading,” the waiter remarked, arriving with my second cup of tea. He sounded surprised, as though a book had become an unusual visitor to a coffee shop.
“Don’t you read?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “When there are no customers, I keep myself busy with my phone.”
“Try reading sometimes,” I suggested. “A book can take you somewhere your phone may never take you.” Then I caught myself delivering a lecture when he had merely come to serve tea. He smiled politely, and I wondered whether I had offered wisdom or simply interrupted his working day. After all, reading should teach us humility before it teaches us to advise others.
By the third cup, the novel had become only one of several stories before me. There was the cat, the moving car, the cleaners, the boy and the waiter. None knew they had entered my evening reflections. None had asked to become a character in my imagination. Yet together they had offered something no carefully arranged lecture could provide: a reminder that ordinary life is never entirely ordinary.
I now spend two or three hours at this little coffee shop whenever time permits, reading novels and drinking more Karak tea than I initially intend. Sometimes I turn many pages; sometimes I barely finish a chapter. But I have learned that reading is not always confined to printed words. Streets have paragraphs, strangers have untold chapters, and even a silent cat can raise questions worthy of a philosopher.
That evening, I closed my novel, finished the last sip and looked once more towards the street. Everything continued moving. Only my thoughts lingered, grateful for the privilege of watching life unfold without having to hurry after it. Perhaps the finest stories are those we encounter without searching for them.