Abbas …


At my favourite Barista outlet, Abbas probably stands in front of the cappuccino machine, polishing its gleaming stainless-steel spouts and admiring the chrome finish of the Italian machine… Only the Italian can have such sense of lines and texture, only Italians have such sense of aesthetics, he is probably saying to himself…
For despite our presumptions about his background, Abbas is probably an erudite young man with a passion for Italian coffee machines. A passion so intense that he decided to take up a job in a coffee shop to be near one…
As I make myself comfortable in my corner chair and smile a smile of acknowledgement, he is probably saying to himself – “There is that guy again, I wonder what his story is…”
He is probably also considering the change in mid-afternoon coffee regulars… The old lady with the orange bag who always ordered a frappe and a lemon chicken sandwich, and slowly consumed it in her corner with the concentration of a surgeon at work, had disappeared…It’s almost as if she were a characters written out of a story… She had gone and taken her world with her… her small world of orange handbag and jingling change… The café now has a new regular, a beefy middle-aged man, who appeared out of blue one fine day, as if to replace the old lady…
Our little thoughtless gestures probably irks, disappoints or irritate him…
Maybe he flinches every time I pick up the copy of The Telegraph, because he is a Statesman loyal…
As we sat there and made casual conversations, there were probably countless moments when he could have interrupted and impressed us with acute observations… But as of now, Abbas busies himself with a cup of foaming coffee…