By Mansi Shanbag
As I make my way across the cobbled streets, the quiet wind whistles by my ears. I wonder apprehensively whether or not I made the right choice, this career. My conscience screams, "NO!" I ignore the voice and keep walking, waiting for inspiration to hit me.
It doesn't.
I trace the lane to a small cafe by the side of the road. The inside looks beautiful, comforting, calming. Unbeknownst to myself, it pulls me in. All I need right now is a nice cup of handmade coffee. I lug my little bag in and grab a seat that overlooks the gorgeous blue ocean. The view is just as breathtaking as the ambience of the place. Down by the beach, I spot a family of five walking, running, building sand castles, splashing water on each other. I keep looking at them, waiting for inspiration to hit me.
It doesn't.
I squirm in the chair, familiarizing my body with it for optimum comfort. I read through the menu aimlessly. I already know what I want to order - an iced americano. The server comes and waits by my side silently. I finish skimming through the thin paper and look up at him smiling brilliantly, like I made his day so much better. As if that were possible, what with my terrible state of mind. He looks old, worn out, but happy. I ask him for the iced americano, he scrunches his face in discomfort, like I've hurt him. He introduces himself as the owner, and asks me to try the day's special in his broken English. What he lacks in diction, he makes up for in hand gestures and animated expressions. I relent. He walks away with a dazzling white smile. I look at his retrieving back, waiting for inspiration to hit me.
It doesn't.
I look out to the view again; mechanically my hands turn to my bag and pull out my laptop, as if I had rehearsed it a million times before. I had. With my eyes trying to spot the happy family again, my hands pull out my notebook and my pencil. My eyes revert to my table; my laptop is already switched on and my pencil rests on my open notebook, waiting to be used. The tip of the pencil is blunt. I try to remember the last time I sharpened it, and fail. I wait for inspiration to hit me.
It doesn't.
The man comes back with my order. On the tray rests a beautiful, fluffy croissant. Next to it is a cream roll, a plate of saucy fries and a vanilla-caramel milkshake. Resting in a corner, behind all these items, is a tumbler with something in it. The owner smiles, points to the cup and says, "Americano. On house, mon amour." I smile at it, dipping my head gratefully. He taps the table once and traces his steps back to the counter. Looking at this stranger who cares without needing to, without being asked to, I wait for inspiration to hit me.
It doesn't.
I look back out to the beach; the family has retired to their resting place. The parents are sipping cocktails, the kids are lying on the sand, reading, listening to music, living. I look at myself, alone, at a cafe somewhere in France, a tray of food I know I won't finish, a blank word document I know I won’t conquer, an open notebook I know I won’t fill, a pencil I know I won’t use. Am I not living? Am I just surviving? Still, stubbornly, I wait for inspiration to hit me.
It doesn't.
I finish the delicious americano, the croissant and, at a stretch, even the milkshake. When I ask for the check, the jolly old man is sad that I haven't finished the food. I smile apologetically and ask him to pack it up. I compliment the milkshake, he grins brightly and says it is his wife’s favorite, so he knows how to make it best. He wishes me a good day, I return the gesture and walk out with a small bag of the fries and the cream roll. I look down at the cobbled street, figuring out where to go next. My conscience speaks up, reminding me of the deadline. I shut her down with a loud thump of my foot. Passersby don't spare a second glance, something I'm thankful for. My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I fish it out. Mum. I shove it back in.
Before realizing it, my legs start making their way downwind, in the opposite direction of my destination. I get annoyed; my body seems to be making my decisions for me, not my mind. Maybe that's what's wrong. Maybe I should leave my body with my laptop and my notebook, and let my mind wander. Maybe then I'll make the deadline. I laugh at the mental image my mind conjures up. This time, passersby look at me like I'm crazy. Inspiration still seems like a mirage; visible, but as soon as I reach it, it disperses, like wisps of dandelions. I feel the need to stop, I know I should, but with my legs leading the way, I find myself reaching the beach sooner than I would've imagined.
As soon as I spot the beach, my hands reach for my brown sandals, pulling them off in a hurry. My feet almost sing in relief. Mankind was meant to be barefoot. Shoes are constricting; like a straightjacket for feet. I again laugh at the mental image; my feet look shocked to be put in a straightjacket. They hate it, in my imagination. Their mouths are gagged by the smooth leather and they have a sweat trickle near the big toe, just like in the cartoons. I feel sorry and reach for my feet, stroking them once before continuing to walk down the beach. The sand parts between my toes, some of it falling away, some deciding to stay. I subconsciously start trying to spot the family again. They are nowhere to be found. I look up at the giant stone wall at the periphery of the beach. Here and there, at odd distances, I see a break in the fort where there must be cafes, stores, bars, I imagine. The ocean works meticulously to continuously provide the background music for my visual curiosity. I look to the ocean, the blue looks good. But it never looked good enough to make me take a swim.
I sit down cross-legged at a distance from the water. The sand is warmer than I imagined. I tie my hair up in a ponytail; the wind is not worth the tangles and the sand particles my hair will be ridden with for the rest of the day. A man from a nearby beach bar walks up to me, asking me if I want any refreshing drinks. I am very conscious of the heavy milkshake I have just had at the cafe. I contemplate whether or not to order something. Before my mind can think, my mouth speaks out, "A beer would be super." He nods and walks away to a pair sitting nearby to ask them for their order. I am very annoyed at my body. Taming is necessary. I can't have two entities deciding my fate, my body AND my brain. With a sour expression, I wait for inspiration to hit me.
It doesn't.
The beer is chilled when it arrives. I thank the server profusely. I sip it cautiously, like I am waiting for my stomach to announce whether or not this was a good choice. My body accepts the beer. I breathe deeply in relief. The sun is setting slowly over the city, the hues of orange and purple filling up the sky are oddly uplifting. I refuse to fall prey to the beauty of nature but with every growing second, I find myself caring less and less about my troubles. My conscience seems to have quieted down too. I no longer find the need to shut her up harshly, for she doesn't find the need to nag me anymore. My phone vibrates again. I ignore it. For the first time today, my body complies with my mind. I smile with vindictive pleasure. Is it me or the beer? Either way, my worry about inspiration is fading away even as the sky turns a shade of blue I didn't know existed.
A catchy tune grabs my attention. I look around trying to spot it. I trace it back to the same beach bar I ordered the beer from. I realize I haven't finished it. I gulp it down quickly, stand up and walk towards the bar. I reach for my wallet to pay for the beer, but someone grabs my hand and pulls me to a section I notice only now. A large, thin linoleum board is set up on the sand and is surrounded by several little lights. There are a bunch of people dancing on the board. The music is warm and catchy. My body reacts to it before my mind can register it. Traitor, I think to my limbs. I finally get a chance to look up to the culprit, the one who grabbed my hand and rid me of my self-control again. The hand-grabber is clearly a local, a young guy, a head full of warm brown ringlets and eyes that mean no harm. He is still holding my hand firmly, swinging me around, as I desperately try to catch up. His smile is infectious, my face is the next one to betray me and start smiling. I dance away with him. I am conscious of the drinks I'm gulping away. Do I need them? No. Do I gulp them down anyway? Sure. I am aware of the decreasing distance between me and the handsome stranger. My body and mind are again on the warpath, I realize. It isn’t long before I feel a warmth on my lips, the softest touch of another pair of lips. Even as my mind is screaming anxiously, my body makes its way back to the local’s apartment.
The next morning I sneak out. I was never big on confrontation. I leave him my fries and cream roll, as a cruel way of saying thanks. I make my way to the main street and find out the handsome stranger didn't live that far away from the beach. I scan the street for a coffee place and find one, nothing like the gorgeous one yesterday of course. As I fumble into my bag to look for change, my fingers discover a foreign piece of paper. It doesn't look like my post-its. I shove it in my jean pocket, pay for my coffee and exit the place; it smelled nothing like warm coffee. Outside, by a tree shaped like a stout pear, I spy a stone bench peppered with colorful rocks. I make my way to it, touching it gingerly with my fingertips. It is harsh and cold to touch. I sit cautiously and fish out the piece of paper. Something is scrawled across it in an untidy handwriting along with a number.
"If you wish to, call me. I know good places to eat!
L.”
I smile. The stranger was more intuitive than I gave him credit for. I save the number for later and start walking to my hotel. I have barely stepped into the room and my shoes come off, my laptop bag is strewn open across the desk, my notebook sprawled open next to it. I start typing. Words spill out before I can register the meanings, sentences emerge before I even knew they had conceived in my brain. My story is complete, my deadline is no longer a matter of stress. I call up mum; she sounds so worried, it amuses me. A calm befalls me. I wonder, was it the coffee? The beer? The guy? I wait for a plausible answer to show itself to me.
It doesn't.
By Mansi Shanbag
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