The Moonlit Cafe

By Arya Pawar

Summer of ‘19— It was the first day of my lone trip, precisely to everywhere and exactly to nowhere. I shall not name the said locations, for it is valid to subjective interpretation of its charismatic individuality, and this place holds a special place in my heart. So find this mystery location, if you can, or perhaps let it be lost in the imagery of the words which your humble scribe shall pen, to flicker in that precious little corner of your conscience.

The old banyan tree greeted me as I opened my eyes to warm sunlight, descending through the long curtain-covered windows. It gave the room an orange tint.

About after an hour, as I made my way outside the hotel room, I was greeted with the most extravagant of the weather, white clouds covering the sky as if white cotton candy was sprinkled all over a blue Ben & Jerry's ice cream.

Through the carved wooden stairways of the hotel, upon the cobbled pathways, I made my way towards a local market around the corner. The cool air from the green that surrounded me caressed my face with a light feathery touch, and my short pixie hair shuffled a bit. It was an array of colours, people and smiles.

There was a Buddhist monk, all in red, talking to a group of tourists, maybe giving them directions, to a famous destination or to life perhaps. Who knows?

Behind them were buildings and shops in all forms, but strikingly, with an uncanny similarity amongst them. All of the buildings' stretch of roofs was covered with blue tarpaulin. It was aesthetic, mind you, but uncanny. Though it was not crowded, the hustle bustle of it can never be missed, can it? What is a market without the voices of the vendors, the multilinguist echoes of locals and tourists alike with the joy of euphoria that follows, eh?

Various handicrafts, clothes and artwork caught my eye as I passed through the heterogeneous variety of goods. I bought a robin's blue colored muslin cloth, with intricate, fine craftsmanship and detailing, depicting a muster dancing upon the arrival of the first rain, alongside an anklet of subtle yet beautiful design, with little silver lilies attached to it. It was a good day, I was happy.

As dusk knocked its arrival upon the little town, I was way inside the heart of it, and I being me, was inevitably exploring every crook and cranny of the alleys, waiting for that one hidden gem to reveal itself. And there it was. From the inside of a small vintage old restaurant, came the aromatic scent of spices sauteing itself in the sizzling butter. That was my cue, and inevitably, my feet carried themselves towards it.

From my terrace seat, my eyes gazed beyond the laburnum tree and the caliginosity of night encompassed what was visible of the pale land. The illumination of the night lamp reflected the misanthropist like myself’s world, which was nothing but the sole inducement to be a captive of the words and words alone, other than what was the maelstrom of oneself.

The strumming from the local artist's guitar, peri peri French fries, mojito and freshly baked bread, the eyes which glazed, night creature's tales, the dead of the night and the moon were an incessant reminder of a change.

By Arya Pawar