'One fish finger and two Budweisers.' Her tone is premeditated. She must be the modern woman, studying theatre in JNU, back in Calcutta to her parents for the puja-vacation, meeting school friends. The waiter scribbled down the order as he built up the person behind it. 'Anything else, Ma'am?
'No, that will do for now, thank you.'
Anthony has been waiting at the tables of Johnny English in Park Street since the time Mr Kapoor's father bought it from Mr Heckles, in 1976. He joined as a dish washer at age fifteen. Johnny English saw him grow into the head butler and to become the wisest of them all. These days, the boys who join are from one of the many hotel management institutions mushrooming the city and have no sense of hospitality in them. Openly, they tug at the tip.
'Number twelve. Table two. Two Buds.' Having delivered his note, he went out to attend to the table with casual refilling of the glasses. This was his favourite time. He managed to overhear the guests discuss what to order for the main course, and this was where his assumptions either crashed, or swelled. For this many years, this was all he lived for, this moment of sheer self-victory, or shame. He prided himself on being a master reader of character.
As he stooped to pour the water, Gautami surprised him by looking straight at him. 'Mineral, right?'
'Yes, Ma'am.'
Gautami straightened her collar and got ready to put forth her next question. 'Er, what is your name?'
'Anthony DeSouza.'
'Anthony, would you mind working for us in our movie? We were looking at a face like yours.'
Is she already high? Or does luck always snap such? 'Sure, Ma'am.'
Thirty nine days and a first of such a leave later, Anthony returned to the familiarity of awaiting at Johnny English's Italian marble table tops. Last night there was a hullabaloo when he, along with his team of documentary directors had come to Johnny English to have the celebratory dinner. Initially, he was a little jittery. He was expecting an uproar from the authorities and believed he would not be allowed -- that the other waiters would refuse to serve him.
It was the most memorable night of his life, ever. He was one documentary old. But what made him the real achiever was when Gautami clapped the team silent and faced him. 'Tony, order what you feel like.'
Anthony wished to freeze that moment when he said 'Chicken a la Kiev' to Ram Singh, a fresher. For so long he had judged those who ordered it to be confident and sure of themselves. And he tipped smartly. Ram Singh was going to be one happy man, maybe feel inspired too.
This evening felt different. As he scribbled the order, he missed last night and the last forty days. As it turned out, in a series of firsts, he misheard the order. He was excused, of course. And he still earned a handsome tip.
He lost his sleep forever, though. Lights, many said. Melancholy, others.
Gautami straightened her collar and got ready to put forth her next question. 'Er, what is your name?'
'Anthony DeSouza.'
'Anthony, would you mind working for us in our movie? We were looking at a face like yours.'
Is she already high? Or does luck always snap such? 'Sure, Ma'am.'
Thirty nine days and a first of such a leave later, Anthony returned to the familiarity of awaiting at Johnny English's Italian marble table tops. Last night there was a hullabaloo when he, along with his team of documentary directors had come to Johnny English to have the celebratory dinner. Initially, he was a little jittery. He was expecting an uproar from the authorities and believed he would not be allowed -- that the other waiters would refuse to serve him.
It was the most memorable night of his life, ever. He was one documentary old. But what made him the real achiever was when Gautami clapped the team silent and faced him. 'Tony, order what you feel like.'
Anthony wished to freeze that moment when he said 'Chicken a la Kiev' to Ram Singh, a fresher. For so long he had judged those who ordered it to be confident and sure of themselves. And he tipped smartly. Ram Singh was going to be one happy man, maybe feel inspired too.
This evening felt different. As he scribbled the order, he missed last night and the last forty days. As it turned out, in a series of firsts, he misheard the order. He was excused, of course. And he still earned a handsome tip.
He lost his sleep forever, though. Lights, many said. Melancholy, others.
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