The echoes in Kolkata’s Albert Hall Cafe were vibrant and gloomy.As I sat at a table and read Tagore’s “The Living and the Dead,” the indiscreet murmur of the room settled into my head rather than Tagore’s words.I folded the top corner of the leaf and closed the book.I looked around the cafe, which seemed more like a great banquet hall, and observed the other people. They laughed, talked, coolly smoked cigarettes, and sipped coffee.The baristas wore black collared shirts with white aprons and stumbled their way through the aisles to appease their customers.Some consumers studied their textbooks, while others pretended to study and glanced around the room trying to make eye contact with their opposite sexes.The second level of the cafe was full as well.People leaned over the railing and looked down at us on the first floor just as we peered up at them.Nothing too scenic, but I realized that whenever there was a second floor to any building, I always wanted to be up there, especially if there was a railing so I could look over at the people downstairs.I took my book and cup of tea and found a table on the second floor.
The second level of Albert Hall Cafe was more of the leisure section than the first.No studying took place there, but only conversation. I was the only one with a book on the second floor.A couple of people looked at me as I held my book, probably trying to let me know that if I wanted to read, I should go back downstairs.Despite their scowls, I took a sip and ordered a refill of my tea.
As I looked around, I noticed there were a lot more conversations on the second level between opposite genders than on the first floor.There seemed to be more flirting and smiling at one another here than on the ground floor.They laughed louder, talked louder, clapped their hands with great emphasis, and smoked their cigarettes like they owned Albert Hall Cafe.I suspected that no one older than the age of twenty-five was on the second level, which included me as well.
I noticed that despite the flirting and sexual tension between the males and females, there was no touching, hugging, or kissing.In America, especially in the cafes, there were always people holding each other’s hands, or someone’s arm placed over another person’s shoulder.There was always some kind of physical contact between people to show some affection.In Kolkata, I had never seen any kind of this physical display of amity.I had visited many friends and family, and I had rarely seen, if at all, a kind of touch between a husband and wife. I also had never met anyone who was in a relationship without being married.It was either one was married, or one was alone.What I saw on the second floor of Albert Hall Cafe, I thought was cute.There was this strong energy of love, affection, or tension, but none shown throw the touch of fingertips, just in the glances of the eye, or a perfectly formed smile.
“Your tea sir,” the waitress said.
She placed the saucer and cup on my table with a couple packets of sugar and a small flask of cream.She was gorgeous — shoulder length black hair, smooth brown eyes, no cosmetics, and coffee-cream colored skin.She wore a black skirt that ended a few inches above the top of her ankle.Even the way she wore her black-laced scuffled shoes was exquisite.She had the sleeves of her button-up white shirt rolled up, which revealed the red and orange bangles that clanged around her thin wrists. They matched the bracelets that danced around her right ankle.
“Thank you,” I said.
She nodded and looked at my Tagore book before walked away.I stirred the cream with my tea and continued to look around the room.The aura of the room, as it vibrated against the walls of Albert Hall Cafe put me in a daze.I sat there for a couple of hours, sipped cold tea, smoked tasteless cigarettes, and listened to the murmur that surrounded me.I still didn’t notice a touch of one’s skin, a hug, or a holding of hands.They wanted to; I knew they all wanted to, but something kept them back — maybe it was tradition and custom, or a show of respect, or a revealing of the shy side of Indian culture.Whatever it was, though I was an Indian, I could not abide by it.
The waitress came back, brushing my shoulder.
“Your refill, sir,” the waitress said.
I felt somewhat awkward as she called me “sir” for I suspected we were about the same age.
“Thank you,” I replied.
Before she walked away, she looked at my book again.
“Tagore you like sir?” she asked.
“Yes. Very much so,” I said.
“I enjoy his poetry very much.Gitanjali is marvelous.”
“I love Gitanjali,” I said.“I first started off by reading his poetry and then moved on to his stories.I will read A Grain of Sand next.”
“It is quite the novel, sir. I hope you will enjoy it.”
I felt bad.I was probably trying to come off as some kind of Tagore expert, when I was just an avid reader.She, who most likely grew up in Kolkata, must have known more about the writer than I.
“He is also a beautiful song writer as well,” I said.
I did not want her to walk away.I wanted her to sit so we could chat about Tagore and the weather.
“Yes.That he is.”
I quickly looked around the room and became dizzy — I had not eaten anything all day.I stood up and stumbled.She grabbed my arm.She looked at me and licked her lips.
“Okay?” she asked.
“Well,” I said.“Thank you for the tea.”
I kissed her.In front of everyone, on the second level of Albert Hall Cafe, I kissed her, and she kissed me back. She placed her hands around my body, and my hands touched the back of her head.All the murmur and all of the echoes deafened for a few seconds as our lips touched.As I took a step back, I noticed her flushed face.I was smiling, but she was not.She knew she was in trouble.We stood there and looked at each other for a few seconds without saying anything.As I looked around the room, I noticed a small crowd had formed around us.There was a lot of yelling and whistling.I was sure she was embarrassed, but I felt nothing but joy.
“Shara! Shara!” a man shouted.
A man pushed his way through the crowd. He wore the Albert Hall Cafe colors, as well as a nametag which read, “Manager.” He was an older man, probably around his sixties.His head full of gray hair was slicked back.A thin-framed set of glasses rested on his nose, and I could smell his cologne, which was a mixture between some kind of fruit and formaldehyde.
“Shara!” he said.“What are you doing?What do you think this is? This is not a place to be kissing your customers.I am not the manager of some bordello.Shara! Listen to me!”
I looked at Shara, who stared at the floor.The manager began to speak in Bengali, of which I could only understand a few phrases.He continued to shout at her.
“It was my fault,” I said.“She had nothing to do with it.”
The manager either did not hear me, or chose not to listen to what I said and continued to yell.Shara began to cry.She never looked at me again but only stared at the marble floors of Albert Hall Cafe.As the manager shouted, everyone else around us listened or gave their input on the situation.The manager finally took her by her upper arm and roughly guided her to the back, where only the employees could go.
I was left with the crowd.They spoke in Bengali, and I couldn’t really make out what they were saying, but by the look of their faces, I didn’t think it was anything too nice.I paid my check, placed the money on the table, and left a perfectly fresh cup of tea to waste.As I walked down the stairs, I could feel their eyes staring at the back of my neck.The people who were downstairs were all standing as well, and looking at me.One man asked me what had happened.I didn’t respond and exited Albert Hall Cafe.A couple of blocks down, I realized that I left my Tagore book on the table, but I didn’t bother to go back and get it.I was thinking about the kiss that echoed against the walls of Albert Hall Café.
About Shome Dasgupta
Shome Dasgupta holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University-Los Angeles, where he was a recipient of the Antioch Opportunity Grant.His fiction, poetry, and essays have appeared in print and online journals, including Café Irreal, Verdad Magazine, Meadow, Sylvan Echo, Shelf Life Magazine, Magma Poetry, and The Footnote.
