Columnists

Seventeen Coffees To Go:
Prem Kahani

T. SHER SINGH

DAILY FIX

Friday, October 5, 2012

This story goes back a quarter of a century.

It was a mid-winter evening and we had gathered, for the seventh time on this eight-week/ once a week course for our 7 to 10 pm class.

Hew McLeod was in town and had graciously agreed to conduct this course at the University of Toronto. Over 55 of us - a good mix of Sikhs and non-Sikhs - had signed up to learn more about the Sikh Faith from the scholar from New Zealand.

The world outside felt - literally - like the inside of a freezer. Therefore, understandably, only about half of those enrolled were present on this particular night. Who in his sane mind would venture into the bone-chilling air on such a night? ... except, of course, for the keeners.

But nothing would have kept me away. Neither a storm nor a blizzard. Not even an earthquake.

Much as I enjoyed Prof. McLeod's insights and the intense debates many of us had with him during the classes, I was a bit distracted from time to time. And it wasn't his fault.

In the very first week, my attention had been riveted by a woman at the other end of the room. Serene. Cascading hair. An intelligent face. Attractive. Eyes alive and attentive. Comfortable and relaxed. Oblivious of the rest of the class.

She quietly slipped away into the night after the class was over, without saying a word to anyone.

The following week I found her presence all the more distracting. Her hair was up in a bun this time, and I often found myself staring at the nape of her neck from across half-a-dozen desks. I knew I was mesmerized by the sight of her, and had to force my attention away every few moments, so that I could keep track of the lecture.

The professor had suggested we keep to our usual seats for the duration of the course, so that he could learn to match names with faces. So here I was, with miles separating us, and yet unable to unglue myself from the sight of her.

She spoke out in class a few times in the next few weeks. Already smitten, I fell in love with her voice. But she spoke to nobody other than the professor. No one seemed to know her. She came and she went alone.

Never a ladies' man, I was too shy to cross the room and talk to her during a break. She seemed aloof. I didn't know what I would say. And there was no one I could see who could somehow make an introduction - remember, I was brought up in the British education system and I still carried the weight of formality with me.

So I fretted over it for weeks. From week to week.

The second-last week came along. Here I was, knowing no more about her. An introvert that I was, I remained frozen and incapable of cracking the impasse. Another class, I soon realized, and she'd be gone and I'd be left thinking of her forever, without a clue.

I simply had to do something. As the minutes ticked away towards the coffee break, I feverishly conceived a plan. For one who was shy as I was, it was loaded with minefields. But knowing that it had to be now or never, I forged ahead with newfound fervour. I simply had to talk to her.

The moment the 15-minute break was declared, I popped up and announced to the class that coffee and tea would be brought in for everybody. On the house. Who wanted some?

I picked up a sheet of paper and a pen and went from person to person, jotting down "Coffee or tea?" "Black, cream or milk?" "And your name?"

As soon as I got hers, I bounded out of the class as nimble-footed as a teenager. Left a few people behind wondering why I had missed their orders.

As I hit the cold wave outside, I confronted a new problem. Smack in the middle of a campus, where do you find a coffee shop? [Those were the primitively spartan days before Canadians discovered the brilliant idea of sprouting a coffee and donut shop on every corner of every street of every village, town and city in the country!]     

I hailed a passing cab and was saved by his expert knowledge of the city. He flew me to an oasis of coffee and donuts, and patiently waited outside.

I emerged aeons later, a razzled and racked wreck. "On the house, eh? Mr. Singh?" I muttered to myself. I barely managed to scrape together enough bills and coins from my wallet, and enough for the cabbie to spare.

And, believe me, it is not easy grappling with seventeen permutations and combinations of coffee, tea, milk, cream and sugar. There and then, I could have argued a convincing case against individuality!

But I was a happy soul, as the cab transported me back to the classroom.

I delivered her her tea. She smiled. I remember nothing else.

We exchanged a few words, then and in the next class.

She left during the break, and did not return.

That's it. Gone!

But it didn't matter. I knew who she was, and she me. She remained in my thoughts every day for a year and more.

I tried hard, far and wide, to track her down. Even had a few friends try and scout around to find out more about her. I thought I was being discreet by using convoluted excuses, but they simply rolled their eyes as I would turn away, convinced - I'm sure - that I'd lost a few marbles.

No luck, though.

And then, one summer day, I walked into a restaurant for lunch. And there she was at a corner table, all by herself.

We had lunch together. Exchanged numbers. Got together the next day. And the next. And the next ...

And all my dreams came true.



Re-published on October 5, 2012 

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