It was odd at first glance. The way he was looking at his coffee as if he was lost in a deep meditative state. I had never seen anyone treating their coffee this way before. He drank it real slow, like he was performing some kind of ancient ritual to honour the sanctity of the beverage. He took his time between each sip and closed his eyes for a few seconds to let the dark liquid swirl around his tongue, and release the aroma and the pleasant bitterness. It was like some kind of introverted activity that demanded his full attention.
Looking at him, made me wonder if this grand theatricality exists in other aspects of his life too. In the random, routine activities like watching the changing colours of the sky on an obligationless morning, or reading the same set of lines from a favourite book/poem, over and over, and each time, marvelling at the discovery of a whole new meaning.
The drama with which he was savouring the coffee, the strange and extremely tedious practise of enjoying something so mundane, perhaps was his way of finding a few moments of peace from the endless chaos that is life. Maybe, through these little ceremonies or gestures celebrating the small day-to-day events, he tried to strengthen himself from inside. Stitch back the frayed edges of himself, thread by thread, piece upon piece, until he felt whole again.
I swear watching him at the time, I wished for nothing but a few moments of embarrassing courage, an insane, ridiculous amount of will to just walk over to him and ask if he could help me mend my broken bits too; if he would just teach me how to be like him. But people don’t ask such things from strangers. Do they? So, I sat there at my table, gulped my drink down, and watched him walk past me first, and then, out of the café, calm and sated.