Prologue
They were third in line at the food joint. Something was holding the line up, however, and it was moving very slowly. Saransh looked intently at the menu on the screen up front. Between the flashing lights and the pretty colours lay hidden today’s specials, and he was determined to find them.
The line appeared not to move at all. Quite a stir was rising. Someone shouted from down the line, “Arre yaar jaldi karo, road par gaadi lagayi hai!” Not that such an action - parking on the road, that is - was justifiable under any circumstances, but the gentleman with the eyebrow piercing had a point.
The cashier would inquire disinterestedly about the order of whoever was at the start of the line. He would then punch the order in on the machine in front of him. He would press a button, but nothing would happen. He would try again, tap something on the touch screen, but nothing would happen. He waited for something to change, but like a middle aged woman whose husband was impatient and without self control, it just wasn’t coming.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, but was actually more like 15 minutes, much like the husband in the above example, their turn came.
“A paneer wrap, one cold coffee with ice cream, one fresh lime soda and,” she turned to Saransh, who chimed in, “Cheese Marine Sandwich.”
With the expression of someone who has lost all zest for life, the cashier went through the motions. He punched in the numbers, waited, and then punched in again. Nothing happened. This went on for quite a while, and then finally, the machine, coming back to life, made a wheezing sound, buzzed and buzzed, and produced a strip of paper.
“Order no. 321,” he sighed, and handed over the slip, and walked to the back to get their drinks.
“Why is there a 102 QWERTY keyboard attached to the system?”
Saransh peeped around the device.
“Don’t poke your nose in that! We’ve placed our order - let’s go!” said she, catching hold of his arm and trying to drag him away.
He slipped behind the counter and pressed a few keys on the keyboard. The display on the touchscreen went black with some white text on top.
“Embedded Linux. Hmm. What, no getty, really? In this day and age? How much space are you really saving there? Ah, hmm!”
“Saransh..! Let’s go! Don’t mess with their stuff!” uttered Maya in hushed tones.
“Just a second. It’s polling for something which isn’t there. RS 232, seriously? What even has these anymore?”
“Hey, what are you doing?” shouted the cashier from somewhere. “Don’t touch that.”
Saransh was done doing whatever he was doing just by the time the cashier returned. He pressed some buttons as he walked away, turning the touchscreen back into the bright graphicky mess it was before he started messing with it.
“Please don’t touch anything,” said the cashier, as he assumed his place behind the counter once again, “this is an expensive imported company system.”
Maya and Saransh picked up their order, found an empty table, and sat down to their sumptuous fast food feast. Each divided their ordered thing in half and placed it on the other's plate.
“Bit dry,” said Maya.
“Dip it in this,” Saransh slid the tiny container with mayonnaise towards her.
They enjoyed their snack, with small talk about the University, some movie they had watched, the weather, code, someone having an affair with a married man - pretty much everything under the sun. Saransh always rolled up his sleeves a couple of folds. Maya glanced at the scars that decorated the underside of his arms - some thick, some thin, all around a couple of inches long. She saw him lost in thought, staring sideways at her feet. He did that sometimes.
Their reverie was interrupted by someone wearing a name tag.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but you were doing something with our cash machine earlier.”
Maya looked up at the man.
“We’re so sorry, he just got impatient. He’s an engineer, I can assure you he didn’t break anything.”
“No no, actually, I wanted to ask you something. I’m the manager here, and I wanted to ask you if you will help the company fix the issue? Our team has been trying hard to fix the machines, but we haven’t been able to find the solution. The company would compensate you well for your assistance.”
“Not interested,” said Saransh, without looking up.
The manager stared at both of them for a moment, and then walked away.
The feast continued. They sipped from each other’s drink in between bites.
The manager returned.
“Sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you could just tell us what you did, and how you fixed it. We would be very grateful,” said the manager, with imploring eyes.
Saransh looked up at him, sighed, and motioned towards the pen in the manager’s pocket.
The manager handed him the pen. Saransh scribbled some lines on a napkin, and handed it over to him.
“Show this to an engineer, programmer or someone in IT. They’ll know what to do.”
The manager took the napkin, expressed his gratitude, and went away.
They finished their lunch in peace, and wiped their hands on the napkins.
The prodigal son returned.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” said he, apologetically, “the company wants to express his gratitude. This is our Gold card. This entitles you to free meals for life at any of our outlets across the world.”
“We don’t want it,” said Saransh.
“We really appreciate your help,” he smiled, and gently put the card down on the table.
Saransh picked up the card as they walked out of the restaurant.
“Kuch de ke ja re,” chimed a beggar woman, carrying a tiny baby in her arms.
Saransh stopped and turned, “How old is he?”
“3 months,” she replied with a smile which was missing a couple of teeth.
Saransh touched the baby’s cheek, “aap to bade cute ho.”
The baby cooed and smiled.
He took out his handkerchief and wiped the baby’s nose. He ran his hand through the baby’s hair. It was crusty and gritty with dust.
“At least you should keep it clean,” he said. The beggar woman smiled sheepishly.
“Take this card. Whenever you want something to eat, go there,” he pointed to the restaurant, “and show them this. Don’t give it to them. Just show them this, and they’ll give you whatever you want. Don’t give it to them - just show them.”
He handed the Gold card to the beggar woman, lovingly pinched the baby’s cheek one last time, and walked back to the car.
“Don’t give them the card, just show it to them, and they’ll give you whatever you want," repeated Maya, and followed him.
The car was an automobile version of him; dented from all sides, tail light broken. Saransh turned the key, and the engine came alive instantly. It was a well oiled machine. No one could tell from its condition, that it was well in its prime, and could outrun any of its peers.
Saransh drove like an old man - slowly, smoothly, gently. He was like that in everything he did - taking his time, enjoying every minute of it, expertly handling everything he set his hands on. He had neither the impatience of youth, nor its naiveté. Intelligence manifests itself in all ways. He was quick to pick up things, loved to learn how things worked, and then use them to their full potential. Where men would take minutes, he would take hours. Philip Stanhope gets it, he used to say. The journey is the destination. We all get there in the end.
Maya smiled at the last one. Not everyone, she thought. Thank God I do.