The Inherited Custody

CHAPTER IX

That afternoon, the city burned with the flames of the tormenting summer sun, the people in their minimal, cotton clothes melting through the labor of their day, their scowled faces broke. The blueness of the sky dipped, reaching it's milky hands delicately to the surface of the sea, washing its face to cool down the retreating froth at the seashore. The sound of the rustling, crawling water was balm for the fishermen.

Rustom walked around the crowded tables, greeting and smiling, his now graying mustache covering his dry and cracked lips, his hair tired and busted, and the body seemingly exhausted- with a face so welcoming, so fresh, one could be fooled that this was the happiest day of his life. But it was not. He was always that way, in the coziness of his vocally violent cafe, so perceptive, happy, as if life happened here and only in this building of ragged walls, where every guest that stepped in with dirty shoes and long life knew him dearly.

He chatted and laughed with stomach, walking, and patting backs, continuing to hold a parker pen and tiny, single-lined notepad, twisting, keeping it by his fingers as if he knew where and by whom he had to collect orders of chai or kheema. He walked by the kitchen then, in his small yet pricking strides, and then would holler in the kitchen- Chai! Bun-Maska! And the Maharaj inside would stir, stir, and more, then pour the chai through a thin cloth and into transparent, thick glasses.

After he made sure that every person's table was occupied with some food, he walked towards the old and rusty bookshelf that stood rigid- and straight to a section with small and thin collections of Byron, he picked one up of romantic poetry. He made his way again to his throne behind the counter, where a man was standing with a satisfied stomach, and Rustom collected the money and put them in the drawers. He saw the man put the bill in his pocket and smiled nonchalantly. It reminded Rustom of the time when he was nothing more than Rumi and would work at this very restaurant on salary. Every time he was paid money, how proud he always felt. Owning a full pocket, meant that the pocket-wearer had possessions— secrets lying around with them with a sense of absolute authority.

Before reading, he looked at the crowd again, only to make sure someone wasn't looking for him, and then dipped his head, his neck bending slouchy, eyes narrowing ever so slightly and nose pointing straight towards the book. He read-

When we two parted
   In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
   To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
   Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
   Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
   Sunk chill on my brow—
It felt like the warning
   Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
   And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
   And share in its shame.

-and he sipped his milky tea with a silent slurp, his thin mustache moving with his lips, and his eyes still buried under the words. He read on, unbothered by the growling warmth of the summer dust and, as usual, was lost in the heat of the rhythm instead, the artfully set rhyming words of the romantic Byron. His eyes rattled above the book only for a second- to look over his patient and smiling customers, to make sure nobody needed him at the moment, and he'd obviously walk up to them, not preferably as he did not like any disturbance while he religiously read poetry:

They name thee before me,
   A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me—
   Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
   Who knew thee too well—
Long, long shall I rue thee,
   Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—
   In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
   Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
   After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
   With silence and tears.