Parking Spot

The charm of India Coffee House on MG Road fills the venerable establishment and clogs the parking spots until a retired school teacher decides to tweak the consciences of the patrons and change their parking habits.

Anita D’Souza ruled successive generations of high-spirited and unruly boys in standard 8B with an iron, well, ruler, for thirty years before she retired to immerse herself in her beloved crossword puzzles, school annual day photo albums, and Agatha Christie mysteries. At ten each morning she now rode her bicycle to M.G road, leaned it against the fence outside India Coffee House, and walked up and down the street with her umbrella to take in the air and keep out the sun.

One fine morning she rode up to find an Austin parked in her spot, a Chevy to its left, a Dodge to its right, and a crowd of assorted vehicles littering all nearby parking spaces, some more than one to a spot. She dragged her bicycle on to the footpath and asked Babu, her favorite Coffee House waiter, to keep it safe.

Losing her parking spot once to a sleek, shinning automobile was somewhat inconvenient. It became a problem when battered Vespas, old Jawas, and other obscure vehicles started crowding all nearby parking spots every day.

For the next few weeks Anita D’Souza began to keep track of who shopped where, who spent time in which restaurant with whom, and which vehicles habitually usurped her parking spot. She then stopped walking and spent the time immersed in her beloved crossword puzzles, school annual day photo albums, and Agatha’s Christie mysteries.

No one missed her. India Coffee House continued to hum and buzz with the crush of humanity and its gaggle of automobiles piled up in front.

“Chacko ! Where are you going?” Babu asked in exasperation one morning.

“Two minutes, I will be back. Mr. Abraham wants me to park his lambretta on Church street,” Chacko replied, “and Mr. Kurian wants his Hillman parked on Church street also.”

Babu shook his head, nearly spilled the coffee on his tray, took a deep breath, and plunged once more unto the breach Chacko had left behind. The crowds were more restless, more excited, and everyone seemed to be in a hurry.

In the past, Babu had been able to follow along comfortably the snatches of the impassioned defense and condemnation of Trotskyism, McCarthyism, Free Love, and World Peace swirling around him as he fueled the passions and fraying nerves with endless omelettes, dosas, and steaming hot coffee. Now, he felt strangely left out, in the dark, and excluded from all topics of intrigue being bandied about in cryptic whispers.

One day, when Babu was on his lunch break smoking a beedi far from the chaos of the Coffee House, he saw Miss D’Souza peering at the license plates of the vehicles parked on Church street. She was crossing off names on a list in her hand with bold strokes of her favorite crossword pencil.

“Just Roger Mathias, class of ‘57, Kevin Peters, class of ‘52, Koshy George, class of ‘60, and K. Subramanyam, class of ‘59 left to go.” Miss D’Souza purred to herself.

Babu nearly swallowed his beedi.

Before he knew it, Babu got used to people huddling around corner tables, far from the windows facing the street. Some even started making their way upstairs at the cost of missing out on the juiciest conversations. Chacko spent more time as a parking attendant, shuttling vehicles to and from the narrow confines of Church street, much to the annoyance of those living there. Regulars who had never bothered to leave a tip in the past were now eager to pay for the parking service and quick to overlook minor dents and scratches Chacko’s haste inflicted on their beloved vehicles.

Only the new and uninitiated visitors to the Coffee House now parked on M.G. road. Babu began to miss his trips outside to deliver food to customers in their cars. It had always been a much less strenuous and much more pleasant way to serve. His knees complained bitterly when he started to carry orders up the steps.

In just six months the new trend of parking on Church street became the norm among regulars at the Coffee House. Babu’s knees got stronger and his memory of the good old days more hazy. The frequently empty parking spaces in front of the Coffee House belied the crowds that continued to congregate inside. Chacko got better at kick-starting lambrettas, parallel parking unwieldy Dodges, extricating exotic Volvos from way in the back, and maneuvering nimble Austins around tricky corners.

One crisp February morning, Babu picked up a tray loaded with steaming cups of coffee and another with its usual complement of buttered toasts and spicy dosas. For once, after a long, long time, he was heading out to serve old-time customers seated in their cars parked on M.G. road.

Babu pushed the front door open with his back. As he turned around, balancing the loaded trays in his practiced hands, he took a deep breath of the fresh, bracing February air. He nearly choked and almost tripped on the front steps.

There, as in the good old days, was Miss Anita D’Souza’s bicycle, standing serenely aloof in its regular spot on M.G. road with not a car crowding around it.

For a moment Babu thought it was either a dream or he had woken up from one. The sight of Chacko zipping by and the weight of the trays in his hands dragged him back to reality. Snatches of conversation began to float by him.

“What did the note on the windshield say?”

“It was a crossword puzzle with the words, ‘Wives, saw, parked, car, with, girlfriends’.”

“Waiter! Cancel the order. We have to go from here. I mean we have to go to a very urgent meeting.” Mr. Koshy George told a startled Babu as he and Mr. K. Subramanyam stared ahead, petrified.

Babu stepped back from the car and looked up to see Miss Anita D’Souza strolling nonchalantly down M.G. Road with her umbrella keeping the sun away, as if nothing had changed.