RESEMBLANCE

                                                          Episode 3 - Those eyes 

The hall was divided by a steel divider, with landscape glass frames on it. As I was eating, I noticed someone’s eyes through one of the glass frames, watching me. But as I looked directly toward it, the eyes weren’t on me anymore. I saw that the skin around the eyes was wrinkled — I guessed it belonged to an elderly man. I sipped my cappuccino and got up from the chair to try and peek at the face. But as much as I tried, my 5.1 feet height wasn’t enough to get a proper look.

I had been living in Delhi alone for almost three years now, and it wasn’t new for me to be stared at by strangers. Creeps are all around the city — the best I can do is avoid them. So, like usual, I avoided it as much as I could. But my patience wore thin when, within a span of 10 minutes, those same eyes were on me nearly five times. It was getting out of control. I was starting to feel really uncomfortable. There were several women present in the dine-in area. If I left it like that, something worse could happen.

When I finished, the waiter came to give me my bill.

He said, “I hope you had a nice meal. Would you like anything else or shall I get you the bill?”

Still suspicious of those eyes, I replied, “No thank you, you can give me the bill.”

He placed the bill inside a black, cardboard-like folder and put it on the table. As he turned around, I said, “Can I pay the bill at the reception?”

He turned back and asked, “Is everything all right, ma’am?”

I didn’t want to cause a scene because there were families with children around, so I lied, “I just want to see your reception area. It looks vintage, and I’m writing an article about that. It would be helpful for me.”

For a moment, his face looked confused, but he held onto a smile to remain polite. After a minute, he allowed me to enter across the hall.

I pulled my purse from the arm of the chair and walked toward the door at the end of the divider. The reception area was the same as the rest of the diner — mosaic-tiled floor with beige-colored walls. There were posters of old Coca-Cola and Parle advertisements. A dark brown counter took up most of the space. Although everything there was vintage, we’re still living in the 21st century, and it’s nearly impossible to manage a crowded diner without a computer these days. On the counter, there was a computer, a landline phone (I wondered if it still worked), a pen holder, diaries, registers, and a newspaper.

There was only one girl — probably the receptionist — working there. I wondered where those creepy eyes had gone. I was looking around for him when the receptionist said, “Is something wrong, ma’am? How can I help you?”

Not knowing how to respond, I asked, “There was an elderly man sitting at this chair. Where is he?”

She smiled, “Oh, I think you’re talking about sir. He’s in the restroom right now. Wait for two minutes, he’ll be back.”

Then I asked her shyly, “Is he the manager?”

She smiled again — a contagious smile — and replied gently, “No, no. He’s the owner. He doesn’t come as often as he’d like because of his age.”

The way she spoke about him was not at all how I had perceived him based on his looks.

Before he could come back, I paid my bill of ₹325 by giving a ₹500 note and took the change. My friends always ask me why I still use cash so much when I have a phone, internet, and a bank account. The simple reason is that I’m old-school when it comes to financial management. I use cash so I can monitor and control my expenditure.

I was standing by the door, waiting for him and preparing myself to ask him why he kept looking at me. I was checking my emails on my phone to look busy and not suspicious when the receptionist said, “Here he is.”

I saw him wearing white wide-leg pants and a blue shirt tucked in. A vintage titanium silver watch rested on his wrinkled hands. His hair was almost all white with a few grey strands. He was neither tall nor short. He looked like a retired senior who might have been a model in his youth. He walked toward the seat behind the counter, picked up the newspaper, and sat down without noticing me.

The receptionist beside him said, “Sir, she has been waiting for you.”

He picked up his thick black spectacles from the table, put them on his lined face, and looked at me. He took a moment, trying to recognize me. His expression looked like he had met me before. Then, after two minutes of scanning my face with those same eyes, he said,

“Oh… you’re Smriti beta (daughter).”

I was completely blown away. I had come here to complain, to tell him that his staring was making me uncomfortable — and now I stood there frozen, letting him look at me all over again. And somehow, he knew my name.

I tried my best to recognize him, but nothing came to mind. Finally, I asked, “How did you know my name?”

Dear readers, what do you think about the connection between smriti and elderly man ?