She traipsed into the coffee shop, heavy with a feeling that can only be defined as relief. The server looked up from behind the counter, half smiling, and offered her a table in their AC section. It was a prudent offer, given the scorching heat wave that had the city sipping on ‘iced’ everything. But she didn’t want to be inside—a cool but sterile section with two tiny tables, and practically no one to stare at (except the dark-skinned receptionist). Not today. The al fresco area was especially busy, and she needed to look at faces. She felt empty, ready to conceive something.

Her reports from the gynac visit peeked at her from inside her bag, as if winking at a private joke only they both knew. The sharp afternoon sun was behind her, distant, but present. The al fresco area was covered in the shade, at least for now. The tiny glass water bottle arrived. A sealed cup containing banana chips arrived. Her Hazelnut Iced Latte arrived. She took a sip, and felt her insides being cooled, the feeling reaching her lower abdomen—which just moments ago was being examined for her chances of conceiving. She is (nearly) 33 and it’s a prudent thing to do. As prudent as sitting at a coffee shop alone, and doing nothing.

There’s a group of twenty-something kids, hunched over a table in front of her. Every one has a laptop opened in front of them. It’s their “Starbucks,” but without the sophistication and the “rich kids” vibe. Only one girl among a group of five boys. But her body language is morphed to resemble a man’s: her legs apart, and her lower lumbar lying supine along the plastic chair. She has her hair in a bunch, and a frown on her face that’s unintentional. Perhaps she’s done this for so long, that now her face has no muscle memory of it ever being relaxed. The facial muscles are held too tightly in a bunch, just like her hair.

There’s a young couple hanging out with their two friends, sitting on her side. The man’s body is leaning towards his partner, in an attempt to merge with her, if possible. The two girl friends are on their own private island. Between sips of their coffee and bites of banana chips, they’re talking about a very important topic—to have kids or not. Coincidence? Hardly. She overhears the girl telling their friends, “I believe it’s good to have a small happy family of four, but he wants a football team.” The man hugs her even tighter, as if attempting to squeeze out the idea of ‘choice’ out of her. She’s smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Rotating her head back to her table, she takes one more sip of her Iced Latte, and notices the traffic passing through. A black Thar zips by with a girl sticking her face out of the car window, shouting the word “Wooo!” Stunned, everyone’s faces turn to the road. The boys break into a sudden smile. Partly shocking and partly mocking. One of them says “I know this car.” Perhaps she does this every day as a routine? Who knows what gets people going. There’s a stout kid in the group, his face shaped like a smashed pumpkin, and dotted with the scars of youth—acne. He’s wearing a black hoodie. She thinks to herself, “In this weather!” Who knows what gets people going. He stares at her staring at him. And then looks away. He doesn’t want to be seen. She wants to see him.

The only girl in the group gets up, her black crop top reaching her waist, and her grey joggers revealing her slim figure. “Hey weekend”, her top shouts. She walks a little, and then slouches back into her chair, this time with a cigarette dangling from her thick and protruding lips. It’s “smoke break” for the bunch. Everyone is puffing clouds, and suddenly they all seem older than even herself.

She’s never smoked in her life, and her reports are proof of her good health. She can still conceive, if she wants to. But does she? The afternoon sun shifts, and little dots of light filter through the mesh table, on her denim. They flicker for as long as the breeze lasts, which is what caused the leaves to dance above her head, and allow the light to touch her. Her thigh feels warm. Another sip of the Iced Latte, and she’s cool again. Her eyes travel from the faces in front of her, to above them. It’s only then she realises the presence of a mango tree above. And it’s pregnant with green raw mangoes! “It’s only February,” she thinks. Perhaps the mango tree conceived without telling anyone.

There’s a train of smoke released from a mouth in front of her. Another guy from the group. Dressed in striped formal shirt, he looks intelligent. His scruffy beard and a permanently furrowed set of brows suggest as if he’s on the verge of saying something “important.” Instead, only smoke comes out of his mouth. Ah well, maybe when the smoke has cleared his head. She snatched bits of dialogue from the (so-in-love) couple. The conversation is still circling around marriage and kids. The guy has his hands wound around her stomach, to suggest as if he owns it. Her pink eye shadow matches her pink kurta, but her eyes, they’re vacant. Of answers. She’s looking at her friends for help. But they’re far away, in their own private world, gazing at nothing in particular.

The servers keep coming through the door, dressed in their signature uniform—green shirt and black suspender gallace, with a beige beret. It’s very bold, so natually she thinks it must be European. The curb side al fresco area has never been this alive for her. A few freshly fallen leaves blow at her feet, to signal the breeze again. It’s getting hot, and her iced latte is almost over. She orders for her bill, pays, and slips inside her cab. A swift motion, indicating “It’s over. Whatever it was.”

She rests her head back in the car, and stares outside the window. She’s seeing it all. Tears well up in her eyes, but she’s ecstatic. Perhaps she had conceived something after all. A piece she had to write the moment she faced her laptop. The tears don’t fall, but stay contained in her eyes. She can handle it now. She’s fully empty, ready to conceive something.

‘