No queue this time,
when I enter.
A room full of homo sapiens
and maybe a few humans.

I see an empty in the corner,
beckoning me to the asylum,
a safe haven.

I see her,
looking in the space
Her family is quiet.
maybe thinking for something to talk about.

She looks away,
focusing on one thing to another.
Contemplating about the past,
and  present
and future
all at once.

There is a baby crying,
Someone loudly talking.
Cacophony of sounds.
Someone is sweeping the floor.
Not meeting the eyes of people eating,
talking
thinking.

There is an old foreign couple
In the center of the coffeehouse.
Enjoying the Indian food
With their Western twist.

A man talking with his Maa on the phone
asking her,
telling her,
promising her,
that he’ll be back soon.

As I wait for the coffee,
I observe.
Hidden.
In the alcove
Understanding
the crowd
and the cacophony of sounds.

I drink my coffee
write
and maybe stare.

The man with weathered face
hands me the bill.
(I wonder about his life)
As I pay and go,
I look at the couple for the last time
and the baby,
Now eating her meal quietly.

I peek
one last time
at the waiters, dressed in the nines
some straightening their cummerbunds
and the Gandhi caps.
Others hoping
to earn enough.

I hope to return one day,
back to The Indian Coffeehouse.
With the old posters,
weathered waiters
and delicious food.

I hope to return
back to my asylum,
of the crowd and padded seats.
Just a place to hide and see.

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