A thin calloused hand lands on the shiny steel handle of the door. A reflection of a gangly boy falls on the spotless glass. He's all bones and no flesh with long arms sticking out at awkward angles— result of the uneven adolescent growth spurt. 

He stops for a moment, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he pushes the handle. It swings open suddenly, making him lose his balance. His knees hit the floor while he uses his hand to break the fall.

"Oww" he winces, trying to stand up.

"Oh my God I'm so sorry," a high-pitched voice screams just in front of him. 

His gaze falls on a pair of white sneakers, so clean you could put them on the shelf. The owner of the sneakers comes a step closer and his gaze travels up a pair of chubby legs , skimming over a flowy red dress and lands on a round face framed with glasses.

"Are you —"

"Rup, how many times have I told you not to talk to random strangers." The lady who joins the young girl is even rounder. She grabs her daughter's hand and gives a tug.

"But maa—"

The rest of her words are drowned in the sound of the engine of the car that suddenly fires up on the street. The black Maruti honks. There is a layer of dust on the car, and dust streaks from where the rain must have washed the dirt before a new layer fell. It must not have been washed in ages. The middle aged driver with a paunchy belly and a bald head honks impatiently while the girl is pushed in and the lady squeezes herself behind her and shuts the door. The car scrawls away.

The boy gets up finally, flummoxed from the encounter and enters the seating area. 

The chairs are messed up and the tablecloths displaced. Used crockery and discarded tissues are littered on the tables and a few are on the floor too. Customers have no consideration for rearranging things whatsoever. Everyone wants aesthetic cafes but nobody is willing to keep it aesthetic.

"It's 5.45 pm. You are 15 minutes late!" Mister Sharma waves a ladle at him threateningly.

"Sorry sir!" he replies and picks up the little yellow signboard, rubbing his bare hand on the big brown letters 'Bombay Chai Cafe'.

He often wonders why they call it a cafe and then mention only 'chai' in the name. What's so special about Bombay chai anyway? He will never know because cafes are for the rich people, rich like that girl in red and her mom. For him, the tea stall at the corner of the street is the only delicacy he can indulge in without guilt.

He lifts the steel frame of the sign and carries it out front. The bell dings as he pushes the door with his shoulders.

Time to start a new evening of work! 

***

"Some encounters leave you wanting for more."