Singing Aloud

Driving down Jogiwara road, from McLeodganj to Dharamsala to catch my bus to Delhi, I tripped upon me!

I keep saying, I see myself as an old woman running a flower shop. That is what I want to do. My deepest aspirations are to sit at a flower shop, make gorgeous bouquets...preferably in a quaint little town somewhere in the hills if not beside the sea.
I also walk into Oogo's in McLeodganj or Bagel Shop in Bandra, Mumbai and say this is what my cafe would look like. A bright cafe, colourful, exuding life, smelling fresh brewing coffee, with breads and home made cakes and good eggs & sausages served throughout the day for the slightly more hungry. Lots of books lining the walls, music ambient but characteristic. People would come there to be there...to breathe the coffee and freshly baked!

Then I tell myself...my cafe can also have a flower shop beside it. I can tend to both. I can run the flower shop and once in a while chit-chat with my customers at the cafe...if they would like to that is.

But the main feature would be, I would sing. I would sing impromptu. In the middle of the day. no other music but I would sing. It would be live music literally.

Sitting in this car on a narrow road - now nursing a traffic jam - I turned around and looked at her sitting on one side. Eyes met but I doubt if she noticed me. Plump and gorgeous, her lips lined with lipstick to retain her lipline that must have faded with age. Dressed in black, hair let loose...she had the being of a diva. She got up, sighed and said to no one in particular but there was no near her except for me sitting in the cab, "There's a jam ahead, it won't move for a bit now".

I watched her climb the stairs of the little cafe on the other side of the narrow road. My partner and I watched the cafe and were falling in love with the divan outside it. The cafe was bright, orange. It had coloured glass bottles which looked like a bigger version of the ones you'd see perfumes in - thin necked and round bottomed with a round stopper on top - mauve, green, red, blue.

And then the diva sang. She sang aloud to no one. The cafe faced the hills on the other side. She sang to the hills. She walked stopped turned stopped turned again walked stopped and kept singing aloud. I...overwhelmed could not utter a word beyond till I reached Dharamsala and got off the cab.

While the traffic cleared and we finally made a move ahead, the cab driver said she owned the cafe. I saw me. I saw myself.

I will have a flower shop next to it and sing to the hills in an orange cafe with coloured bottles.