Some experiences are like the simplest of perfumes. They appear
unannounced, breathing gently on your shoulder, till you feel a quiet calmness
pooling in your belly, and only then, do you begin to pay attention to the subtle event that caused it. Some experiences are like simple perfumes you would like to hold
captive in closed rooms, fearing that one open window, or a crack in the door,
and that precious, fragrant, cloud will waft right out. It will be gone, and you
will be left waiting for the same set of circumstances, the right blend of
ingredients, atmospheric conditions and mental spaces for it to appear again.
***
She walked by the bakery three times before finally
entering it. It had been raining all morning and she had been up since 6am.
Given that several hours had passed since then, it was surprising that she hadn’t
managed to have her cup of coffee or something to eat yet. She wanted to be sure
that this was the right places to break her fast, that the next morsel she put
in her mouth would be worth it. It would be her reward for the mornings effort.
An elderly Singaporean lady with short permed hair
greeted her with a good morning as she stepped in, pausing only momentarily as
she stacked an assortment of freshly baked bread on the shelf, wearing slacks and white
polyester top.
Oh no, thought the early riser, it is still too early,
they haven’t even stocked the shelves yet. But she was inside already, and it
was raining, and there was nowhere else to go. Besides, time was of essence, there
were things to do after this as well. She sought out a plastic tray that was made to
look like wood and a pair of tongs. Behind the protective cases in wicker
baskets on the shelf were muffins and a few donuts. She picked a chocolate
muffin for her daughter, because she had promised; and debated between a
chocolate banana and a simple banana muffin for her husband. Knowing he did not
care much for walnuts, she settled on a simple banana muffin for him. Now, she
thought, if I can just decide what I want.
Sour Cherry. An odd flavor for a muffin, but she liked
cherry. The almonds on the top were a bonus. With those three things on her
tray she made her way to the cashier to pay. “Do you do take away coffee?” she
asked.
“Of course,” replied the lady behind the counter, also
Singaporean, nodding her head, the glasses on her nose shaking, making the
crystal beads on its safety chain gently tinkle and then sparkle in the yellow
shop light which was at complete odds with the grey, rain drenched day.
The order established, she let her attention wander to
the back corner of the room. There were supply boxes, a cauliflower, other
vegetables, some paper napkins. Three customers sat discussing business over
cups of coffee. Across the cashier was the store front; a large glass window
covered in ‘peblets’, her daughter's baby words from years ago. Droplets of water that look like pebbles. Enough peblets
to have a change of heart. “I think I’ll have my coffee here,” she said, and
encouraged by the lady, she left the tray at the cashier’s counter and took a
seat in front of a window.
“Today is a day to drink tea and coffee,” said the
cashier lady as she dropped off steaming coffee in a white porcelain cup. The
bagged muffins were placed on the side, along with the milk and sugar. “You
must relax. Sit down. Drink” she said as she walked away.
Automatically she tore open the orange packet of
sugar. She added some milk and then added some more. Sipped. Waited. Sipped.
A noise to the right told her the cashier was back.
Two plates, one under the other, and one knife. The top plate contained a multi-grain
croissant. “I am having my breakfast,” she said, “I share with you. Today is a
day to relax. I share with you, ok,” and she promptly cut the buttery croissant
down the middle, slid a portion onto the second plate and walked off with the
other half, saying, “Use your fingers, ok.”
She waited a bit, unsure if the cashier would come
back and join her eat, unsure of what use your fingers meant, unsure if she had
even said yes to the croissant, or even a thank you, once it appeared. But nothing
more happened. And so she ate it, slowly, with her fingers. First the crunchy
tip, next the flaky crust on top and finally the soft, moist, center. The
coffee magically disappeared as well. She got up finally and settled her bill
with the older aunty, who had finished stocking the bread.
On a table by the door, seated with a folder of
accounts, was the cashier, whom she now knew to be the owner of the bakery. She
thanked her, complimented her on the quality of her croissant and promised to
relax on such a day, as she made her way outside into the rain. A strange
warmth had bloomed, a hunger had been satiated, the croissant had become more
than just bread, it had become a multi-grained symbol of generosity, of
gratitude, and of care. Only later, when she played back the events of the day,
did she realize that the second half of the croissant still lay untouched on
the owner’s plate, as she poured over her own files, pen in hand, and her
glasses with the crystal beads still shimmering with each movement of her head.
