Coffee with Soordas

A man in tattered pants and a pale blue untucked shirt walks into a swanky, upscale local bakery. The baristas and other workers look at him with open astonishment.

Why’s he here? What can a man who looks like he runs a cycle rickshaw be seeking in this store? He must have lost his way. Maybe he’s here asking for directions.

Man: “Hanji, BeeRed dena.” (Yes, please give me bread.)

Reception barista (with 100% disdain and alarm): “Kaunsi waali, bohot saari hain, Bhaisaab.” (Which one? We have a lot of varieties, Sir.)

This man is uncouth and loud, the barista thinks to himself. I hope he doesn’t disturb other guests.

There were only two other couples apart from myself that morning. I was travelling to Bhopal and had to get breakfast somewhere, and this was my regular joint whenever I came here.

I was quietly observing, since I was alone—reading Seneca, eating an omelette with CrowSaan (croissant), feeling all French. I was in no mood to participate, so I ate, and I observed. On another day I might have judged the man, or the storekeepers, or both. Today, it was just the aromatic black coffee that had my attention.

So, back to the bread swayamvar (arranged selection).

Man (now shouting into his phone, oblivious to everyone): “Bhaiya, kaunsi waali BeeRed chahiye?” (Brother, which bread do you want?)

He was dangerously close to ignoring the whole damn world.

Man: “Soorda? Soordas? Bhaiya, Soordas bread.” (

Soorda? Soordas? Brother, Soordas bread.)

Barista: “Sourdough bread—do tareeke ki hain: aata aur mixed grain.” (There are two types: wheat and mixed grain.)

Man: “Aata aur mixed? Kaunsi waali? Hain? Hainnnnnn? Acchaaa… bhaiya, aata waali de do.” (Wheat or mixed? Which one? Ohhh… okay, give me the wheat one.)

He kept mumbling on the phone the whole time—probably cribbing about the place he worked at, to the person who was his boss, who was also a helper in a big household - that was the place he worked at.

Whoa INCEPTION. I thought.

Man (still on the phone): “Memsahib khud hi le aati bread. Tumko humko kahe pareshaan kiya? Soordas naam rakha hai bread ka. Andhe banawat hain kya?” (The madam usually brings the bread herself. Why bother you and me for this? They’ve named the bread Soordas. Is it made by blind people?)

Petite girl sipping matcha: “Bhaiya, thoda shaant rahiye.” (Brother, please calm down.)

This woman had just had her first sip of matcha. She had told the barista a few minutes ago: “Koi bhi pila do, par matcha pila do. Pehli baar pee rahi hoon, kuch taste ka pata nahi hai. Par MATCHAAA pila do.” (Give me anything, but give me matcha. I’m drinking it for the first time, I don’t know what it should taste like, but give me matcha.)

Bhaiya didn’t care for the world. It was as if he couldn’t hear anything. I liked his dedication to his job and his single-minded focus to get it done right—just to avoid the wrath of his Maalkin (lady boss). In that moment, I named him Soordas.

Why, you ask? Soordas was renowned for his deep devotion (bhakti) to Lord Krishna. His qualities also include resilience in the face of adversity and a strong sense of self-respect. This was Soordas in Kalyug, I had no doubt. He was committed to getting the right-est bread for his Maalkin.

Barista: “Two seventy-seven. Total amount.”

Soordas (into the phone): “Kya? Ee sala BeeRed hai ki sona hai? Bhaiya, 277 waali hai kya?” (What? Is this damn bread made of gold? Brother, it’s the 277 one, right?). His mind was in a freeze thinking of how much a piece of bread may be costing.

Then he started counting notes like a snail running a marathon. One by one by one—20s, 50s, 100s. It was agonising, and his mumbling over the phone wouldn’t stop.

The other characters in the café were visibly irritated. But it was more of a class irritation than genuine disturbance. Any other upper-class-looking moron could have been talking loudly, and no one would have raised an eyebrow.

Barista: “Aapka number?” (Your number?)

Soordas: “Hain?? OTP?” (What? OTP?)

Barista: “Nahi, number.” (No, your number.)

Soordas: “Hain? Hain?” (What? What?) — all this while still on the phone with Bunty. (Yes, I’ve named him too.) Mumbling.

Another staff member: “Number.”

Lady worker from before: “Arreee, number! Aapka phone jisse baat kar rahe ho, iska number. Kya hai?” (Your number! The phone you’re talking on—what’s the number?)

Number. Numberrrrr. NUMBERRRRR.

And suddenly, a bouncy song started playing in my head: What is mobile number? Karoon kya dial number? (Govinda with his hip thrusts and all.)

I have no clue why, but I thank and blame my childhood for it.

My mind wandered off to Govinda’s era and films, but Soordas remained in my consciousness .

Why does he do what he does? Why is he so obsessed with obeisance? Why does class never hide—why does it have this innate and gross need to exert and impose with a high hand? Never does class question its frailty and unnecessary fervour.

We never pause to think of the other side. The only thing I was happy about was that Soordas wasn’t bothered by the classism he was being barraged with inside this café—from gazes, to comments, to laughter and smirks.

He never felt ashamed for what he was doing—he had no time for such nuances. He was doing what he was supposed to do, in order to keep his job scold-free and provide for whoever he was responsible for.

Har pal yahan jee bhar jiyo… (Live every moment to the fullest…) — my mind drifted onto SRK and his New York skyline.

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