His hands were gnarled, and he stood like an old tree, shaking its branches once in a while to give the impression of a life dormant inside. Like a statue, he stood unmoving next to the fancy gate of a brand-new coffee outlet. And while the coffee lovers streamed inside, the guard stood outside, still wearing a mask—the vestige of the pandemic.
I wondered why the coffee shop needed a man to open the gate for those who were able to do it themselves without much effort. And yet there he stood, bending a little as if in a curtsy to a monarch, saying a polite welcome every time someone stepped inside. Did he smile? I couldn’t tell from behind his mask.
Before the pandemic, I remember glowering at the guard of one such outlet, because he did not guide me well while I was reversing my car. The loud music in the car drowned out the beeps of the warning alarm. The rear of the car hit a pole, leaving an ugly dent, and I was livid. I had looked at the old man, who had given me vague directions. His hands were going haywire, which did not help my driving skills.
Later, I repented for my behaviour, for he had looked older than 58, the retirement age for government employees. He was working past his age.
The pandemic led to the closing of many businesses, bringing despondency in its wake. After its retreat, life resuscitated and bloomed again. Life moved on as if it had never taken a pause. But the stillness of those days still envelops many like a haunted dream.
I have seen shades of lingering sadness in the eyes of this guard. The pandemic seemed to be lurking somewhere in the hollows of his eyes, but life had given him hope and solace in his uniform, and he now stands like a welcome beacon.
Once, when he removed his mask, I noticed that he was not so old. It must have been the uncertain times that wreaked havoc on him. He now chooses to remove his mask every now and then to take a breath of fresh air. The young girls and boys who brewed and served coffee went out once in a while and chatted with him. I even caught him laughing through the corner of my eye while pretending to read my book.
Over the coming months, he did look and sound a little better; the pandemic was indeed making a retreat from his life. The life that I assumed was dormant inside him was erupting in fresh shoots, finding the lost roots.
He was no longer a statue on a pedestal. He’d turned his face toward the approaching winter sun, no longer afraid of the cold. His aura was filled with optimism; he was the same
tree expecting a fresh haul of bounty this spring.