That evening, I walked into a café as I often barge into such places: dumbfounded by the day, dwindling in self-confidence, dressed to attract nothing but house-flies and famished enough to devour a horse; provided it was an Arabian one and served with a side of fries. I must confess it was a rather cozy place, somewhere in the vicinity of nowhere I call Gulberg. The first thing that hit me was the aroma of semi-burnt espresso, topped with the fully-burnt dreams of the underpaid baristas. I looked around to locate a seat. There were more than a dozen; empty, however, there was none but one. I elbowed my way through the narrow space and reached the seat near the glass-window. Outside, as I sneaked a peak, continuous people-watching was in progress: that scenario, you know, where people judge strangers for free.

I looked around then. To my left, I saw the two creatures that looked like professors. Somehow, they had some loud, unmistaken professorship written all over them. The aged one had a beard so wild it looked like it had staged a coup against his face. The damn thing (beard, I mean) looked graduated; half white from the existential threat and half-dark from self-denial. His wrinkled face had more lines than a Shakespearean play and it made him look even more confused than he actually was. If confusion were an art, I thought, this guy would be the Mona Lisa of befuddlement. The younger one wore glasses thick enough to spot life on Neptune, or, if you wish to stay closer to earth, Mars. With glasses as thick as a dictionary and vibes of academically-elevated stupidity, his name could very well have been Prof Brainiac. He had been nursing his latte long enough for it to evolve into a cappuccino.

"Now you see," burped Beard,........

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