If the tables here could speak, they’d tell you stories – enough to fill many tomes. There would be stories of pranks, stories of unrequited love, stories of dreams – some fulfilled and some not, stories of betrayal, and stories of friendships. They were faded from years of spilled food and drink. They bore the scars from hopeful, but now forgotten, romantic doodles, some carved into the wood for permanence. Some of them stood firm, while others needed folded paper under a leg or two to keep them steady.
If the walls here could speak, they’d tell you stories – enough to put Tolkien to shame. There would be stories of dreams, stories of unexpected successes, and stories of failure. The peeling posters revealed more posters under them. You’d be forgiven for thinking that the whole structure was held together by these flimsy sheets of wood pulp.
If the floors here could speak, they’d tell you stories – enough to make you blush in embarrassment. There would be stories of stomping in anger, stomping in joy, and stomping in frustration. The mosaic tiles gave away the age of the building, which was built in a time when it was still in vogue. But to look at it today, you would be hard pressed to identify the original design.
The bar made of mahogany wood dominated the large hall. Running along almost the entire back wall, it was Ajay Mehta’s pride and joy. He had modeled it along the lines of his favorite bars from the US where he had gone to study as a young man. The wood gleamed from polish and polishing. Anyone who ever worked there knew that the one thing the boss wouldn’t forgive was harm to his bar. Each night after closing time, Ajay would personally run his cloth over the entire bar top to make sure there were no remnants of nights drinks that might corrode it.
“A good drinking joint is always measured by its bar top”, he would tell every new staff member. “If the bar top is uncared for, you can be sure the booze and the food are uncared for too.”
While his bar top was pristine and blemish free, the same couldn't be said for his face. The years had left their scars on his once boyishly handsome face. Some handsome people age well and the lines add gravitas. Not Ajay. The lines on his face gave him an air of tiredness. They told of broken relationships, lost children, forgotten dreams, and bar fights broken up.
Another constant battle was the one against his receding hairline. Every strand of hair left on his head was treated as a precious resource. So much so he never dried his head vigorously after a shower. Instead, his head was patted down gently to reduce the strain on his hair roots.
As the evenings wore on, he would abandon his precious bar and would be found at one of the tables surrounded by young people with dreams and futures. There he would dispense his knowledge on life and her tribulations. Most of his advice was anecdotal from personal experience.
When I heard that The Footprint was up for sale, it felt like I was losing an intimate part of me. Even if the new owners ran it as a pub, it wouldn’t be the same without Ajay. But there was little we could do about that. But we could at least preserve the facade, the ambience, the soul of the place. So I called my investment consultant and lawyer and asked them to get the pub. I was later told that while there were higher offers, Ajay’s daughter preferred selling to me because of my association with The Footprint.
I had to spend a pretty little packet on some upgrades. But for the most part, I left it as it was and as I remembered it. Then I wrote the email to my boss telling her that her star salesman was quitting to go run a bar.
It's been three years now. There is a new generation of City College students now for whom The Footprint means nothing without me. But some things never change. The Footprint still has tales to tell. Oh! so many tales to tell.
Comments