Spotted frogs ride on rainbows...

Here I sit in the El Fishawy Café somewhere along the back alleys of bustling Cairo. Every tourist is supposed to come here and sit, like me, and perk up with shai or maybe sip water. So, I sit.

The alley outside is also taken over by the café’s patrons. There are large mirrors everywhere, along the inside and outside walls. After a few seat changes, I’ve found what I believe is the most strategic spot in the café--I can see into a four mirrors at once. With the variety of reflections, and reflections within reflections, I am happily people-watching on a range that a mirror-less café could not afford me.

My last full day here and my second time in El Fishawy’s. These alleys I recognize well and the shopkeepers say, “I see you again”. Clearly, I’ve been retracing my path. Outside I see some tanned tourists chugging away, most probably on their Marlboros, the only brand that I see being sold. Clouds of sheesha smoke come floating by at regular intervals. Haze.

If I could take a peek inside my head, maybe that’s what I’d see too, a haze. And so, I focus on the seat of the empty chair in front of me. The wooden face is decorated with a peacock sitting on some branches encased within a circle. I cannot imagine Egypt having seen a peacock in any of its eras, but the picture is pretty nevertheless. The seat next to it is worn by thousands who’ve passed through this ahwa for the 200 years it has been open. The café obviously has a long history.

History too is sometimes a haze. And I’ve obviously had a lot of that, these past several days. History, lots and lots of history. A history that is in turn complex, identifiable, baffling, immense, hidden, overwhelming, but awing. Always awing. Maybe I should sift through the haze; it is often a word with negative connotations. But I do not want to. Puff of sheesha smoke floats by. It feels nice to be awed. A hazy awe. It is whatever I make of it.

It also feels nice to just be sitting here. A couple I saw at the hotel breakfast table this morning just walk in. I’m even recognizing people now! There is bustling and hurrying of waiters and of in-a-hurry customers. But it’s only nearing one, and I’ve beaten the late afternoon rush by a good three hours. So I sit. And every now and then I fidget. Alleys are notorious for cats, and this one is no exception, crowded though it is. Every ten minutes or so, one of them decides to make the wooden legs of my chair its chosen haunt. Ah, how these things just keep coming back to get at you. Regardless, I am in no hurry whatsoever; the temperature is a pleasant dry and my corner’s almost perfect.

A mother and her son have just noticed me and stare for a bit, so I smile back. A ledge above my head has four foot high brass pouring jugs. Sharply designed, they look like antiques from the bygone. Right up there on the ledge, safely carpeted in at least an inch of black dust, a part of the hazy past that clouds my mind has been preserved and revered. But more tangibly, this past has been thrown back expertly by the jeans and shai of the present.

I regret not seeing more of that present. Time not being a limitless commodity, I picked hazy past over hazy present. I’ll have to come back, that’s for sure. To see more of hazy past and also dive more deeply into hazy present. My thirty-something tour guide touches old hieroglyphics on a temple column while explaining their significance, and the juxtaposition of past and present occurs fiercely. Neither exists without the other, and at any instant I am experiencing both, knowingly or unknowingly.

Back in the café, the son is now taking a cellphone picture of his mother. She wears a loose, embroidered white blouse, much like my own in blue. But my face in unmistakably Indian, and the smiles and greetings I get from store owners, taxi cab drivers and waiters make me feel good for that fact. Be an Indian and walk but two steps from your room and shouts of “Hindiya” (Arabic for India) and “Amitabh Bachchan, Namaste” ring incessantly in the ears. That man is so popular here, and maybe its partly thanks to him that people either smile at Indians, or say a special welcome when taking your entrance ticket. Ah, the wide, wide reach of Bollywood.

A young man comes along to sell me some leather wallets. I say no thank you in Arabic, which is 100% more effective than saying no. In a country driven by tourism, the choices to ‘buy’ are so many, many. It is of course overwhelming, and accepting one person’s ware and saying no thank you to the other’s does not come without a subtle pairing of I’m sorry. I have faith however, in the 7-8 million others who walk through these very same alleys. Between us all, I hope, there is enough to go around.

I like the waiters here. They just let you sit. They don’t keep asking you if you want anything else, or if they can clear away your cup. They just walk around and let me sit. Makes me want to stay here some more…and I do. Finally, when my crossed legs start aching to be let free again, I get up and leave. None of the sentimental last-touch of the wooden table or the lingering last-look at the café’s awnings. I’ll be back, I say simply, and swing on out.