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hooting, helpless laughter.
Meanwhile, another customer (a regular) had arrived
unnoticed, and waited to be served.
The owner cleaned some already clean glasses, clinking them
together noisily, and clattered crockery on the counter to convey
his displeasure to Margaret Kochamma. She tried to compose
herself before she went to take the new order. But she had tears in
her eyes, and had to stifle a fresh batch of giggles, which made the
hungry man whose order she was taking look up from his menu,
his thin lips pursed in silent disapproval.
She stole a glance at Chacko, who looked at her and smiled.
It was an insanely friendly smile.
He finished his breakfast, paid, and left
Margaret Kochamma was reproached by her employer and
given a lecture on Cafâ Ethics. She apologized to him. She was
truly sorry for the way she had behaved.
That evening, after work, she thought about what had
happened and was uncomfortable with herself. She was not usually
frivolous, and didn‟t think it right to have shared such uncontrolled
laughter with a complete stranger. It seemed such an over-familiar,
intimate thing to have done. She wondered what had made her
laugh so much. She knew it wasn‟t the joke.
She thought of Chacko‟s laugh, and a smile stayed in her
eyes for a long time.
Chacko began to visit the cafâ quite often.
He always came with his invisible companion and his
friendly smile. Even when it wasn‟t Margaret Kochamma who
served him, he sought her out with his eyes, and they exchanged
secret smiles that invoked the joint memory of their Laugh.
Margaret Kochamma found herself looking forward to the
Rumpled Porcupine‟s visits. Without anxiety, but with a sort of
creeping affection. She learned that he was a Rhodes Scholar from
India. That he read Classics. And rowed for Balliol.
Until the day she married him she never believed that she