Early morning, every day, half an hour before sunrise, he walks through the intricate alleys of Jia Sarai to reach the chai shop at the end of the lane, five minutes before it opens up. He calls it his five minutes of solace, where he experiences peace and solitude, with just his shadow as his company. Once he reaches there, he keeps staring at his tall shadow that lurks on the adjacent wall, while he unconsciously takes out one Gold-Flake strong from his right-breast pocket, saved specifically for this hour.
The shutter of the chai-shop remains closed, but his loyalty as a customer has fetched him a special favour from the shop-keeper. He probes his hand above the shutter, pulls out a crushed matchbox hidden up there by the shop-keeper the night before for him. Upon finding the matchstick, he lights his prized cigarette, puffs and lets it stay there inside his swollen chest until it starts circling his head as if he was on a Ferris wheel. Rings of ecstasy crawl out of his curled lips, clambering towards the bulb that's hung on the pole, racing among themselves to reach there first, only to dissolve with the slow passage of time. He looks at his shadow, smiles and says, "You know why I like smoking with you? That is because you don't smoke, no matter how many times I bring this cigarette close to your lips." He brings the half-burnt cigarette to his lips, takes in another drag, peers at his shadow which seems to hold the cigarette on its lips, but there is no trace whatsoever of smoke. When he drags in a smoke, the shadow doesn't follow him. When he exhales, once again, the shadow doesn't imitate him. It makes him unconditionally happy. "See, how disciplined you are! Thank you, for you give me a better opinion of myself. I don't feel like a liar when I tell her that I don't smoke, after all one's shadow is the true reflection of oneself. It shows the dark side of a person, isn't it? You never show me mine, that's why I like smoking with you and you know, I detest smoking with my reflection in the mirror."
The last puff goes in. He closes his eyes and allows the smoke to knead his body and massage his mind, which are tired of the strenuous past four hours of continuous study. Just when he exhales the last puff, the shutter opens up from inside; the shopkeeper greets him with an amiable smile, puts on the stove and pours down half a liter of milk into the dekchi. Smell of chai emanates the moment tea-leafs dash into the boiling milk and turns it brown from white. He urges the shopkeeper to add elaichi into it, and waits, while the milk boils and turns dark brown, his favorite colour. A minute pass by. He grabs the rim of the hot plastic cup, slurps with his eyes closed, breathes the aroma of elaichi, asks the shopkeeper to add this chai's bill to his account, and takes a rejuvenated walk back to his hostel.
His shadow rambles behind him, following him like a lunatic, bumping here and there - against the walls, onto the garbage can, into the puddle, against the slender electric poles, and even crawls through the malodorous drain. He doesn't pay heed to it. Why should he? Now that he's not smoking. He prances with great gusto, while his shadow, which contains his dark side, seems to be intoxicated - with smoke, which it always takes in inside its black lungs, but forgets to breathe out every single time
