There’s a corner at Perch in Khan Market that feels like mine, though I’ve never told anyone. It’s by the window, far enough from the bar to be quiet, and close enough to the glass to watch the world go by. I go there every Sunday like people go to old temples quietly, faithfully, and almost superstitiously.
It’s not a grand tradition. No one else even knows it’s a tradition. But that seat has seen more versions of me than I care to count. The tired one after a long run in the morning. The one pretending to have it all together. The one still foolish enough to talk to random strangers.
Sometimes I take a book. Sometimes I write. Not anything profound, but some random notes on napkins, notes to myself that I’ll later find crumpled in my pocket. Things like, “To-do list for the next week” or “Run More or you will kill yourself in Leh”
And some days I just sit. I don’t read. I don’t write. I simply let myself be. I watch people walk past: the couples, the solo strollers, the distracted parents. I wonder if they’re doing okay. I wonder if I look okay from the outside.
The staff doesn’t need to ask for my order anymore. They just bring me an iced Americano and a glass of water. It’s the smallest thing, but in a city where so much changes too fast, that kind of familiarity feels rare. It feels like home.
Now and then, a stranger will join me. It’s not like really joining me, but more like sitting near enough to share the silence. Sometimes we trade a line or two about books or the weather. Then we both go back to whatever we were pretending to focus on. It’s nice. No expectations.
Outside, Khan Market does what it does best: pretends to be busy enough to distract everyone from what they are feeling. It’s the kind of place where people click pictures in front of Faqir Chand bookstore but never buy a book. The smell of kebabs from Khan Chacha mixes with Big Chill’s chocolate cake. It’s busy in that way that makes you feel lonelier and less alone at the same time.
And me? I just sit in my corner. Sometimes I think of Duggu that how we’d walk here together, her complaining about the overpriced coffee but still coming anyway. I wonder if she ever comes to Perch now.
It’s just a table by a window. But to me, it’s sacred. It’s not about coffee or books or even the fleeting conversations. It’s about a kind of consistency. A quiet anchor in a life where so many things have drifted.
My corner at Perch is a promise I make to myself every week that I will show up. Even if I feel lost. Even if I feel broken. Even if I don’t know what I am doing.
Because sometimes, that’s all we can do.
Show up. Sit down. Breathe.
Perch, Khan Market
~ A
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Thomas Hoang On Unsplash
