The Coffee Saga

The chances he missed

First, my sincerest gratitude to each and everyone who managed to stay connected to this story and showered me with the most amazing response one could ask for!

Second, I noticed that the comments on the previous one-shot were much more than the number of votes, which is absolutely awesome. It's like having coffee and  meaningless conversation in a small and cosy coffee house, which has now become the whole point of writing this story from Sameer's POV. All credit to you guys!

Sameer Maheshwari was a peculiar human being. His family knew that, his friends knew that, his acquaintances knew that and truth be told, even he knew that. It was a well-established fact in the world where he came from. Now one might wonder, was his world any different from the one where we all thrived and perished?

Yes.

Yes, it was very different. His world had no place for warmth and love. His world didn't allow casual-nukkad-conversations. His world didn't carry any paticular regard for the pain and well being of another human being. All it valued was money. And fame. And power. And ruthless deals.

It wasn't a pleasant place by any chance, no matter how bright it shined from the outside.

Yet, he was still there. Breathing and thriving in the same unsparing place and only growing his empire further. Because the one thing everyone knew well was that, though people only become a part of this so-called-dream-land only after the most extensive struggle possible, they never manage to get out no matter how hard they try. Simply put, there was no escape.

What there was was lifelessness, cruelty and endless scandals.

However, the reason Mr. Maheshwari was regarded as a bit peculiar was because- no matter how ironical it sounded- he possessed the quality of pity in his merciless world. Don't judge him too quickly though, his pity definitely didn't manage to cover the areas where his buisness associates were concerned, in fact it vapourised as quickly as camphor whenever his eyes were (unfortunately) subjected to their slimy, greasy faces.

But he was greatly thoughtful of the people of our world though, because- according to him- the residents of other Earth deserved and managed to earn it. And that's probably why The Maheshwari Empire had more number of charitable organisations than the cars Mr. Maheshwari owned, which was absolutely very generous of him. But Vishakha Somani,  along with the other members of the Delhi's high-class premium membership club, could only blame her son's undesirable profligate trait on her late father Jaiprakash Maheshwari's subpar upbringing of him, as she and the ladies sat around a round table discussing the pathetic condition of Delhi's slums, simultaneously sipping on a non-alcoholic, low calorie Tropical fizz with her limited-edition black shades on.

Her son didn't bother listening to his mother's "thoughtful and experienced pearls of advices". He had completely given up on her and his pathetic hope of getting her love long back. Infact, he had even given up his hope of ever getting loved back. All he could do was love people unconditionally, without ever expecting anything in return and without ever letting the person know about his feelings, because no matter how high-standards and open-mindedness he had maintained compared to the others in his line of work, he still considered love as a bulshit form of weakness just like them. And he isn't just mindlessly throwing it out, mind you. It's his own experience, carefully gathered during the entire 24 years of his existence. He should write a book on 'life-saving advices for India's buisness class.'

Another life mantra he forgot to share- he mentally slapped himself- always keep the list of your loved ones short and close to your heart. His list, for example, only consisted of Munna, Pandit, Nana ji and Munshi kaka. No place and need for anyone else, he added, skilfully ignoring Munshi kaka's glare at his line of thoughts.