Breakfast with a mysterious stranger

It was the 1950s decade in post-colonial India. Most Britishers had left Indian turf for England. Their colonial bungalows had been taken over by the upper middle class and rich Indians who sent their kids to elite English medium schools.

A family friend who was living and working in a hill station which was a coveted residential hub of the British would have breakfast at a quaint Himalayan restaurant. English breakfast was served there.

Our acquaintance was sitting alone at a table for two. He saw that the table spot opposite him was laid with impeccably styled British breakfast with two well-cooked eggs, toast, butter, jam, tomatoes, baked beans, bacon and sausages. The napkin was neatly folded next to the plate. There was a cup of steaming freshly brewed mountain tea, but it was getting cold.

Our friend whose curiosity had been piqued for days on seeing breakfast being laid but nobody to stomach it for a week asked the waiter, “When does this diner come to eat?”

The customer service professional replied, “When this eatery opens we have to spread breakfast for this Englishman first. He lives on the pine tree outside this inn. When he was alive, he’d visit our tea room. He’d have breakfast here every morning for years till he died.”

Our buddy took a deep breath on hearing that. The waitperson continued, “After his burial, he made the conifer his home forsaking his spacious cottage, but he arrives punctually for breakfast and supper every morning as the first customer and late at night as the final diner before we close. He doesn’t touch a morsel of food or sip beverage, but if we don’t spread a meal for him, he creates a ruckus.”

“Oh, really?” our friend raised his eyebrows with disbelief. The steward left. The day had broken cloudy, misty and chilly. The narrator of this story lit a cigar to warm himself.

 Soon the choir of morning bird song was interrupted by an arrogant deep voice with a British accent, “Don’t you even have the decency to offer me a smoke?” I heard this story from my grandpa’s friend who would have breakfast with this ghost every morning for months.