The Cave-Dweller (The Café Dweller)

He was sunlit and silent but his eyes glared like moons. Seated in the auspicious place (his favourite café near the Place Saint-German Des Pres) in the pose of the Yogi (leaning back in his chair, legs idly crossed, one hand holding a cup of black coffee), his calm joy radiated out into the passers-by (he read the paper, laughed at a cartoon). His simple clothing hinted at the dress of a Pandit, a learned man who was of the world but not in the world (a white crumpled linen jacket that he bought years ago, an old shirt a friend had given to him, a pair of trousers scuffed at the hem, and a new pair of converse sneakers). Before him lay sacred manuscripts, holy objects which he studied serenely (the Review section of the Paper and Paul Austers’ latest novel). Devotees milled about him (the waiters were very busy it being a public holiday) and before too long the Self-realized One looked up from his ocean of Brahmanic bliss and slowly, ever so lightly, raising his hand, spoke the ultimate truth - "Excusez-moi! Un autre café s'il vous plait!”