Winters In Tokyo

There was something about the winters in Tokyo that never failed to make Professor Anutapura feel a biting chill shiver down his spine. Bundled underneath the warm layers of his brown trench coat, his gloved fingers held his satchel close to his chest, hiding his chin behind it.

He mused briefly over whether it was due to his upbringing in the equatorial warmth of India, or the subsequent years of his undergraduate and postgraduate studies in the desert city of Cairo and later in Stanford. Still, it seemed his relationship with the cold was that of a Mediterranean feline dropped in Siberia.

‘The winters in Tokyo aren’t that bad,’ the concern-laden words of his assistant echoed in the back of his mind as he walked through the emptiness of the desolate Hongo-dõri-avenue in the mist-breathed morning. It was still early for businesses to open, and yet, in the corner adjacent to him, the ever cosy Tully’s Café welcomed early patrons. He caught a glimpse of students sipping coffee, laughing, smiling as they completed their theses in tranquillity.

‘Is coffee helpful?’ Anu wondered, as his tongue twitched and curled, wincing at the memory of his failed attempt earlier. His brew, blended forward, did little to help with the shivers but was hot enough to burn his tongue.

He sighed; hiccups like these happened all the time. Though instances like these coerced the young professor to ponder. Was the cold a product of the world? Or a construct of the debility in his heart?

Casting a quick glance over his watch, he turned towards the direction of Hongo-sanchōme station. There was still a quarter of time left before his class started, but for the exemplary Dr. Anutapura, it was later than usual.

Making a quick pass through the walkway, he heard the unmistakable, symmetrical strides clicking from the station exit. The first onslaught of commuters was here.

Wondering if his assistant was amongst the many, he paused - an old habit. His gaze strained over the side, scanning for familiarity — magenta eyes, chestnut brown hair, a radiant smile — only to stop moments later. His brows furrowed, gaze lingering briefly, almost fleeting, as he turned around. It wasn’t in his best interest to continue. After everything, Anu would rather not associate with her. He would stoop as low as to getting her removed, even, or transferred, but Tōdai’s policies were strict, and he was one to play by the rules. Thus, he endured.

In the classical Japanese paper — his least favourite — the term (曇り空) kumorizora, an overcast sky, was brought up. A medley of five syllables, stringed together to invoke a sense of doubt, grief, longing and impermanence. In a haiku by Saigyō Hōshi, he executed these themes quite well. Though he never used the said term. Anu had often argued with his professor about the profound illogicity of such imagery; an overcast sky is precisely what it is.

But today, embraced by a grey veil, he reminisced about the waka, Saigyō had so meticulously composed. Every word rang true. His lips curled up ruefully, casting one last glance at the station.

Continuing his journey North, he passed the Hoshin-ji temple, where he made a slight bow, imparting his prayers before taking the final turn towards his home for the last four years, Tōdai, or as the world called it, the University of Tokyo. His eyes, despite the cold, shimmered with a childish innocence. He wasn’t the one to be sentimental, but this campus held a space that was especially close to his heart.

He stopped in his tracks, letting the brilliance of the antiquated Akamon Gate welcome him. It’s been four years since he first encountered this beauty singing odes of history, and it has yet to lose its charm. A sudden tremor from his left pocket, followed by three rings, brought him back.

His lips tightened for a moment before he pulled out his phone. His grip hardened as he saw the name of the caller. It was his mother. The hint of joy that he had been alluding to dissipated as the cold gripped his being again.

His fingers trembled, his breath uneven, as he pressed the volume button, silencing her pleas for his attention. This made it the fifteenth time she had tried to contact him this month. With one final ring—silenced—the call ended, though Anu stood there awaiting a second. All the while wishing, praying, it didn’t.

It had been over half a decade since he returned home, and nearly a quarter since he called his mother. The last time was probably after the end of the pandemic. Their relationship, despite her unconditional love, was marred by patches of betrayal and neglect.

Her obsolete compassion towards his alcoholic father and the absence of support in his childhood years made him wary of her affection. For him, it felt that it was all too late. The care shown today does little to mend the scars of the bygone. The sleepless nights, the salt-stained linen, the calls for love, all that won’t just fade away with a couple of carefully spoken words, not today nor tomorrow. Maybe years from now? Though Anu doubted if the whispers of yesterday would ever melt into today.

Leaning slightly downward, he repeated the ritual he had picked from his Japanese colleagues, thanking Akamon for its continued safeguarding of the campus. This simple gesture was once filled with joy, though today his shoulders were hunched, as the baggage of regret weighed heavier than the archaic gate he had just bowed to.

Passing through the scarlet wooden frame, he entered the campus, his hands still trembling, but the cold was no longer to blame. As he took a right, making his way towards the Faculty of Letters, a gentle tap on his shoulder, accompanied by a light giggle and whiff of honey, stopped him.

“Good morning, Professor,” his assistant Ayano Inoue greeted him warmly. “I wasn’t expecting you to be five minutes late.” She stopped, leaning in, pushing the warm coffee mug over his chest. “That’s unexpectedly tardy of you.”

Ayano was clad in an espresso brown long wool coat, ivory turtleneck, a pleated-tweed skirt and opaque black tights. This matched with her neatly trimmed-bun-dark chestnut brown hair. Underneath her arm was tucked a worn-out leather notebook.

Anu took a step back, his brows furrowing with a frown. “Miss Inoue,” he addressed her with unfamiliarity and fake contempt. “I have already instructed you quite a few times. I prefer to brew my own coffee, and despite that, you have been forcing-” He pointed towards the brown mug printed with the Tōdai gingko leaf emblem. “-this cheap brew by the campus café every morning. Not to mention, I quite dislike its taste.”

Every word uttered was carefully chosen by the mind, meticulously executed by his tongue. He could see Ayano's smile melt, her cheerful gaze darkening. It made his chest contract with disgust, yet it was the right thing to do for her and him.

“I…see…umm.” Ayano pulled back the mug, hiding it behind her. “It wasn’t the same...you know...that new café...in the Mizuno Seiichi Archaeology Hall...the one with the barista from Italy?”

Anu could hear the desperation in her voice; she waved her arms quickly as she tried to explain her stance. He gave her a nod in response to her words.

“Yes...so you do know,” She breathed relief, as her lips curled into a small smile. “Anyways, the department was talking about how good his brews are...and knowing you like coffee a lot, I…”

“I appreciate the gesture,” He replied after a long pause. “But still, Miss Inoue, refrain from doing such a thing again.” He pursed his lips, gazing at Ayano's trembling fingers. “For you…”

His voice faltered, and a morning eddy blew past them, widening the gap between. Her gaze lingered over his, searching. Anu could see the helplessness in her eyes, and within them, he could see the reflection of his own incapability to be a decent person. After all, he was still his son.

“Ayano,” said Anu, drawing in a shallow breath. “I am sure, for you doing this, the coffee seems like a helpful gesture, a helping hand even.” He paused, his hands trembled ever so slightly. “But as my former romantic associate, I find it highly disturbing. It makes me uncomfortable.”