For the first twenty-odd years of my caffeinated existence, I drank only instant coffee. Always with milk. And ALWAYS with sugar.
Coffee outside the house usually meant a trip to the local South Indian/Udupi joint. There, the options were simple: Instant Coffee (usually Nescafe) or Filter Coffee. I’d pick Nescafe nine times out of ten. Filter Coffee was reserved for moments of reckless adventure.
So imagine my culture shock the first time I tried ordering coffee at an airport. It felt like a lifelong vegetarian being asked to choose between a wide lineup of Mughlai-style chicken delicacies and an authentic sushi spread.
Believe it or not, here's how it went down (possibly exaggerated for your reading pleasure):
Me, squinting at the menu board, mumbling: "Latte? Espresso? Match...chee..aah..”
The barista, a young man barely out of school (or so it seemed), turned sharply to stop me before I could complete my blasphemous utterance: “Mah-key-aah-toe, Sir.”
I panicked, “I just want a cup of coffee.”
The barista could barely register a smile, “Of course Sir...what type?”
“Hot?”
“We've got latte, cappuccino, espresso...”
“Do you have...instant?”
The barista froze, one hand over his heart, as if I'd touched his coffee beans inappropriately, “We don’t serve instant coffee, Sir.”
The woman behind me leaned in and barked, “Just get a latte and move on!"
I felt a wave of perspiration avalanche down my forehead, "Just give me something that'll wake me up in a couple of sips."
The barista sighed, “Thank you Sir. One Espresso coming right up.”
I paid the lad, found a seat, and took a sip.
And at once I felt my soul grappling with my body to be let back in.
And from that day on, I've only been having instant coffee.
This piece has been written as a part of the Blogchatter Blog Hop. The word prompt for this week (September 30 - October 6) is the word "Coffee".
Turns out October 1 was celebrated as International Coffee Day, so here's me raising a virtual Cuppa right back at you!
A flurry of camera adjustments and shaky attempts at
stillness — despite the autofocus—turned a simple task into a three-minute
ordeal.
He studied the latest snapshot. It was a grainy family
portrait clicked at a neighbourhood photo studio back in 1985.
His parents sat at the centre — father on the right, mother
to his left.
Two children completed the frame. His four-year-old sister
was nestled in their mother’s lap, while his six-year-old self was perched
awkwardly on his father’s knee.
And then he saw it. A toy fire-truck — his beloved
"fire-chuck" — dangling precariously from his left index finger.
When he was finally satisfied with the shot, he began
thumbing through his apps, searching for the one he had installed three days
ago.
The same AI app that promised to "bring your old
pixeled memories to life.”
He found the app, scrolled it to find the correct feature,
and uploaded the image.
He then waited, eyes fixed on the screen as the pixels began
to twitch.
It took a few seconds before everything started coming to
life.
His mother blinked. His father adjusted his glasses. Both
shifted stiffly, hiding their scowls as they settled into slightly less
uncomfortable poses on clumsy plastic stools.
The children wore sullen expressions, stretching their
mouths into forced smiles. They knew better than to upset daddy.
At some point, the father half stood, readjusting. As he
dropped back onto the stool, the boy flinched.
The fire-truck hit the floor with a soft thud. His father’s
hand rose with a louder one.
Outside the phone, his now much older father hobbled in from
another room.
"Hey buddy!", he smiled, "All good?"
“Yeah, Dad…” he replied, voice tight. He grimaced, raising
the photo album to shield his face. “…just revisiting some old favourites.”
A part of him hoped that Daddy had seen him fighting back the tears.
Written to share with Poets and Storytellers United for Friday Writings Prompt #195: Revisiting Old Favourites.
