Coffee & A Moist Morning.
(For you Mom)

I licked at the tiny droplet of rain that had found its way to my lips from outside the damp window. It was tasteless. It was Saturday.

I was alone. But for the terra-cotta earrings, crumpled beigish bed spread, khaki pyjamas, left over burnt noodles, a single magenta petal by the window pane. Not to forget the soggy foot mat and wet umbrella left over from my late night date.

I woke up disoriented. And terribly annoyed with the world, a deep sense of restlessness brewed within.

I came out to the balcony, to smell the scent of the morning. My plants were doing good, relishing the sumptuous monsoon. Some of them bent down to touch the ground, unable to bear the shower of affection.

The sky seemed deceptively close. Very close, I thought if i tried hard i might just about touch the clouds.

There was no noise but for that of the rain drops slapping hard on the roof top, washing away the carpet of yellow flowers off the balcony. No noise but for the kettle on my stove, my mid morning coffee heating up in angst.

A strange feeling of loneness griped me, and I wanted to shout at the top of my voice. But quit the idea as i would go unheard in the midst of such loud omnipresent rains.

The first sip of piping hot expresso, mixed with the dirty rain drop dripping into the cup in spite of the cover, is magical. It mellows the effect of ‘lump in the throat’ feeling; it creates an illusionary elixir that you are best. And life is beautiful. That you are capable of transforming this life; of being able to wipe out all the problems in a split second.

That you are free. Absolutely free! A high, capable of making every other issue non-issue. Of filing the heart with coziness that’s so mushy and naiveté.

However, the feeling vanishes when you are done with the drink.

Cleaning is therapeutic, they say. I’m not sure of that, there are some things you have to do anyway. So you might as well call them stuff that makes them sound exotic.

It was then that I hit upon this treasure. An old photograph.

You, me and that yellow sari.you remember that one,don't you? You look like a goddess in that, so divine; so giving.

You are holding me tight on your waist, your head tilted to the right to touch mine. Your fingers are holding mine, with such tenderness; I can sense the caution with which you are carrying me.

You look extremely happy. Just like a new mother, proud and ecstatic; you are smiling a blissful smile I haven’t seen for years now.

You are wearing this chiffon yellow sari, the one with white flower prints. It is when I look at that photo I realize how old you have become now.

Your face is glowing with the youthful vigor; your big black eyes look fiery and elated. Your nose looks rightly chiseled, your lips the passionate burgundy. There is a touch of delicateness in the way you look at me and pose for the photo, both at the same time.
I look confused. I’m holding on to the “pallu” of your sari, slightly pulling your ‘thali’.

As I look into the pic, I recollect the way you sound when you sing that lord Krishna lullaby. I can feel the smell of that sari and all the other saris I have tried as a teen. I can sense the touch of your fingers, your kiss on my forehead.

Your voice though is vague now. I try hard, but can’t really place it. I wish i could speak to you right now.And...

I wish to go on a long walk by the road, and have you advice me; tell me what is right and what is not. I want to sit by the balcony and crack innocuous ludicurous jokes; about family and friends. I want to stand by the sink, wash vessels. I want to cook upma with you, watch a candy floss Hindi movie and cry over the tragic end.

I want to sit by the tailoring machine and see you stitching clothes. I want to sit on the table and watch you explore the internet with a childlike curiosity. I want to stand next to you, while you chant slogams and think of your dad. I want to massage your leg, straighten those varicose nerves. I want to walk into your room stealthily in the morning and throw ice cubes into your blouse. I want to sit in the garden, and have you teach me solve mathematics problems. I want to laugh insanely at mo’s childish pranks, and dads failed attempts at learning hindi.

I want to call you right now, and cry. Tell you how much I love you. And how lonely iam without you.

You presume I’m happy alone. May be iam. May be I’m not. I don’t know.

But there are times I know I would be better off with you. That I was better off in your arms, as a child. When I knew nothing about self and identity. When I was most content eating a “panju mittai”;and sleeping on the floor next to you.

When I didn’t have a mind of my own, when I still clung to your sari for support. When I slept peacefully in the warmth of your body. Your selfless and trusting love.

I want to say so much more. But my voice would go unheard anyway. It is raining. Fiercely. Here. And there. So I would let it be.

I would just shed a tear. And sip my coffee. And look out of the window.

And relish this aloneness before I lose this too.

Uncle Mr.Charles Bukowski wrote something like this,

Oh Yes
There are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
than
too late.

***