With things like insects and bees.
It’s not with annoyance or fear,
that I wave you away.

Little winged one. I do it to send.
You, away in the direction of the
your very last flower.

On a bus journey back from his parents’ place, he comments on how lovely filter coffee is, and how they really must stop drinking the awful Red Label tea. In his eyes, she sees a deep yearning for the comfort filter coffee promises. The swirl of froth lifting anxieties, and a minor advancement in contentment. They buy a steel filter set, and have an argument about the exact proportion of chicory and coffee powder. Their argument oozes love and nostalgia, as they evoke the ghosts of grandparents, the edicts of great aunts and throw in some knowledge of basic chemistry.

They are full of love and caffeine for a week. Their days start with hot water trickling through coffee powder. Their evenings uplifted. How banal making tea from tea bags seemed. How utterly bereft of spousal affections.

And then, the tensions begin to buid. One day, he complains that the coffee smells burnt, another day it’s too watery. She blames the milk, he blames her lack of committment to good coffee. Perhaps the precision and time it takes is too much. Too much to demand from a person who doesn’t care that much about filter coffee, but is swayed by what a perfect brew brings out in their beloved. They fought. His heart nearly broke.

When she asked him why he didn’t just make it himself, perhaps he couldn’t quite tell her that he wished to experience, for five minutes everyday, what his father did.

And thus she hatches her plan. In a hidden cupboard, she stocks up on instant coffee. Easy to make, and consistently inferior. She pretends she makes fresh filter coffee everyday. He drinks it gladly, imagining himself as a man who in thirty years will sit in a rocking chair, clutching the very same tumbler. Sometimes in the middle of a fight over something else, she wants to break it to him – that he is a poser, he doesn’t really know the difference between filter and instant. But doesn’t.

He is grateful for the love and devotion it takes to make the filter coffee. When friends visit, he hands them their cups, extolling its virtues over instant coffee, and how he has to come to appreciate its fine aroma, its firm body and wholesome creaminess.

Thus it was. She saved time, and spent a bit more money. His heart didn’t break, and his tongue never really knew the difference.

PS – I can’t remember the last time I wrote a fiction fragment. If anything, I have maatuponnu to thank. Reading her little piece of fiction today, another story entered the mind. And since I haven’t written in a long time, be kind..

I could of course explore the option of micro-pigs. They look adorable and have always had a fondness for pigs. All I know is that I seek an animal I can interact with. Fish are not my cup of tea. (Hopefully there’s no fish in anyone’s cup of tea.) We’ve had fish, and while watching them is very therapeutic, I was incapable of bonding with them.

A cat, a dog, a micro-pig. And some others. In the years to come perhaps?

So yes, Cologne. It was gorgeous. Not as grand as some of the other European cities. But compact. And bustling. And I never quite realised how much the Germans love their bread. Little bakeries everywhere, with a variety of breads. To my surprise, Germany never left me hungry. It was easier to find and communicate my vegetarian needs in Germany than I thought it would be.

Perhaps it’s the legacy of engineers in the family, or quite simply a fondness for ruins of any kind, but I do love industrial sites and railway lines. And the Zollverein Coal Mine Industrial Complex was breathtaking.

The restoration is fantastic, and it feels like a living, breathing space. Wikipedia tells me –

The first coal mine on the premises was founded in 1847, mining activities took place from 1851 until December 23, 1986. … Shaft 12, built in Bauhaus style, was opened in 1932 and is considered an architectural and technical masterpiece, earning it a reputation as the “most beautiful coal mine in the world”

This must have been a harsh place. Full of dust, with every surface leaving a black smudge. To call it beautiful somehow seems to trivialise the work of thousands. And yet, there’s no other way to describe it. I think at one point I’d like to go to more industrial heritage sites. Recommendations?

I have a strange relationship with this festival. From being annoyed that the Northis appeared to have so much fun, to the point where the crackers put me off. But I love it nevertheless. Something soothing about all that light.

And in that spirit I give you a four year old me on Diwali. Possibly at the crack of dawn. Distracted by my mother while my father dutifully captured my radiant four year loveliness. I was a good kid no? Check the vibhuti, the pottu and the gold earrings out. It all went downhill after that. :)

Have a lovely and safe Diwali/ Deepawali.

Sitting in that 11th century sarai, I thought I could watch the dervishes whirl forever. And that happens quite often to me. I sometimes eat a certain food item, and exclaim that I could eat this for the rest of my life (fresh portions of course), or when I listen to a certain piece of music, and tell myself that I could listen to this forever.

But I can’t, and I possibly don’t want to. In certain moments though, the idea of forever is so inviting. So uncomplicated.

PS – I know the photo sucks, but the place didn’t allow photography. I took one on the sly. I can’t help it. All I can say is that the experience was utterly wonderful.

From the front row. The screen
eating me. No commentary.
But not silent.

Exactly how life should be perhaps.
Front row, clean, with space.
But not empty enough to be creepy.

And perhaps a warm (even if clammy)
hand. To hold. Tighter when it’s time.

And Exit signs clearly marked.
Even in the dark.