I’d get back home, tired, to my parents running around the house drinking coffee and getting ready for their evening walk, to Jayyamma sweeping the floor yelling at me for walking into the living room with my shoes on, sipping her evening coffee, intermittently. She had known me long enough to construe that I wouldn’t listen to her, but she’d try. Everyday. My father would notice I am home, somewhere between his 7’O clock news, praying and mooting household trivia. A second after catching my glimpse, with utmost enthusiasm, he’d offer to make me a cup of coffee. “ಸುಮ್ನೆಒಂದ್ಕಪ್ಕಾಫೀಕುಡಿಯೋನೀನು” he’d say, as if it had the power to take all the tiredness away. I’d reluctantly say OK to his offer not because I enjoyed battling insomnia all night after drinking a strong cup of filter coffee late in the evening, but because my father is the best coffee maker on the planet and it was just so hard to say no to him every time he’d offer to make coffee with such undue passion, especially after having had a tiring day himself.
Coffee has been my father’s best friend. It has cheered him up, curbed hunger and accompanied him as his friends sipped beer and whisky. Now, with every passing day, my increasing love for coffee only corroborates the fact that I share that passion with him. I wish I could sit him down and offer a cup of hot coffee every day, but, this inter-continental travel is not as advanced I’d like for it to be. But, someday.