Do you remember the story of my first coffee? I don’t know why I thought of it now. Maybe I’m taking a walk down the memory lane. Maybe I’m just reliving the best moments of my life. Before taking the plunge.
It was a dusky evening. The rains were imminent and the academics boring. It was my grandmother who took the detour to coffee and offered to make me my first ever cup, as far as my recollections would go. I may have seen the drink numerous times till then, but nothing ever registered. Then came that evening. The rains began lashing on the brashly cemented front yard. The deafening din was sweet music, never tiring me out. I fidgeted by the door knowing well I wasn’t allowed to go out, yet my heart painfully tried to break open the walls and skip away into the most beautiful gift of the skies.
That was when it hit me. A bewitching waft as I’d never experienced before hypnotised me to my first cup of coffee brewing away.
Later I sat by the door holding a red ceramic cup filled with this narcotic witchcraft, treading precariously on the thin thread of emotions as raw as it could get. I watched the downpour. I let my mind wander into its midst, not knowing that the unearthly image of the gushing river would one day become real. I savoured the aroma till the skies cleared, and left the coffee untouched.
You promised to pen it down for us one day. One whole chapter on the story of a girl with wander-lust eyes who reveled in her first cup of coffee with the senses of her soul. It was supposed to be a dreamy chapter, exploring the pages of someone on her walk to womanhood. It was supposed to be one of the best chapters. A chapter you abandoned, with the whole book.
I don’t blame you. I would have done it too. None us of would choose misfortunes knowingly. We lose track, we deflect, we walk the untrodden path. But we ultimately return to the crib that cocoons us from the tribulations of life. The choice isn’t just safer, but one that promises us a better afterlife in every religion. And somewhere while growing up as ‘good’ human beings, we learn the subtle art of pragmatising religion to suit the confused race of men, all the while secretly engaged in embracing it to find peace. This is nothing new though. This is a war we’ve been fighting with ourselves since the earliest stages of evolution.
I have neither the talent nor the patience to weave a surreal chapter on that beautiful day of my life. I’d given it up to you once. Now I give it up forever. It doesn’t matter because memories are simply intangible episodes that die before you do. Hanging on to them is like an evening tea to some. To others, they come over a beer, as though to suppress the bitter taste of the concoction. And while most regale their little ones with such stories laced with innocent lies, to a few like me, they are stark naked flashes rudely knocking on the conscience. Those are memories that bring tears even when the eyes are tightly shut. Those are memories that speak through ragged breaths.
Those are memories of you. Unfinished. Untouchable.
*******************************************************to be continued