Coffee stains
I wanted to make a New Year resolution. So I
met an artiste friend first thing this year. Unlike many artistes, my
friend keeps his stuff spick and span. But this time on my visit, I
noticed a cup with heavy coffee stains. I was wondering why. That’s when
he told me the story. Read on, this is his story.
My friend visits me whenever he is back from some globetrotting. He
has a strange habit too. He is a heavy coffee drinker - he drinks plain
coffee. The thing is he rarely washes this cup, and even when he does he
never cares to soaps it either. I didn’t notice it till sometime. He
usually washes his plate and even any other glass.
I wait for him to come, like someone waiting for a spouse’s arrival.
He just whiles away at my place doing just nothing. Sometimes it’s just
shooting the breeze on various things.
But those various things, I must admit, are something I love to hear.
I don’t feel hours go by. We smile at each other for some stupid joke.
We have a long talk over a song that touched our souls and listen to it
again.
 Before getting into writing I have a habit of revealing my plots to
him. He never hesitates to come up with his genuine opinion. When he is
not happy with a plot, he would just say that aloud. And when he is, he
would jump and say: Fantastic. I can’t wait to read that!
If I’m an artiste today, that’s precisely because of him. He pointed
out when I was out of track. He rejoiced when I was back in track. All
that came to pass over a cup of plain coffee, thick plain coffee.
I noticed more and more stains in the cup. Of course I could not get
myself to ask that. It’s not nice to ask that from a friend, however he
may be closer to you. But over time something flashed across my mind. He
must be trying to communicate something to me.
What does he try to say? Isn’t our life too like coffee? That struck
me when I remembered what he told me after a trip to India.
“I went to see Ganges,” he said sipping the thick coffee, which will
make another layer of stain around the cup.
“It must have been so inspiring for you.” I chipped in before he is
done.
He broke into a smile, showing his clean teeth. Avid coffee drinker
he is, how come he got his teeth that white? Of course unlike the cup he
must be brushing his teeth at least twice a day.
“It was so dusty. I couldn’t even breathe properly. And those people
in ragged clothes. I expected a more beautiful scene. I’m fond of
scenery, you know.”
“But that itself is inspiring, isn’t it?”
My friend paused for a while.
“Yes, you are right I was looking for some calm environs. But I saw
quite the opposite. Yes, that’s inspiration.”
Strangely that made me recall those coffee stains. The stains have
grown thicker over months and years.
And one day if it is broken – of course it shall, unless it outlives
me – I will not throw the broken pieces away. I will piece them
together. Then I’ll write the story I couldn’t do for years. Perhaps
when I’m quite old and gray I’ll have to dictate that to someone.
The stains have got stuck in the edges of the cup. They have reached
a stage now even if someone tries to rub off they won’t go away. In that
stain lie all memories of our conversation.
Why do we worship or salute the bo tree? Because it reminds me the
legacy a great man passed down to us over two millennia ago. More than
worshipping, I like to look at the bo tree. Inside myself I see a man
looking at the Bo tree.
Even being the Buddha he must have looked at the Bo tree and fondly
remembered the unique moment in his life. They must have had a silent or
whispering conversation about that moment they shared together, who
knows?
True, trees and cups both belong to the category called ‘lifeless’.
But the irony, or probably the paradox, is they loom large even more
than life itself, especially in our moments of solitude.
And what else can I do? Probably wait for him to come and add another
layer of coffee stain.
I’m all alone. I look out to feel the breeze that blows in fractions,
furiously freezing. I think of those moments. The next moment I start
writing.
When the blank sheet of paper stares at me, someone struggling to
write something, I will remember those memories hidden beneath each
layer one by one.
Then I will write on for hours. Then I wish if I could pour my
memories straight into the paper without pencil or eraser (Did I say I
use only a pencil when I write?).
Whether you agree or not, that will be the best book I ever write in
my life. That will be the life story of coffee stains, me, my friend
and, above all, those moments.
[email protected]
|
