Bittersweet
I remember the first time I had coffee. I must have been all of 8 or 9 years old. We were at an Italian restaurant in Defence Colony called, "Flavours." It became the standard place we'd visit for family meals. My grandfather loves desserts and it was unsaid that a cheesecake would follow the meal. As a side note I think they made the best cheesecake in Delhi.
It was after one such meal that my grandfather decided to give company to the cheesecake with a cup of cappuccino. Like other children of my age I too was fascinated by 'coffee,' a hot beverage that smelled delicious yet at that time I did not know how deceiving my olfactory senses were.
My grandfather was silent, it was late I thought he would be tired yet there was an aura of warmth around him.
The cup of coffee arrived and he took the first sip. He was seated next to me and grasped my curiosity. He asked me to take a sip. I was nervous, slightly apprehensive as I didn't know whether it would be too hot and so I was afraid that I would burn my lip. I didn't anticipate the fact that the taste would turn out to be the primary problem. The unpredictability of circumstances still astonishes me.
The very first sip is till date a fresh memory. I still remember the bitterness of the scantily sugared cappuccino hitting my palate. I was determined not to take another sip. My grandfather read my expression and said something I will always remember, "It gets better with each sip." And it did.
My father was transferred to Bombay when I was five years old but my mother and I continued living in Delhi. He would come back on the weekends but we didn't get enough time to bond. I remember asking my mother about his likes and dislikes. I tried sending him a postcard where I attempted to make his portrait and I fought with my mother because I didn't like the way she guided me to draw his hair. His approval at that time was paramount.
We went to visit him in Bombay where he lived in a beautiful house at Pali Hill. My mother had some official work there hence my father and I got ample quality time. She had gone out for a meeting one afternoon and my father and I were at home. He decided to take me out for an ice-cream. Between both my parents, my father was the storyteller and I think that part of him is still very imminent. In most of his made up tales the protagonist aka me turned up at the ice-cream parlour. Hence it seemed apt to go there. The shop was beside the beach on Carter Road. Like every time I asked for a scoop of chocolate ice-cream. Mama told me that Papa's favourite flavour was mango I thought but surprisingly he asked for coffee ice-cream. He finished my leftovers and his own scoop on the way back. It was then that I was intrigued by this thing called coffee. "Papa likes it so it must be good" I thought.
Presently I enjoy a good cup of coffee. I'd choose it over tea any day. I add half a spoon of it to my cup of milk everyday to make it palatable. I happened to chance upon the origin of this habit of drinking coffee. It had started growing on me long before my dislike for my milk. How strange is it that we are at times clueless about how certain habits grow on us and what meaning they hold for us. Inconsequential things prove to have a very deep meaning over a passage of time.
