Coffee House er Shei Adda Ta…

I spent the better part of today listening to Manna Dey’s timeless song “Coffee House er Shei Adda Ta…” and somehow it’s prompted me to write a few lines. As yet, I don’t know what I’m exactly going to be writing about, much like my habit of adda.

Being a Bengali, there are a few things that I live. One of them is the fish curry my mother makes, when she feels like it. One of them is listening to Bob Dylan on a rainy day. One of them is drinking litres of coffee. One of them is sitting with a group of friends, and just giving adda. Small wonder then that I love this song and will continue to love it for a while now.

I’ve heard this expressed on occasion that adda is kind of futile. Maybe it is. But at the same time it hold a certain undeniable charm. It helps in more ways than one I assure you. And let it be said, that although we are living in a world ruled by instant messaging, the power of a cup of instant coffee will always be exponentially higher.

But surely, you know that already seeing as you’ve come here and are reading this and somehow feel yourself wanting to pick up a cup of coffee and join your  friends for a chin wag or to put it more simply an adda session?


The Bilge Master

There Are Some Things…

These few days are somewhat calm. My city is changing itself. The traffic on the roads is more, as are the crowds on the various forms of public transport; especially the subway. The reason for that is obvious to anyone living in Kolkata- Maa ashchen.

 

The annual festival of Durga Puja is one that brings with it a riot of gaiety, motely bunches of people and of course the signature beats of the dhaaks. The city changes. It becomes a living entity as every nook, every cranny and every microbe falls under the spell of our visitors from far off Kailash. When you think about it, it’s a simple thing really. Five Gods come down from their abode to mingle among us mortals. One of them is the destroyer of the demon Mahisasur, who was a thorn in the Gods’ side for ages.

 

But it isn’t that simple. It’s more than just a festival. It’s a time for…I don’t know- discovery? Anticipation surges up in me, because my college is closing soon. My good friend from Gurgaon will be in town too. I can try that look with a kurta and jeans…

 

Remember that advertisement on TV? The four friends, college buddies who tossed to decide who would pay the bill? It said something very true. There are some things that need to be experienced. Adda sessions over a cup of lukewarm tea, the second it takes for you to remember that age old anecdote and share it. The list is almost endless. Just as this festival, though it celebrates something old, seems to reinvent itself each year. For each year, a boy walks out his front door, meets his friends and is awestruck yet again. Hence my anticipation.

 

Maa Ashchen.

 

The Bilge Master

Madhu

The old man, somewhat groggy woke up. He picked up his bifocals from the table beside him and pottered over to the kitchen to put the water on for morning chai.

“Madhu, it’s time to wake up!” he called out as he passed her room.

He had a specific system for making tea. He would first heat a little water and pour it into two cups, one for himself and one for Madhu. He would then heat up a little more, to brew the tea with.  Once the water had boiled, into it would go a little pinch of ginger, just a pinch mind you. His mother had told him it imparted more taste to the tea and to be honest it helped with his sinuses. The next thing he would do is measure out 3 spoonfuls of tea and put them into the flavoured water. This mixture would simmer for about 3 minutes. Then it would be strained into the cups, ready to drink. Madhu always said his adrak waali chai was the best.

*****

The old man had seen Madhu off at the bus stop and gone for his morning walk. He would spend about 3 hours on his own, while Madhu spent the same time learning. He knew the sound her bus made when it braked, and so would know when to expect her back. Usually she would be back around 12. The old man spent this time immersed in a spy thriller, or doing the crossword puzzles in the paper.

Madhu’s favourite snack was idli-dosa, which the old man went to get around 11.30. There was a little South Indian restaurant just around the corner of the house. In spite of the rising vegetable prices, especially the onions, this restaurant was still affordable and more importantly, knew the old man very well. He would order the food and then while he waited have a tumbler of their special filter coffee. He liked to watch the waiter cool the coffee, by first pouring it into one tumbler then back into the original. It was a precise series of movements, ensuring that the coffee was frothy and also cool enough to drink.

*****

“Your father has made very little progress, Mr. Saxena”, said the doctor. “He is clearly still in shock from what happened”.

“I know doctor. It is truly a tragedy. Is it the same thing? He gets to that point in his story of that afternoon and then just stops?”

“Yes sir. We have tried him on lithium as well as a mind amount of lorezapam. But there is no response. He just doesn’t seem to be able to accept what happened.”

*****

That day was different. It started off as normal. The old man woke Madhu up and they had his adrak waali chai. He then put her on the bus. He spent the next three hours doing the crosswords, and then went to get the idli-dosa for Madhu.

When he got back, he heard the phone ringing.

“Is this the Saxena residence?”, said a voice

“Yes”, replied the old man.

“Sir, I am calling from North Wing Police Station. We need you to come here urgently. There has been an accident and we require someone to identify a body.”

They told the old man that Madhu had fallen from the bus as it picked up speed on the way out of the school. They said that she had a cranial fracture that caused a haemorrhage.

The old man just thought about the packet of idli-dosa on the kitchen table. He hadn’t said bye to Madhu when she got on the bus today.

*****

“Mr. Saxena, I am afraid your father’s response is still poor. His mind is constantly replaying that day. When he gets to the end of the story, he just repeats the same line- I did not say goodbye.”

Inspired from the Poets of the Fall song “Late Goodbye”

The Bilge Master