A cup of coffee that lasts the length of a nice conversation is not worth finishing. It will be too cold by then. Unless it is cold coffee in the first place; when it will be too warm. Except when the conversation is tremendously interesting; so interesting that it concludes by the time the coffee goes cold (or warm). I seriously believe shorter conversations are very interesting. Unless they are with me; when there is neither conversation nor interest.
I have never been to Paris (or Patna for that matter.) But I have seen in movies where they sit in a cafe, order coffee and start talking. Then no dialoues are heard. Soft, pleasant music plays. They laugh and giggle in slowmotion. The waitress comes along smiling and offers a refill. The talking and laughing continues behind the music. The rainy Parisian afternoon turns to a glistening evening. The music fades away. They get up and kiss good bye and leave. And the movie continues and I stop paying attention.
I can’t even learn from movies. What do I talk about over coffee? What would I say over coffee that I wouldn’t say on my way there? I am sure I drink coffee the slowest when I am alone. Alliterative taglines surely promote the idea of conversation and coffee but they should include a manual explaining the nature of conversations with the menu and the price list. One thing I learnt from movies is that high blood alcohol levels initiate and even nurture a conversation. Does coffee do that?
To ‘husband’ means to be frugal, stingy or parsimonious. May be that is why there aren’t too many married couples in a popular coffee shop.
It rained when the sun was out. Out of right arrogance, the clouds beat the sun all ends up. It was dark. So ocassionally when light was needed, beautiful streaks of electric blue sprang down from the clouds for those split seconds. Water trickled down everything. Couldn’t notice it though.
The sun gave up. It went ahead and set. Now it was dark. And now the rain put up an artificial light show.
Every falling drop was distinguishable.
Every falling drop blurred any light behind it.
Drops trickled down the glass of the window.
Drops twinkled in the light from the television.
Drops trickled down the grill.
Drops twinkled in light from a nearby home.
Drops trickled down the leafy branches of a tree.
Drops twinkled from the headlamps of a car.
Then the only drops seen were those falling free;
And the street twinkled in street lights,
The hoardings twinkled in neon glow,
The signboards twinkled in halogen highlights,
The tin shed roofs twinkled in the golden glow of incandescence,
The vegetables and fruits twinkled from stolen CFL bulbs,
The tower twinkled red at the head.
The falling drops just twinkled blue now and then.
And the sky lit up every now and then.
The show got over though. The rain stopped. The twinkling went to being a clear and bright luminescence. And the water that accumulated on everything continued trickling. Everything went back to being as it was. Or so I think.
We hate standing in lines. We really do. We hate waiting for things to get done. We hate waiting for people to get their work done and then get our turn. We hate waiting for files (supposed pun this) to progress. And most of all, we hate waiting in queues more at the Bengal Chemicals Bhavan than Fame Adlabs on a Tuesday.
And then we blame government employees of corruption.
Tata Tea’s JaagoRe advert is a peach. The one where a concerned parent offers to buy a seat for the student, his son. “Education bhi toh zaruri hai…” It’s ok Mr. Concerned Parent. We who got seats on ‘merit’ aren’t doing too well either. We don’t deserve the marks we get. May be your son will do well and is actually intelligent. No, not in cheating, but in studies.
Oh well, we hate working for ourselves too. And then we blame the system of corruption.
And government officials make less money than an average Mumbai University graduate who gets placed. And they work for us. And they take our abuses. They take our temper. Most of them are sincere and honest. Most of them have self-respect and modesty and dignity of labour. By most, I mean almost all.
Woh khaate hain
Kyunki hum khilate hain.
Nahi khaate, toh gareeb reh jaate.
By the way, I applied for a passport. Spent exactly Rs. 1042 (and six hours). It included 22 rupees of bus tickets and a 20 rupee coffee. It is easier to stand in a queue when no one is going to judge you for doing so.
The baby cried…
“Where are you mother?
I am alone, I am scared.
Where are you mother?
I am thirsty, I am bare.
I want you here, mother;
I can’t sleep in the night;
I want you here, mother;
Sing me a lullaby tonight.
Come back to me, mother
And hug me and kiss me all day;
Come back to me, mother;
I want to laugh again, I want to play.”
And she came, scampering…
“I am coming, my child;
I love you all the same.
I am coming, my child;
I’ll be there as soon as I can.
I am flying to you, dear;
I want to see your smiling face.
I am flying to you, dear;
With thunder and lightening I race.
I am home my little baby
And you, my angel, are asleep.
I am home my little baby;
I am happy now, eternal, deep.”
“You are here, mother!
I missed you when you were away!”
“I know my child, I did too;
Every moment, every day.”
One am blog posts are strange. This one on the pretext of not wanting to study. It is about the ‘rain’ and ‘earth’. The role of the mother is played by the ‘wrong’ person. It does not so much relate to the scene. But it rained tonight. And it felt and smelt good.