I couldn’t sleep. I checked the time on my phone. Only 3 am. This was way too early to get up. I rolled over and closed my eyes willing sleep to come. Another turn. Sheets on. Sheets off. Suddenly I smelled coffee. My eyes popped open. Who would be making coffee now? I sniffed the air. It was definitely coffee and I was definitely unable to sleep. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and looked out at the sea hearing the first diesel motor from the fishing boats down the beach. I might as well get up, everyone else was.
I went downstairs and opened the specially wrapped packet of Lakshmi coffee I bought in the market the day before, the rich chocolatey odor filling my tiny kitchen. The famous South Indian coffee is ground right in front of you and packed in a special white, wax paper packet. The vendor folds the top of the bag carefully, applying a Lakshmi branded tape to the sponge (no licking) sealing in the tantalizing smelling grounds. The coffee packet is then reverently slid into a slightly larger brown paper Lakshmi bag the empty top precisely folded and another Lakshmi tape applied. When the cashier handed me my purchase, the paper was warm, the coffee still so fresh from grinding. I loved how the smell followed me around the market and found it difficult to think of waiting until the morning for the first cup.
As the coffee brewed, I pulled the cup off the shelf, poured some milk in it and reached for the jaggery. The container was empty. No sugar either. It was too early to go out, so I poured the hot liquid over the unsweetened milk. Not exactly right but “what to do,” as they say here. I walked out to the gate and watched the crescent moon slowly disappear as the sky above and sea below turned from midnight blue to slate grey and the endless north south line of horizon defined itself in between.
The first cup of coffee finished, enough time had passed to consider finding some sugar. So I slipped on my slightly dog chewed chappals (the custom made leather flip flops you find everywhere in India) and climbed on my scooter. I bumped down the road through my village trying to avoid the largest holes and turned onto the main highway. It was empty and quiet for once. Only a few sari clad women sat at the corner gossiping quietly as they waited for the flatbed lorry that would pick them up for work. I drove down the quiet road switching lanes to avoiding the leafy branches set as warning markers around the large hole being dug in the center of my path, orange cones and reflectors not apparently a readily available commodity. I shivered a bit. I should have worn a shawl. It had not occurred to me that the morning air would be so cool since daytime temperatures were a hot and humid 40C.
There was little activity along the road except for in front of two tiny shacks, where lungi skirted men drank steaming chai from cups suspended from two fingers. At one turning there were a few men seated, waiting as had the women been, their stainless steel tiffen boxes stocked with steamed rice and spicy sambar resting on the dry, red dirt in front of them.
I coasted to a stop at my destination, a tube lit tea shop with small grocery attached. It was busy even if it was only 5 am. Tamil voices clamored for tea, men pushing their way forward towards the counter and the great copper kettle demanding faster service. Small clusters of glossy haired men stood chatting quietly nearby, blue madras lungis folded double to their waists exposing knobby knees, muscular shins and broad brown feet in rubber chappals. I pushed my way to the grocery counter asking for sugar, repronouncing the similar Tamil word “sucar” several times before it was understood and the clear plastic packet found on the shelf, handed over and the worn rupee bills exchanged.
I turned to head back to my scooter. In front of me the balloon vendor was preparing his wares. He watched me over the swell of the multi colored balloon he held sideways to his lips. I walked past turning my head as I went, to see the enormous balloon filled and then tied to the end of a small twig attached to the back of his old green bicycle. Small, rather sad looking plastic toys dangled from their strings in between two or three balloons. With products like this on offer, perhaps it was necessary to start his day at 5 am, although I knew from experience, when he passed in the village, ringing his bell, the children would appear as if by magic from every direction.
As I climbed on my bike to head back for my second cup of coffee under a brightening sky, the first bus horn of the day shattered the mood. The men at the shop behind me rushed to give back their tea glasses at the rough wooden counter dashing to the doors of the bus, clinging to the handles with one foot on the step when they could not fit through the doors. Bodies lurched precariously outside the vehicle as it started to roll again only seconds after it had arrived.
The bus barrelled past me, accelerating fast, the musical horn blaring its warning to pedestrians. I pulled into its wake and headed home with my sugar. and the air was already warming as it streamed through my hair. Another Indian day had begun. Time for another coffee.
Feel India 