Coffee Chronicles

by Chandrapal Khasiya



  COFFEE CHRONICLES

  Copyright 2016 Chandrapal Khasiya

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  About Chandrapal Khasiya

  Other ebooks by Chandrapal Khasiya

  Connect with Chandrapal Khasiya

  Acknowledgements

  Tejas Kemkar, Amit Pandey and Kaushal Desai, thanks for tolerating my craziest ideas during school, college and postgraduation days.

  Heartily thankful to the person who had actually inspired this story to write.

 

  A special thanks to ADIT's Volcano Team, 2014, for actually making me to take writing seriously. My Paltan (old and new) and Lavara group, who are now scattered yet connected, for bringing the best out of me.

  To all readers who have praised Father-Son Chronicles and Father-Daughter Chronicles, Coffee Chronicles wouldn't be possible without your appreciation.

  Lastly, to my Sony Vaio laptop, which is in terrible condition, and a dozen cups of coffee that kept me awake while I was working on this tale.

  - Chandrapal Khasiya

  Chapter One

  I was sick of my life.

  Literally.

  Imagine waking up early at seven, then spending an hour to get ready, grabbing the bus filled with people with drowsy eyes, which had lost the gleam of dreams a long time ago, and then spending eight hours in front of the screen, and then bored and tired, returning back to room and dump yourself in the bed like a messed bundle. Sounds pathetic and monotonous, right? That was my life.

  And just an hour before my tired eyes used to close, staring at the helicoptering fan, thousands thoughts, fractured and unfinished, rush toward me, making me wonder about my decision that I took three years ago. A choice so terrible that I had been regretting since that day.

  It was again like any usual day, and I climbed out my bus, frustrated and exhausted. A leather-office bag slung over my shoulder, heavier than it was in the morning, hands inside the pockets, head slumped. A gust of dusty wind rolled a paper from nowhere and pasted it to the top cap of my shoe. Annoyed, I jerked my leg, but the paper seemed as stubborn as my life. It remained stuck.

  “Get away,” I again kicked the air.

  The paper fluttered lightly, beating the skin of my shoe, taunting me.

  Defeated by a small piece of a paper, I bent and separated it from myself. Somewhere inside me, a tyrant cherished this small act of extrication. Clenched in my fist, I balled the paper and threw it in the nearby dustbin. Wind again sighed, and like a rival basketball player, it slapped my paper ball away from the dustbin. I was about to curse the God of Wind when a cheerful voice stopped me from committing this blasphemy.

  “You shouldn’t do that.”

  I turned and found a little girl in white frock staring at me. Her shoulder cut hair, rimmed by a ribbon, swayed with breeze. “Sorry,” I said.

  “Sorry wouldn’t put your waste into the dustbin, mister,” she said with an authority, crossing her arms. She started tapping her right leg to the ground, and then it dawned to me that she was expecting something from me.

  “First of all, that’s not my paper,” I cleared her the fact. “Second, I did throw it.”

  The girl turned her head toward the balled paper, which again started rolling, bouncing with air. “Road isn’t the place to dispose the litter, mister. You seemed to be an educated man.”

  Now, I love kids. I love to see them playing in the garden from my balcony. I love to see them rushing into the school while leaving for office. I love to see them licking ice-creams and making faces. But that day, I felt I was a different person. “If it concerns you so much then why don’t you pick it up by yourself.”

  “Mister,” she said. “what’s your problem?”

  “Girl,” I replied, “you wouldn’t understand.” Why was even I talking to her? I spun on my heels and continued on my way, completely ignoring her sigh of frustration.

  I admit I was rude to her, not a proud thing to do. But when life is rude at you, insolence seeps under your skin, turning you into to the person you always scared to be.

  After few steps, guilt rolled over me, and I took a glance over my shoulder. The girl was gone, so was the cursed paper. And I stood there, introspecting.

  What have I become?

  Chapter Two

  Happy Birthday, Rihan.

  I slid the arrow toward the latest wish that appeared over my wall. Liked it, read the friend’s name, and commented thanks. Social media did connect me with my past friends, but it disappointedly failed to radiate the happiness of celebration. I was just about to flip down my laptop when a notification popped up at the corner of the screen. Another wish.

  I read it, and the last word pinched my soul.

  Happy Birthday, writer!

  My eyes remained glued to that word, mind numb, body paralyzed. Shattered dream prickles more than shattered glasses, and with every passing moment, that word agonized my conscience. I tried to tear away my gaze from the screen, but was unsuccessful. Seconds passed, then minutes, and then power saver mode of my laptop turned the screen black. With just a single flick of my finger over the touchpad I could have flared up the laptop back to life; I didn’t. Like a murderer evading the crime scene, I rose and darted away from my murdered dream.

  Cold wind of the evening whispered a song to me, somehow calming my distress, as I walked aimlessly to the square of the market. A hasty passerby thudded with me, making me twist with his momentum. “Sorry.”

  The kind man gave an apologetic smile, nodded, and disappeared in crowd. Who was he? I wondered. Would we ever meet again? Of course not, I convinced myself, and started again walking.

  Writer!

  The word again rang in my ears. Retrospecting, I found myself before a small bricked store. A bell over the door chimed as I gently pushed myself inside the store. The air carrying the familiar scent of fresh wood wafted over my face as I turned to the store-keeper. An aged man inspected me through his weary eyes. A smile tucked over his lips as he remembered his old customer. “Rihan? Good to see you again.”

  I weakly smiled back.

  “New books have arrived,” the book-keeper said.

  Nodding, with heaviness settling inside me, I stepped toward the rows of shelves filled with books. There was once a time when I used to visit this place to get inspired. Those stacked novels once used to yell at me – You can write a better one. Now the same masterpieces reminded me how failed and hopeless I was.

  Gradually, I pulled out my most favorite book. As I skimmed its pages, the words printed over it seemed to taunt me. A storm of emotions swirled inside me, and I closed my eyes to quiet it, but a tear rained and wet the page of the open book. I looked at the gray smudge and read the word of the sentence where the tear had dropped. Dream.

  The bell again rang, announcing the arrival of a new customer, distracting me. I put the book back and embarked to leave.

  Dream.

  Something within me had changed, I could feel it.

  Dream.

  As I took steps toward the door, that fresh yet familiar feeling grew fiercely.

  Dream.

  I pulled the door, the bell pealed, and then it struck me what was missing from my life.

  I made a decision at that instant.

  Chapter Three

  “This is ridiculous!”

  I tried to focus on my laptop screen.

  The woman again shouted. “I asked for Americano, not Espresso!”

  When it came to choose a place to restart writin
g, the first spot that clicked me was the new Sparkle Café opened few days ago at the market avenue. I deliberately choose the corner table so that I could avoid people’s chats and focus on my creation. Three years had passed and I hadn’t put a word, it was difficult to generate ideas. There was a time when I used to post few-liner tales daily on social media, but now not even a single thought appeared. I took a sip of my espresso, anticipating that it would rattle my rusty mind, and it would start working. It didn’t. I took another sip, typed few words, and then the woman’s voice again interrupted my chain of thoughts.

  “What do you mean you don’t have Americano, mister?”

  I couldn’t bear more. For a while I scanned the crowd settled in the café, but no one seemed to be disturbed. I stood up and inched near her. Attired in office formals, a purse clung over her shoulder, with a cup of coffee in one hand and back against me, she was demanding furiously.

  “But Ma’am,” the manager politely attempted.

  “I don’t want to hear anything,” she cut him off. “Do you think I don’t know the difference between Americano and Espresso? You are so wrong, and you will regret your mistake, mister.”

  I stepped ahead. “Excuse me, miss, Americano is actually a diluted Espresso with hot water.” My words acted like a charm, and silence settled over the café.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” concurred the manager. “And that’s what I am trying to explain. The drink in your hand is Americano only.”

  I heard a remorseful oh from the lady. She turned sluggishly, and our eyes locked. Those eyes, which I had avoided during my graduation, were fixed on me. “Sia?”

  “Rihan?”

  A smile touched on my face, and she too responded in the same manner. Again I was spellbound. Fortunately, the manager interrupted, breaking my continuous staring. “Ma’am, please take a seat. You are actually crowding the counter.”

  Sia, without looking at the manager, took a step toward me. “Happy to see you.”

  “Same here.”

  “I am so happy that you remember me!”

  There was excitement in her words, and I thought for a while what should I say to her. People who knew me well are aware of the fact that I get nervous when there is a female around. No, I was not a feminophobic. It was just that I was raised in such a manner, and my education line was such that I had less contact of the opposite sex. And due to this inexperience, I stated a foolish sentence. “You were thinking Americano and Espresso are two different drinks?”

  Sia opened her mouth to say something, and closed it. The twinkle in her eyes vanished, and the happiness on her face faded. I then realized I should have not said that line. After so many years, coincidently we met, and I ruined the moment, terribly. “I didn’t mean that... I mean, I mean that...I mean…you understand, right?”

  She squinted her eyes till they were slits, then broke into guffaws. “Why are you fumbling?”

  I was not, was I? Nervousness seized me from inside, and habitually I stepped back, to be a little distant from her. “Sorry.”

  “For what?”

  I thought for a while, wondering the same. I tried to think for a substantial reason, but just like ideas for the story I wanted to write, nothing appeared. I was blank, and her prying eyes were waiting for the answer.

  Blessedly, the manager again interrupted, this time his voice was laced with irritation. “Please, vacant the counter.”

  I nodded to him, and then asked Sia. “Do you, you know, we both…” Words choked in my throat.

  “We both what, Rihan?” She sounded serious, and fear gripped me. Gears of my mind started rewinding, speculating what again something stupid slipped from my mouth. I attempted to rebuild my dissolving courage. Clearing my throat, I said in one breath. “We both can have a coffee together at my table. If you wish, then only. I am just saying that only coffee, at the corner table.”

  She grinned. “Chill. I was going to ask you the same.”

  I blinked in surprise.

  The manager behind her, furiously slapped the flat of his hand on the counter, signaling us that his patience was thinning rapidly. We both dashed toward my table. I waited for her to settle, and as I was setting into my chair, I couldn’t stop myself to absorb her details. The three-little-golden triangle earrings twinkled as it caught the dying-sun light, which filtered through the glass wall. When her oval face leaned ahead, and when her lips met the edge of the cup to sip the coffee, her jet-black hair curtained down. With one hand, she pulled her hair back, and raised her face. Her almond-shaped eyes, lined with kohl, caught me again staring. Immediately, I dropped my gaze on the opened-laptop, and stared typing rubbish, pretending that I was creating a fiction.

  “I hope I am not disturbing you,” she said apologetically.

  I shut the screen, took my cup and sipped, hoping the coffee would grease my throat and the trapped words would spring freely now onward. “Not at all.”

  “It’s good that you remember me,” she said.

  How was I supposed to forget her? That day of my past, during graduation years, when she was in the library with her mates, I was again at the corner, avoiding hum of the people, was engrossed in a novel. Tired, I shut the book and surveyed my surroundings, observing the people. And then my scrutiny stuck on her. For long moments, I read her movements, and for the first time in life, someone’s face was more interesting than the novels I read.

  A clicking sound jarred me out of my recollections. Sia had emptied her cup.

  “I don’t forget people so easily,” I responded, though it was too late.

  She glared at me. “You didn’t even thank me when I wished you. That was rude of you.”

  “What?”

  She dug her hand into the purse, and drew out her phone. She tapped the screen for multiple times, danced the tip of her finger over the smooth screen, and then displayed it to me. “You didn’t even like my wish.”

  I read the content. Happy B’day, writer!

  I gasped in surprise. “It were you.”

  “Obviously,” she jeered. “There’s my name too!” Rising, she gathered her accessories. “But I am glad.”

  I gave her a questioning look.

  Pointing toward my laptop, and then at me. “No short stories, no few-lines tales, no updates on social media for three years, I thought you gave up.”

  I did give up, I wanted to say but remained silent.

  Sia continued, “But when I noticed you still working on the story, I felt happy. That you are still the same the way you were in college. I need to go, bye.”

  And you have no idea how your one word in your wish have influenced me, I kept this thought to myself. As she pulled the glass door and made her way to her destination, I pressed my face to the glass wall, leaning on my chair, just to see her mixing in the crowd. And I wished for another coincident to occur so I could meet her again.

  Chapter Four

  God above the seven skies must have heard my wish.

  The following day, after the tiring office hours, I made my way to the Sparkle Café, to try my luck and see what could I possibly put on the blank document.

  “Rihan?”

  I stopped, spun, and greeted her with smile. “Sia, nice to see you again.”

  “So you always come here?” She walked toward me, fidgeting something in her purse.

  “The café just opened the last week,” I informed her. She was still busy rummaging her purse. What was she looking for? “Did you forget something?”

  “I swear I had a chocolate somewhere,” she said, now peeping into the purse. “There were three, and I am hundred percent sure that I only ate two of them.”

  I failed to suppress my reaction. “What?”

  Sia looked at me, and grinned. “I know it sounds surprising. Even anyone who knows me well will be astonished to know that I resisted myself to eat all three of them. I just love chocolates.”

  I made a mental note about her liking of the chocolate. “Listen, there is a shop nearb
y from where we can buy another one for you.”

  Her movements stopped. “I am not searching it for myself, Rihan.”

  I waited, anticipating she would reveal further; she didn’t. “For whom then?”

  “For my sweetheart.”

  Think of a lightning bolt precisely striking on you from the heaven, how would you feel? Stunned, shocked, devastated, dead. I exactly felt all of these crashing emotions at the same time. “Sweetheart?”

  “Yes.” Sia pulled out a bar of the chocolate from the purse. “See, I told you I haven’t eaten all. Come.” She grabbed my free hand, her touch issued an electricity within me, making me more dazed, “I’ll introduce you to my sweetheart.”

  Words were lost somewhere within me; all I could do was to nod in agreement. While she was towing me, cutting through the crowd, her hair catching in air, waving, revealed again her twinkling earrings. The world around me was mute, and call it my imagination, but I was hearing her breaths. What was happening?

  The crowd started to thin and she ushered me to the playground. “That’s my sweetheart.”

  I scanned the playground, and my gaze fell on a tall, well-muscled man. My throat suddenly became dry. “That military guy?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No way.” Sia pointed to the little girl sitting idly under the only tree of the playground. “Alaina.”

  Foolish, I cursed myself, and grinned.

  “You are acting weird, Rihan.”

  I tried to control my expressions, the latest revelation acted like a balm on my burned hopes. And the soothing feeling was so satisfying that my face radiated my happiness. “Sorry, I thought…”

  “…you thought that the guy…”

  “No,” I interjected, foolishly.

  Her smirk told me that she had already caught my confusion, and was just enjoying the moment. “If you are done with your any stupid assumptions, can we meet her?”

  From the corner of my eyes, I registered a small stall. “Do you wish to have a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, I’ll get it and join you both.”

  “Wait,” she stopped me, plucking out a currency note from her purse, pushed it into my hands and clasped my fingers over it. Her touch again dumfounded me. “I prefer to pay my part, and don’t think to give it back to me. I am an independent woman.”