I can’t make a decent cup of coffee. Neither can my mom

Perhaps it’s genetic. Maybe I was distracted when the angels were imparting crucial life skills just before pushing us down womb chutes. I may have been immersed in a Kindle ebook on the Delhi Metro. And maybe my Mom was practising Bharatanatyam mudras, thumping the floor with her feet, much to the chagrin of our downstairs neighbour with the fragile chandelier.

And my inadequacy could be dangerous too. What if I were taken hostage by a maniacal burglar, a diehard lover of his daily cup of joe, who orders me to brew him one? I imagine him staring at me with his menacing eyes, clutching a fork that he keeps threatening to run through my entrails if I delay a second longer.

I would tremble and put the saucepan on the boil, eventually serving up a tepid concoction neither milk nor water (and by no means, coffee) that would disgust the likes of Honoré de Balzac. The French writer should know. He’s said to have imbibed 50 cups of the strong stuff every day.

There’s hope in my life yet. My cousin Rose. She brews the kind of golden-brown coffee that you see in television ads, sloshing around in pristine white mugs in delectable slow motion. Where your taste buds applaud in unison as you savour the first sip. Your eyes are closed and you imagine yourself in paradise with wallpaper adorned with arabica and robusta beans. You ooh and aah as life takes on new meaning with the trinity of Bru Instant, Milma and a spoonful of sugar. I am a devotee for life.

“Your children are lucky to get to drink this every day.”
“They don’t drink coffee,” she says.
I knew it. Genius is wasted on GenZers.

The problem is Rose lives in Kerala. The 2,576 kilometres (1,600 miles) from India’s capital seem insurmountable. Travelling to-and-fro for coffee seems excessive, even if I were Elon Musk.

I have my Eureka moment. I will videotape her and I’ll be in on the trade secret. Rose agrees, trepidatious as she preps and measures and pours as my phone camera gawps and gazes and records.

The verdict is announced five minutes later.
“The first cup was better.”
“You made me nervous,” she says.

Back in New Delhi, the office coffee sucks and I depend on Nescafe’s premixes to get my daily fix.

“Don’t drink this palm oil and sugar syrup,” says Mom, when she sees me reaching for the sachets at home. She has a point. My HbA1C is now significantly higher than the IIT GPA of Chetan Bhagat’s Five Point Someone.

“Try this instead,” she says. “I know it’s not as good as Rose’s.”

Mom hangs around expectantly as I take my first sip from the mug.

“How is it?”

“It’s hot, for sure. And it has water, so I won’t die of dehydration. And it’s white as snow, so I won’t run short of calcium I suppose,” is what I want to say.

“It is lovely. Thank you,” is what I say instead.

The Shah Rukh Khan dimple on Mom’s right cheek appears. She has bought into the lie.

“This is why you should get married.”
“Achcha, and what if her coffee is as bad as the one I make?”
“Then both of you will order in a flask from Chaayos.”
“What if Humayun Saeed makes really bad coffee?”
“Don’t bring Humayun into this.” (Saeed is the Pakistani actor who appeared in The Crown as Princess Diana’s friend Dr. Hasnat Khan, although Mom likes him more as the doggedly devoted husband in Pakistani dramas)

I have rarely gone in for fancy coffee. Not a fan of espresso, americano, macchiato, affogato (although hold the press on that last one, how bad could a scoop of ice cream in coffee really be?) I briefly had a Starbucks card and quaffed Java chip frappuccinos weekly, until a kind soul pointed out that each of these contained 15 spoonfuls of sugar.

I have tried the French press and other coffee machines and now they lie rusting at home since I can’t abide ‘black or white’ (as Michael Jackson sang in 1991). I always come back to the sugary mud-brown of my south Indian heritage.

“I might as well shift to Bengaluru.” I tell Mom. “The office filter coffee there costs just 15 rupees and it’s divine.”
“Why don’t you just drink tea instead?”
“Can’t. I am a tea-totaler.”

Photo by Lisa Fotios from Pexels

Mom met her schoolmate and friend again - 56 years later

November 1965. The second India-Pakistan war had ended. Mankind had yet to conquer the moon. A group of schoolgirls (seven of them from Infant Jesus, Aranattukara) take a train from Thrissur, Kerala, to India’s capital to receive the President’s Guide Award from Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan.

Annie and her friend Jolly are among the wide-eyed teenagers on the trip, chaperoned by two nuns. It takes three days on the train to cross India’s hinterlands. The girls are thrilled by the unexpected vistas and smile shyly at the handsome soldiers in the railway carriage.

In New Delhi, they camp in tents alongside other awardees from across the country and take baths, albeit reluctantly, at dawn. Unaccustomed to the winter chill, Annie borrows a spare sweater.

The girls wolf down chapatis paired with spicy cauliflower. For the seven Keralites - Annie, Jolly, Thresiamma, Kochuthresia, Elsy, Alphonsa and Sybil - it is their first taste of the north Indian flatbread.

The days fly by. The city’s delights include climbing the narrow stairs of the Qutab Minar minaret, the imposing Red Fort and the Jama Masjid – and the lush Mughal Gardens at the presidential palace. Jolly stands next to her as they chat with Zakir Husain, India’s vice president.

At a grand ceremony at the Rashtrapati Bhavan, the schoolgirls are ushered to the carpeted dais by liveried footmen. The president says something to her but Annie doesn’t register it, nervous and stunned by the flashbulbs going off.

From their camp in Delhi, the schoolgirls travel to Agra, some 150 miles away, for their first glimpse of the Taj Mahal, the monument of love. And all too soon, it is time for the train back home.

They find themselves heroes when they set foot in Kerala. Feted with flowers and firecrackers at the Thrissur railway station and taken to school in a convoy of jeeps festooned with garlands.

Giddy with excitement, the girls whoop with delight as the parade of jeeps goes past Tharakan’s, their rival boys-only school in Aranattukara that hasn’t won an award. At Infant Jesus, the school nuns lead them to a feast and a parade in their honour.

The rest of the school year, and then another, goes by in a blur. Annie takes her national school-leaving examinations and on a summer day in 1967, her parents arrive, taking her and her trunk back with them to their dwelling in Maninagar, Ahmedabad.

This is not the age of the internet, nor are landline telephones common yet. No mailing addresses exchanged either, their naïve minds haven’t thought of it. Annie and Jolly drift apart, their once unshakable bond now a dissolving thread as time and distance take their toll.

March 2023. Annie, who now calls Delhi home, visits her school in Thrissur 56 years after she left with her parents. Tucked away in a home for nuns, a building where she lodged for ten years as a pupil, she chances upon an old woman who recognises her.

Mary, the cook for boarding school pupils, cups Annie’s face in her hands in disbelief and sheds tears of joy. She retired just a few years ago, when her frail body could no longer keep up with her constant fussing over the young girls who studied there.

Mary, now 88, hasn’t forgotten Annie or her shenanigans in this cradle of four walls where she grew up among nuns, and where Annie has returned more than half a century later for another memorable day at her alma mater.

A wave of nostalgia comes over her as Annie gazes at the older buildings and gardens, including a rocky nook where several decades ago the resident ducks had quacked and chased the seven-year-old, pecking at the hem of her skirt with their beaks, until a nun had rescued her.

The school’s nuns from the 1960s are long dead, but Annie wonders if she could still meet her friends. And Jolly, who is also a distant relative. A cousin comes to Annie’s aid, tracking down a WhatsApp number for Jolly, who has settled in nearby Irinjalakuda after marriage.

The long-lost friends speak on the phone, promising to meet in person when Annie visits Kerala. Both have relatives in the suburb of Ollur, Thrissur, and coordinate a rendezvous coinciding with the Feast of Saint Raphael at one of India’s oldest churches.

October 2023. Annie and her son (yours truly) brave the sun as devotees holding aloft golden crosses and ceremonial umbrellas trudge past in a procession. Jolly lingers by the entrance to her daughter’s house. Celebratory fireworks go off as the long-lost friends reunite.

The words come thick and fast, tumbling out as if it is just an interrupted conversation, not a six-decade hiatus. Both say it is like they have never been apart. Annie and Jolly have been rekindling their friendship ever since.

"For fitter, for fatter" free to download until March 10

There comes a time in every couple's life when the husband and wife, especially if unceremoniously yoked together in 24/7 proximity due to a COVID-19 pandemic, can no longer tolerate perceived slights by their happily-ever-after partner. This includes hogging the bathroom to take Instagram selfies.

Free to download on any Android/iOS device or phone until March 10 and always free on Kindle Unlimited.

If you like it, tell your friends. Grateful for any ratings and reviews on the Amazon website.

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Living with sarcoidosis

I blame David. Over the years, my friend showered me with epithets such as ‘healthy as a horse’ and the ‘man who never falls sick’ so it was perhaps inevitable that my no-hospital streak was to be broken - and how.

It was in mid-November that I woke up with red and inflamed eyes that my nephew was quick to dub ‘dragon eyes’ on a video call. I had blurred vision and could not read or work on a laptop, nor could I tolerate bright lights or the sun. These were peak COVID times and I hadn’t stepped out of the house in eight months, but after a tele-consultation proved futile, a hospital visit was deemed necessary. I was diagnosed with uveitis and my eye doctor ordered a battery of tests to determine the cause of infection, while starting me on steroid eyedrops to reduce inflammation.

Progress was slow and three weeks later, I woke up with painful and swollen ankles. My C-reactive protein levels were surging, indicating there was something else wrong. I had tested negative for COVID, tuberculosis, rheumatoid arthritis and a host of other auto-immune disorders my doctor kept suggesting during weekly visits. I had developed a persistent dry cough, had lost my appetite and just wanted to lie in bed all day. My ECG and chest x-rays seemed normal. My vitamin D levels were abysmal while my ankle x-rays revealed calcium deficiency – but neither explained my other symptoms. I couldn’t sleep at night, tossing and turning and wincing in pain each time my swollen ankles or knees touched the bed.

Frustrated, I switched to another eye doctor, one who confirmed the uveitis diagnosis and ordered more tests. Things came to a head four days after Christmas when I found myself sprawled on the bathroom floor on the coldest night of the year. My head was sweating profusely, which was what woke me up, and I looked down to see blood on my sweater. I had cut my chin when I hit the wash basin as I passed out. I looked at the clock - it was 4.30 a.m. and I had no idea how long I had been unconscious. I cleaned myself up and woke up mom, giving her quite the scare.

The next day, we consulted a new GP, one with a reputation as a good diagnostician. He went through all my previous tests, ordered a few more, including a CECT scan that revealed enlarged lymph nodes in my lungs. By now, my arms and legs were too thin, walking was difficult and mom pushed me around in a wheelchair during hospital visits. Things moved swiftly, and I was referred to a chest specialist to conduct a lung biopsy that would rule out the dreaded C-word. “Please don’t cough,” the surgeon said as he inserted a probe down my throat, and of course, my body responded with a coughing fit. Horrible, horrible experience.

I was discharged from hospital on Jan. 8, having finally got a diagnosis - Sarcoidosis. An auto-immune disease that attacks the eyes, lungs, joints and other organs and has no cure, but it is rarely life-threatening and most patients live normal lives with steroids. On the plus side, it’s not cancer. And moreover, I had lost 13 kilos in eight weeks and my BMI had finally ticked into the ‘Ideal’ category from ‘Overweight’. The last time I weighed this little, Barack Obama was not yet president. “Don’t celebrate the weight loss too soon,” said the chest specialist, warning me to stay off sugar. “The steroids will make it balloon back as your appetite returns.”

Having got my first steroid injection on my last night in hospital, I was able to sleep pain-free for the first time in weeks. A bowel movement (again, thank you steroids) is now the highlight of my day but I’m not complaining. After a satisfactory OPD follow-up, I will have new scans and blood tests in two months to monitor progress.

As for my vision, I am not out of the woods yet. My eye doctor suspects posterior retina damage and I meet a specialist this week. I still can’t read or work on a laptop (I’m typing this in a gigantic font that can be read from the other room). I still spend much of my time in bed, too tired if I walk for a few minutes. But on my last hospital visit, I walked and used the escalator.

My doctor says I am now strong enough to fly down to Hyderabad, where my brother lives. He can give mom some relief as primary caregiver and some time away from New Delhi’s winter chill and pollution would do me good anyway. I last logged on to work on Nov. 13 and it will be some weeks before I can return. But 2021 has begun on a positive note. And things can only get better. As for you, David, I forgive you.

Book: Room by Emma Donoghue

Room by Emma Donoghue
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

"Room" (2010), a powerful novel by Emma Donoghue, was later adapted into a Oscar-winning film. The story is told from the perspective of five-year-old Jack, who has lived all his life in a room with his Ma and has not known life beyond its four walls. Recommended.

View all my reviews

Book: Asymmetry by Lisa Halliday

Asymmetry by Lisa Halliday
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

"Asymmetry", the debut novel by Lisa Halliday, is a well-crafted work that may seem like two novels in one but explores asymmetries in a relationship between a celebrated writer and the novice he is sleeping with, between the West and the Middle East, between youth and old age. This is an intriguing work of art.

View all my reviews

Book: The Mammaries of the Welfare State by Upamanyu Chatterjee

The Mammaries of the Welfare State by Upamanyu Chatterjee
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I haven't read "English, August" yet but perhaps I should have.

"The Mammaries of the Welfare State" (2000) doesn't seem to have the wit and narrative flow of Upamanyu Chatterjee's most celebrated work. The sequel (parts of which I found quite tedious) continues its satirical exploration of Indian bureaucracy, partly from the point of view of Agastya Sen - the protagonist of the 1988 novel that is very much on my to-read list.

View all my reviews

Spain Diaries - Part 2

The summer sun seems to shine brighter in Leon than in New Delhi. One doesn’t sweat as much though and a breeze flits among the trees, their leaves casting dancing shadows as I walk on dappled pavements.

Where are all the young people of Leon? The university is far from the city centre but I am still flummoxed by the dearth of 20- and 30-somethings. I see old people in droves - ambling, stretching, jogging, dawdling, ruminating, pushing wheelchairs with nonagenarians staring vacantly at shop windows. Google tells me the province of Castile-Leon loses most of its youngsters to emigration as Spaniards seek work abroad, leaving behind an armada of granny nannies.

At the outdoor gym along the Bernesga river, grannies and grandpas hog the exercise equipment - keeping an eye on toddlers playing in the park. A pair of wiry, athletic seniors dart past as I head to the riverfront McDonald’s for an ice-cream sundae. No, I am not embarrassed. I’m here on vacation and refuse to acknowledge my perennial out-of-shapehood. A pair of affable retirees are painting a section of the McDonald’s store as I sidestep the recien pintado (wet paint) signs. I spot another old man with a Glovo (food delivery) box zooming past on his scooter. With few youngsters on hire, there is obviously no ageism here.

At the Espacio Leon mall, a middle-aged woman supervises a footwear store, metamorphosing rapidly into helper, picker-upper, cleaner, cashier as I (egged on by my mother) bug her with questions - Are these on sale? Can I get these in a larger size? Where’s the other of this pair? Do you get these in black? But the manager is unfazed and responds to all my queries with a smile. Ten minutes and a forex-card swipe later, my mother is the owner of a comfortable pair of walking sandals.

On the eighth floor of my apartment block, an elderly woman is climbing the stairs and huffing. She is lugging a wooden plank too big to fit in the elevator. I offer to help. Necesitas ayuda? She says no. Just one more floor to go, she says. Gracias. But she breaks into a smile and seems grateful that I asked. Labor costs are high in Spain and life would be difficult here for yours truly, accustomed as I am to the middle-class luxuries of maids and handymen in India.

My mother is back from church. The elderly parish priest, spotting an unfamiliar devotee among the pews, spoke to her after Mass. The two didn’t make much headway, insulated as they were in the cocoons of their respective languages, but my mother was able to convey that she is from India. The priest’s face lit up as he heard the word. Que bonito pais! My mother, who found solace in Catholicism after my father passed, nodded along to the priest's babbling, wishing she could understand Spanish or, even better, that the clergyman could speak English. The only word she knows apart from Hola! is salida (the departure/exit signs at airports) - which has limited uses in ecclesiastical conversations.

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Spain Diaries - Part 1