<div>“Meet me at the coffee house near your block.” My niece sounds excited when she calls me in the morning. We haven’t seen each other in months and have a lot of catching up to do. The coffee house in my neighbourhood across a women’s college is a favourite haunt for students. I do not know if it is the loud music or the avant-garde artwork on the walls that’s the draw, but within a week of its opening, the place was packed with perky young people. <br /><br />As I wait for my niece at the coffee house, I remember the first time I brought my parents here. My dad placed his walking stick near the vacant table at the entrance and looked around. There was a hint of a smile on his face and then he sat down. Dad was a man of few words while mom made up for the lack of them. “This doesn’t seem very...” Mom’s voice trailed into a whisper as she caught my eye. And this was before we saw the prices on the menu. The parents wondered aloud why I was paying so much for a cup of coffee. <br /><br />Shortly, a sullen waiter served us some snacks along with coffee that tasted like sawdust. “The darshini down the road serves better coffee and costs nearly a third less,” the parents grumbled. I fervently prayed that no one had heard their comments. Later, when I paid the bill, my dad decried, “This is the last time I’m setting foot in this place!”<br /><br />The darshini down the road from my house holds its own as it caters to different age groups. It’s a family favourite. Often the dosas made at home get vetoed down in its favour. For the uninitiated, the place is a hole in the wall – nothing fancy yet it gives a homely feeling once you walk in. The dilapidated walls and the standing-room only space do not deter the regulars or even newbies from venturing in. <br /><br />The aroma of freshly-made decoction coffee vies with the smell of butter emanating from the benne dosa. The slice of tomato served as a dressing on top of the “khara bath” is waived off as an eccentricity as the dish itself stirs up the senses with its texture, colour and taste. The servers greet the customers with a smile. While the regulars are given a familiar nod, the absentees are given an earful for not frequenting the place.<br /><br />As I nurse my bitter coffee now, I notice my niece step inside the coffee house. She heads my way after exchanging a brief smile with the person behind the counter. The moment she sits down, she’s on a rant about fickle friends, absent-minded professors and difficult parents. “Please don’t give me advice – I just need you to listen,” she insists. I am hard-pressed not to retort, “How on earth can I hear the words coming out of your lips in this din?” <br /><br />The rock music playing in the background has become louder and I feel the remnants of a headache coming on. But I continue to smile at her, secretly yearning for that cup of coffee and benne dosa at the good old darshini a few blocks away. Ah, the things we do for familial affection.</div>
<div>“Meet me at the coffee house near your block.” My niece sounds excited when she calls me in the morning. We haven’t seen each other in months and have a lot of catching up to do. The coffee house in my neighbourhood across a women’s college is a favourite haunt for students. I do not know if it is the loud music or the avant-garde artwork on the walls that’s the draw, but within a week of its opening, the place was packed with perky young people. <br /><br />As I wait for my niece at the coffee house, I remember the first time I brought my parents here. My dad placed his walking stick near the vacant table at the entrance and looked around. There was a hint of a smile on his face and then he sat down. Dad was a man of few words while mom made up for the lack of them. “This doesn’t seem very...” Mom’s voice trailed into a whisper as she caught my eye. And this was before we saw the prices on the menu. The parents wondered aloud why I was paying so much for a cup of coffee. <br /><br />Shortly, a sullen waiter served us some snacks along with coffee that tasted like sawdust. “The darshini down the road serves better coffee and costs nearly a third less,” the parents grumbled. I fervently prayed that no one had heard their comments. Later, when I paid the bill, my dad decried, “This is the last time I’m setting foot in this place!”<br /><br />The darshini down the road from my house holds its own as it caters to different age groups. It’s a family favourite. Often the dosas made at home get vetoed down in its favour. For the uninitiated, the place is a hole in the wall – nothing fancy yet it gives a homely feeling once you walk in. The dilapidated walls and the standing-room only space do not deter the regulars or even newbies from venturing in. <br /><br />The aroma of freshly-made decoction coffee vies with the smell of butter emanating from the benne dosa. The slice of tomato served as a dressing on top of the “khara bath” is waived off as an eccentricity as the dish itself stirs up the senses with its texture, colour and taste. The servers greet the customers with a smile. While the regulars are given a familiar nod, the absentees are given an earful for not frequenting the place.<br /><br />As I nurse my bitter coffee now, I notice my niece step inside the coffee house. She heads my way after exchanging a brief smile with the person behind the counter. The moment she sits down, she’s on a rant about fickle friends, absent-minded professors and difficult parents. “Please don’t give me advice – I just need you to listen,” she insists. I am hard-pressed not to retort, “How on earth can I hear the words coming out of your lips in this din?” <br /><br />The rock music playing in the background has become louder and I feel the remnants of a headache coming on. But I continue to smile at her, secretly yearning for that cup of coffee and benne dosa at the good old darshini a few blocks away. Ah, the things we do for familial affection.</div>
