Miraculously that morning, I was running nearly two quarters of an hour early. It was an alien feeling. I was pressed and dressed, the house was clean, the kitchen counter wiped down spotless, the fish were fed and my sole little plant had been watered. There was nothing more I could do at home. And so, almost reluctantly, I headed out to work some twenty-five minutes before my usual time of departure.

I contemplated taking my usual diversion – a circuitous and yet swifter route to office, but then decided on the direct, albeit typically busier route.

“Oh what the hell,” I reasoned to myself. “I have all the time in the world to kill.”

The roads were still sparsely populated, as peak hour traffic was yet to start. A sleepy little policeman waved me onto the center lane. With one eye on the car ahead of me, I fumbled with the car stereo as I plugged in my music player and leaned back in my seat – enjoying the first strains of John Denver’s guitar. Languorous mornings are a special time – meant to be savoured for every little moment of pleasure they afford you.

It was with this thought in my head that I drove up to the Barista on the way to work. A freshly ground cup of java and a warm banana muffin sounded like the perfect accompaniment to my day – and so I shifted gears, flashed an indicator and rolled the car into the vacant parking spot outside the coffee shop. Going in meant pausing the song – and it was with some reluctance that I turned down the near melancholic strains of music, propped my sunglasses on my head and stepped out of the car – slamming the door shut.

The coffee shop looked quiet – in anticipation. There was the single barista-hand behind the counter, looking up at me, as I pushed the glass door to enter. Since I am a caffeine addict, and a regular, we knew each other by face. I tipped my head slowly to one side in acknowledgment as I approached the counter. A gentle aroma of warm roasted coffee beans wafted up to greet me.

“Good morning,” he smiled. “A takeaway coffee with one Demerara sugar?”

I love the easy familiarity.

“Yes please,” I nod happily, looking towards a pastry case overflowing with freshly baked muffins. “Can you also warm up a banana muffin to go?”

He starts to open the case and reaches for one glorious specimen with his tongs. “How about some vanilla butter and jam to go with it?”

“Hmm”, is all I can manage in happy approval.

I look around as he gets to work. It’s a warm, sunny day and the orange walls of the coffee shop seem to glow in the morning sun. There is soft music playing in the background, and the smell of caffeine is everywhere. I screw my eyes shut, enjoying the grinding of the machine as he dispenses my coffee, the steaming of the frothing milk and the chime of the oven. This is what heaven must feel like.

When I open my eyes, he is stirring the sugar into my takeaway cup and dropping the warmed muffin into a paper bag. Two more customers have walked up to the counter and are standing next to me. I wonder how long they have been there for.

Suddenly one of them lashes out with surprising ferocity at the barista hand, “Do you know, that in the time that you are taking to make up this lady’s order, a normal person can finish his breakfast?”

The moment is gone.

I wryly hand over the money for my order. He scurries back with the change and apologetically wishes me goodbye.

As I walk out, I watch the reflection of the two men in the glass door – as they place their order and find a place to sit and wait. I cannot understand the essentially Indian need to be urgently noticed, instantaneously served and fussed  and fawned over, especially at restaurants and cafes. If only we could get over the need for an ego massage – would the joy of being in the moment make itself known to us in a flash of clairvoyance.

I take a sip of my velvety coffee and laugh to myself as I walk back to the car. Sometimes the need to be acknowledged over rides the pure pleasure of the experience.

 

 

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