It was the borosilicate mug that went first. My glass mug, the one I made coffee in, drank coffee in, and sometimes even let coffee go cold in. Four, five times a day, sometimes a dozen.
No, I’m no coffee connoisseur. I’m a caffeine addict with low demands. I don’t court exotic grinds or argue about percolators versus presses. Filter or pour-over, black roast or dark roast, I’ve never had it figured out. You may call me tasteless; I call it practical. The ease of dependable instant coffee suits my lazy craving. As long as it’s black, strong, and sugar-free, it’s my coffee.
But then, I need gallons of it. To start the day, to wake up, to refresh myself, to jump-start the bowels, to clear the fog from my head so I can think. And it was that glass mug that delivered my daily dose, always stationed on my desk beside my books and computer. Morning or night, weary afternoon or late night when the writing bug bit hard. A swirl of black liquid, brown froth rising and falling against the glass, steam curling upward to kindle some thought, elation, or more often, melancholy. The mug had been my quiet companion for over a decade. I don’t remember when it entered my life, only that it became part of the background; through hangovers, headaches, idle afternoons, dreamy digressions, and moments of deep introspection. There’s something about a transparent coffee mug. Beer mugs are juvenile, all foam and noise. A glass coffee mug is more adult, romantic but grounded, capable of sending the mind into a caffeine-lit flight without the haze of alcohol.
Sunday morning, I heated water a little longer than usual, not for coffee, but for cup noodles. My pantry is full of instant conveniences; my kitchen is more survival station than culinary arena. I’ve never seen the point of building elaborate kitchens into every home. Why not have community kitchens, run by people who love cooking and know nutrition? Let them feed us; we’ll do the dishes, sweep the floor, or pay our share. Cooking talent is like singing or dancing. It belongs on a stage, not locked inside a flat.
Anyway, after boiling water for noodles, I absentmindedly filled my mug under the tap. Cold water met hot glass; thermal stress did the rest. The crack travelled across the walls at the speed of sound. My mug broke. My heart skipped a beat. Something I’d taken for granted for so many years just… gave way. And I lost it forever. I might find another one like it, but I won’t be looking. Some things are irreplaceable, and it’s better that way. Some losses you just live with; their absence leaves a small, permanent mark. I’ll miss watching coffee swirl inside those glass walls. I’ll miss the way the froth swayed gently as the whirlpool settled. But there will be no replacement. There cannot be.
*
I’d caught a bout of cold. Perhaps I’m too old now for walks in the rain. I never used to fall sick from getting wet or drinking cold, but Saturday night I was out in the rain, and came home to gin on ice. Then more gin on more ice. That third drink may not have been called for. Anyway, my nose was running this Sunday, and I hated it.
Chinese is therapeutic. Whenever I’m down, that’s where I look for comfort. There’s something wholesome and soulful about the savoury flavours of Indianised Chinese dishes. And not just the food. I find everything about Chinese restaurants, at least those in Bangalore, oddly romantic. The décor steeped in red, the bold black imprints of Chinese letters plastered on walls and banners, does anybody really understand them? They look like spiders without cobwebs. Are they even real letters? No one knows. Yet we approve. The pretence of it all, the trust, that itself is a kind of solace for the moody. Then there are the spherical red lamps, the uniquely vertical menu layout, always familiar. Most Indian-Chinese restaurants look the same, smell the same, serve almost the same. And to me they’re always comfort food. From the wayside chow-mien woks on footpaths to plush high-end places with a red dragon on the door, soothing, comforting, relaxing for my palate, my tummy, even my heart.
This time, though, I didn’t want the ambience. I was already comfortable on my couch. My lungs, my throat, and my nose needed the warmth. Clear chicken soup from Little Chef, Swiggyed in.
The china bowl was many things; my cereal or muesli bowl when breakfast was quick, my sambar or meat curry bowl when the meal was hearty, my indulgent fruit-and-nut sundae bowl when I went overboard with dessert. By the way, that pun on ‘china’ is unintentional. I didn’t notice till after I wrote it, laughed, and kept laughing. That’s the trouble, I almost forgot my thread. Anyway...
I placed the bowl on my side table and pulled it close. The soup came in flimsy plastic boxes, hot enough I worried the plastic would melt. The lid was taped tight. When I finally pried it open, a burst of steam hit my face, carrying that familiar chicken-soupy aroma. It was welcoming, comforting, enticing, soothing, and too much for my stressed nostrils. I sneezed. The jerk sent soup splashing. Some on the side table, some straight on my chest. Boiling liquid seeped through my nylon t-shirt, clinging, scalding. I screamed. My hands let go. The container dropped onto the china bowl, and both tumbled to the floor. Soup splattered my legs, my feet, my stomach, seeping everywhere. I bolted to the shower, stripped, and stood under the cold stream. No blisters, just redness. Things below the waist were still in working order. The sting of cold water on scalded skin was brutal. I screamed again.
When I returned, the china lay in half a dozen pieces. One large, one medium, many tiny, like a shattered solar system. Soup had soaked into the carpet. The room smelt like a Chinese restaurant, but without the comfort. That was the end of that bowl. I’ll find another, but it won’t be the same. Another piece of life broken away.
*
Monday morning. Lunch was packed in my borosil lunchboxes, twins in a green-and-blue sling bag. One box with chapathis, the other with rajma. I hurried down the stairs and caught my cab. I hate being the reason someone waits; I’d rather suffer irritation myself than cause it. But today I’d made the driver wait. Maybe the day would be smoother.
It wasn’t. At the office gate, my bag slipped. Padded bag, sturdy borosil. I thought nothing of it. But when I picked it up, I heard the rattle. Not chapathis. Glass. I pictured shards glistening against the food. Lunch was sorted. There are options near the office. But glassware, chinaware? Once they break, they don’t come back.
Three things in two days. A mug, a bowl, a box. A piece of me? And maybe that’s the truth of it. Nothing is ever as sturdy as it seems. We build rituals around small objects until they vanish, leaving us a little lighter, a little lonelier. Three breakages, three absences, three quiet reminders. That even the most ordinary things, the mug that woke me, the bowl that fed me, the box that carried my meals, carry a piece of me. And when they break, some piece of me chips off too.
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