“Maa, I want coffee,” he shouted for the third time from the balcony. He waited a minute and shouted again “maa, bring me some coffee.” The lack of response irritated him and his rage reached its peak within seconds. “Maa, can’t you hear me? Where is my frigging coffee?” he shouted at the top of his lungs and shattered the water glass, which was within his reach, against the wall.

After some time, he heard someone move in the hall. He turned towards the door expecting his mother to come in. Instead, his wife entered the room with a coffee cup in her hand. “Where is maa? Why are you bringing the coffee?” he asked her, even though he knew the answer. “I want maa to bring me the coffee,” he said, like a stubborn child making a demand and threatening to throw a tantrum. His wife placed the cup on his table, moved close to him and hugged him. He hugged her back, like a child who just lost something precious would hug his mother. His voice broke down and he said, sobbing, “I want maa to bring me the coffee.” His wife caressed his hair, wiped his tears and let him mourn his mother days after her death.



One thought on “The Bitter Coffee

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