“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.

Picture1

Advertisements

One thought on “The Bitter Coffee

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s