I’ve always been a coffee person. Tea and I never really got along. The few times I tried it, I couldn’t quite appreciate the taste. But life has its way of making you adapt, especially when you don’t have a choice. Growing up in a convent boarding school, I was forced to drink tea. The nuns believed in discipline, and as a girl, you were expected to adjust to everything without question. It was a cliché line we heard at least once a day—something today’s kids would probably roll their eyes at.
But let’s leave tea behind and get back to my love for coffee.
In my home, everyone drank tea. I, on the other hand, was a Complan girl. Yes, the very same drink that promised to make us "taller, stronger, and sharper." My summer vacations, however, were spent at my mother’s ancestral home, where I discovered a whole new world of flavors. It was there that I first saw my aunt sipping black coffee with jaggery—each sip followed by a bite of the golden sweetener. There was something mesmerizing about the way she did it, like a sacred ritual after a long morning of chores.
My mother’s home was a classic farmer’s household—alive with the scent of freshly turned soil, the hum of daily farm activities, and the warmth of family. Mornings began before dawn, with the fields coming to life—paddy swaying in the breeze, rows of banana and rubber plantations, cocoa and nutmeg trees standing tall. The courtyard was always bustling with workers, each engaged in different tasks. We, the carefree cousins, would run around, disrupting their work, earning scoldings from grandpa for playing with rice and peas. Those were the golden days.
And amidst all that, my aunt’s coffee stood out. That was my first real introduction to coffee.
Yet, my mother never made coffee for me. It remained a distant curiosity, tucked away in my taste buds, waiting for the right time to resurface. It wasn’t until my undergraduate days that I started drinking it myself. My options were limited to black coffee, regular milk coffee, and, of course, Bru—the instant coffee that defined an entire generation.
Bru wasn’t just coffee; it was luxury. It was the expensive, treasured jar that only made its way to the table when guests arrived. Sneaking a cup without my mother’s permission was nearly impossible. The rich aroma, the deep flavor—it felt like pure heaven.
Then came Chennai, the city that expanded my coffee horizons. Moving there for my post-graduation was overwhelming. Everything felt new, fast, and unfamiliar—until I met Aarti. She was my guardian angel, the one who made the transition easier. She was also the one who bought me my first cappuccino. Until then, I had only known coffee in its simplest forms, but that frothy cup introduced me to an entirely new world.
From there, there was no turning back. I explored every café I could, trying different types of coffee—espresso, Americano, macchiato, mocha, cold brew, and even the fancy caramel frappuccinos. Each one had its own charm, its own story to tell.
And just last month, coffee took me on another nostalgic journey.
We had traveled to Anakkulam, a serene hill station, where I stumbled upon a cup of coffee that transported me straight back to my childhood. It tasted exactly like the one my aunt used to make. I couldn’t resist—I had to know more. I learned that the coffee was cultivated by the local tribes, taken to the only mill in the area, and ground into a pure, unadulterated powder. No added flavors, just the raw, strong aroma of freshly ground coffee beans.
I brought some back home. Now, every morning, as I sip that coffee, I’m reminded of those childhood summers, of my aunt’s quiet coffee ritual, of the farm buzzing with life. It’s amazing how a single cup can hold so many memories.
But my coffee journey doesn’t end here. It never will. Because for a coffee lover, every cup is a new story waiting to be brewed.
