Drinking Coffee on a Bangalore Balcony

We’ve got a flat in Bangalore – lying empty now because we don’t live there anymore. I plan on going back there some time, to live, or, failing that, to sell it. Which will be a little sad. No, it’s not a particularly fancy flat or anything like that. In fact, it’s a pretty ordinary one, in one of those govt development housing plots, which are usually shoddily built. The flat, situated on the topmost floor in a five storey building, has its share of shoddiness, poor quality of doors and windows and other fittings, lousy finishing, and stuff. And yet, it has something about it, a certain cheerful character, which is unusual in mass produced blocks of government built flats.

A little away from the main city, bang in the middle of lush greenery (Bangalore is the most green city of all Indian cites I’ve been to), the blocks of flats are spread over a fairly large area, hence, not the usual cramped feeling you get in the usual housing plots. The interiors are roomy and airy, especially now without a stick of furniture, the ceilings uncharacteristically high, which gives a more spacious ambience. Most flats of this kind have a low-ceilinged shoebox feel about them. The flat has two bedrooms, accompanied by their bathrooms, a long sitting-cum-dining area which leads directly into a kitchen. Also, a long, fairly wide passage which connects the sit-cum-dine with the rest of the rooms, and leads out at one end into the balcony.

The balcony of that flat is especially lovely. There is a Krishnamachura tree on one side, the branches of which sort of cradle the balcony. The tree has broad luxuriant leaves and blood red fist sized blooms. On the other side stands a tall badam tree, which also has lovely lush leaves, some of which turn a delightful fiery orangeish-red. Out on the balcony, you feel as if you’re a bird perched on a tree. There are whole bunches of birds who keep you company, passing their time on the branches. They don’t fly away once they realise you’re not going to bother them. The koel being the most profuse, rending the air with their joyous koo-koo. But there are pigeons too that constantly go mumble-mumble, and the ubiquitous crows with their caw-caw, the occasional bulbul, and the sudden screech of parrots in their periodic migrations. And scampering squirrels with their bright little eyes, which stop suddenly when they spot you sitting on their territory, pulling up stock still, watchful, then carrying on, chasing each other, hopping from branch to branch, their bushy tails bobbing up and down, erupting in their rapid high pitched call – kik-kik-kik-kik.

I go to the Bangalore flat sometimes when I want to be by myself. I am that kind of a person – I get occasional bouts of I-want-to-be-left-alone-to-be-by-myself fits. And I sit on that balcony for hours, sipping South Indian filter coffee. I hardly ever drink tea when I go to Bangalore, though tea is really my beverage since I am a Bengali and tea is what has always been made at home. But, in Bangalore, I just feel like coffee. Every home, every street, every roadside coffee stall is infused with its aroma, which my senses eagerly savour. It is the flavour and the uniqueness of Bangalore. And nothing defines this city more than its savoury filter coffee.

Now, I can’t make the coffee myself, at least, not like the Bangaloreans do. Like tea, coffee needs practice and familiarity, to be able to extract its soul from within its dark brown ground beans. So, when I go to Bangalore, about the first thing I do in the morning is trudge down to my favourite street side eatery, Udupas – a 45 minute walk – whose coffee is unrivalled, according to me, even in Bangalore – with a flask swinging on my shoulder. And the first thing I do when I reach Udupas is of course drink a quick cup there – nothing like piping hot fresh coffee straight from the constantly gurgling coffee pot. Then, tanking up the flask I trudge back home, to sit in my balcony where the sun pierces through the leaves and makes patterns on the mosaic floor. And, letting my mind drift along with a gentle breeze, I drink cup after cup, letting the aroma of the brown liquid filter through every pore of my being, as the day wears on and dies in the dusk, listening to the constant chatter of the birds.

Drinking coffee and dreaming. Drinking coffee and writing. Drinking coffee and feeling at one with the universe in which I exist as a speck of life in a leaf enclosed, sun spattered, bird-song filled balcony in Bangalore.

-by Rita Putatunda