My FC Road Starbucks Coffee Ritual

There’s an extensive list of nonsensical experiences in my life which have led to absurd rituals associated with every city I’ve travelled to. So let me share a little secret here, although I am not so enamoured of beverages, my mornings (whenever I am here) at Pune City are incomplete without a cup of coffee at Starbucks.

I remember the first time when I came to this city five years ago. The late-night flight unexpectedly turned out to be an early morning one as there was a delay of more than 4 hours due to bad weather conditions. The plane touched down at about 05:15 am, and I had a meeting scheduled at 8:30 the same morning. Cutting out the total travelling time (including the traffic delays) from the airport to my hotel and from the hotel to the meeting venue, I just had 45 minutes on my hands. So I checked in, had a quick shower, put on my glad rags and called the reception to inquire about the breakfast timing. To my utter disappointment, it was not going to open for the next 30 minutes. I could not afford to wait that long, but after a sleepless journey of more than 16 hours, I desperately needed a cup of coffee.

So I teetered, all draped in 6 yards of elegance and wearing 4-inch heels, towards the nearest coffee house and let myself into Starbucks. ”Regular Frappe,” I murmured sotto voce. 

The guy in the green apron on the other side of the counter didn’t react. It didn’t take me long to realize I had entered the wrong combination. ”Regular Frappe” was so not a Starbucks thing. That was a typical CCD vocabulary. I stammered, my pre-coffee brain quickly glanced through the menu board, ”I mean- A- A Frappuccino Coffee.” 

There. I had managed it.

”What size?”-the guy asked, without missing a beat.

I pointed at a stack of plastic cups, unable to articulate another human sentence. The guy picked up a giant cup, ”No-small!” I said in agitation.

”Tall”, he corrected me patiently while picking up the smallest cup of the three available sizes.

"Tall?!" In my head, I was like- ”Are you kidding me? Why can’t you call it short? Is it politically correct to spare the feelings of the midget coffee cup? And then what’s with this combination of English and Italian. Tall. Grande. Venti. Translation- Tall, Large, Twenty. Twenty what?! Twenty centimeters of cup or coffee or what?”

”Your name, please?” he asked, demanding my attention. 

He then scribbled my name and some other abstruse symbols with a black marker on the side of the cup and passed it down the assembly line, shouting, ”Tall Frappuccino Coffee!”

That was it. Tall Frappuccino Coffee. The access code for small milk and coffee blended with ice.

I heard another customer ordering a ”Dry Latte” while I was waiting for my cup of coffee. In my vivid imagination, I had already pictured him walking away with a sachet of ready-to-make beverage in powder form.

A lady shouted my name from the other side of the counter. I made my way to her, and she gently handed me my cup of coffee. I grabbed it and walked post-haste to the exit as my cab was waiting outside. I pushed the door open without realizing that the lid of the cup wasn’t completely intact. And as the door opened, the coffee cup tumbled and rolled over the staircase. All I could see was my 20 precious minutes (in the form of coffee) spilt on the floor. It was unexpected and embarrassing as all the eyes were drawn to me. And since I had no more time to spare for another cup of coffee, I walked past, got into my cab and left.

Today, as I sit here reminiscing that clumsy incident, I honestly can’t think of what exactly made me come up with this ritual of having my morning coffees here- the exclusivity of the menu, making an active choice among Tall-Grande-Venti, the cute gesture of scribbling customer’s name on the cup, or an effort to right the past’s wrongs. But you know what- it’s no big deal. It can happen to anyone, anywhere, anytime.

Is there any absurd ritual that you follow? Let me know in the comments section below.

Street Photography, India

”The marvels of daily life are exciting; no movie director can arrange the unexpected that you find in the streets.” -Robert Doisneau

Street photography is a canvas of limitless possibilities. Wandering on the Indian roads and streets, however offbeat it may sound, is one of the most liberating experiences. There’s never a dull moment with all kinds of exciting sights, sounds and smells. Walking through narrow alleys, observing the people going about their daily schedule is a different kind of meditation; you feel lost but with a purpose.

As Alex Webb writes-

”I only know how to approach a place by walking, for what does a street photographer do but walk and watch and wait and talk and then watch and wait some more, trying to remain confident that the unexpected, the unknown or the secret heat of the known awaits just around the corner.”

In a dusty workshop on the outskirts of a bustling city, an old brass utensil craftsman, sat amidst the gleam of polished metal and the echoes of a fading tradition. Wrinkles etched stories on his face, revealing a lifetime dedicated to the art of shaping brass into functional beauty.

As the world around him embraced modernity, his workshop stood frozen in time. With a mix of nostalgia and anticipation, he continued crafting utensils with the same precision that had defined his youth. His eyes, however, held a silent longing—a hope that the legacy of his craft would find a revival in the changing tides of time.

Every stroke of his hammer seemed to echo with a quiet optimism, as if each piece created was not just a vessel but a vessel of hope. In that modest workshop, he wasn't merely forging brass; he was patiently waiting for a better future, where the artistry of his hands would find a place in the hearts and homes of those who still cherished the beauty of tradition.

In a quaint village nestled in the heart of Punjab, the rhythmic clang of hammers against brass resonated through generations. Here, the legacy of brass utensil making was more than a craft; it was a family heirloom. As the elder, with weathered hands and a wealth of experience, meticulously shaped each piece, he patiently mentored his son.

Sitting in their age old workshop, the boy listened to tales of tradition and craftsmanship, absorbing the alchemy of metalwork. With each passing day, the flame of the forge passed from seasoned hands to eager ones, forging a connection not just between generations but between the past and the future.

As the boy etched his initials into a newly crafted vessel, the clang of hammers echoed the continuity of a craft that transcended time. The legacy of brass utensil making was not merely about creating functional objects; it was about passing down a narrative, a family's pride, and the artistry that shaped their identity.

Once, in the heart of an Indian village, I witnessed the art of jugaad—a uniquely Indian approach to problem-solving. Determined to upgrade his traditional cycle rickshaw, a skilled mechanic infused innovation into his livelihood. Salvaging an old motorbike engine, he meticulously engineered a transformation that turned his humble cycle rickshaw into a zippy motorized marvel.

As the sun dipped below the cityscape, the once-pedaled rickshaw now hummed with newfound life, navigating the labyrinthine streets with unexpected speed. Passengers grinned at the newfound efficiency, and the clinking of coins echoed the success of this ingenious jugaad. In the twilight of the city, the transformed rickshaw became not just a mode of transport but a testament to the unwavering spirit of Indian innovation and adaptability

I once came across the pure innocence of a little girl named Rani, who found wonder in the simplest things, like chasing butterflies in the garden or marveling at the stars in the night sky.

One day, as raindrops painted a melody on her window, she asked, "Are the clouds crying, or are they happy tears?" Her curiosity reflected the untainted beauty of childhood, where the world was a canvas of questions waiting to be explored.

In Rani's innocent gaze, I rediscovered the enchantment hidden in life's ordinary moments, a reminder that sometimes the most profound wisdom lies in the untarnished eyes of a child.

In the bustling streets of Pune, I once witnessed a heartwarming scene of resilience and entrepreneurship. A group of spirited women, with vibrant sarees and infectious smiles, had transformed the roadside into a colorful fruit market.

Amidst the honking horns and hurried footsteps, these women were not just selling fruits; they were weaving stories of strength, turning the ordinary into extraordinary. Their laughter echoed louder than the city noise, a testament to the power of determination in the face of challenges.

Pune's streets became a canvas for their tales of hard work and perseverance, where these women stood tall as everyday heroines, turning fruit-selling into a symbol of their unwavering spirit.

Navigating the lively streets of my city, the aroma of street food beckoned irresistibly. Curiosity led me to a vibrant vendor with a charismatic smile, expertly crafting culinary delights on a sizzling grill. Unable to resist, I decided to embark on a gastronomic adventure.

My choice? A local fruit specialty mixed with chutney and Indian spices. The first bite unleashed a symphony of flavors—spices danced on my palate, and the mingling textures of tender meat and crisp fruits created a harmonious chaos. The street-side feast became a sensory experience, heightened by the sounds of the bustling crowd and the sizzle of the grill.

As I relished each flavorful morsel, I realized that street food wasn't just about satiating hunger; it was a cultural exploration, an immersion into the soul of a city through its diverse and delectable offerings. The impromptu feast under the open sky turned a casual stroll into a culinary journey, leaving me with not just a satisfied appetite but a savory memory of the vibrant street food scene.

Keepsakes from Karnataka

Last year in April, while I was planning my solo trip to Karnataka- which was also my first ever trip to south India, I decided that it’s going to be- 'the one without wifi.'

So I chose not to carry my Laptop or my Digital Camera- the two of the essential things when it comes to my travel kit.

The reason was, I had become so obsessed with taking a million photos digitally that at one point I felt, I can’t be bothered with taking pictures anymore. Being always behind the lens, I realised that rather than enjoying the trip or those moments then and there, I was more into clicking pictures so that later I can upload them on my social media sites. So, for my trip to Karnataka, I only took along my Polaroid Camera.

The beauty of Polaroid is that it’s an instant camera, but it also slows you down and forces you to be selective. There are only ten photos available in a pack of Polaroid film, and per image, it costs approximately ₹60, so every shot is counted; therefore, one has to choose the moments carefully.

From clicking to holding a real photo in hand, and waiting for the moment when a photo comes alive in a tangible form, right before your eyes, the process is magical. Holding a picture is like holding a memory, and it feels more personal than scrolling back through weeks of Instagram or Facebook to relive that moment. Instant photography holds a nostalgic quality that you can’t get on a phone screen, and that’s what I love about it. It combines the immediacy that I’m used to while still reminding me about the magic of the past.

It was quite a struggle for getting other people to take a photo of me. Handing over the camera I thought could be risky, since most of the people there had never used one, and I just had three films- a total of 30 shots, so I refrained from getting my pictures clicked. But as decided, I clicked one photo each of every tourist spot I visited and every hotel room I stayed in.

My Instax Mini 9 camera involves some basic settings based on the source of light-Auto, Light, Cloudy or Hi-Key.  So, while I was on my trip, sometimes, I would forget to change the settings or at times the sun was too bright, the picture would get overexposed, the other times it would come out too dark. But that’s the great thing about the instant film; you are rarely going to re-take a picture if it comes out wrong. Polaroids lend themselves to fleeting moments, and it’s okay if the picture isn’t perfect. 

There’s another amazing thing about the instant film- that you can give the pictures as gifts. I remember, it was my first day at Mysuru, and I climbed a thousand steps of the hill to pray at the Shrine of Chamundi.

Somehow the vendors there found out that I was an outsider, so they tried to cheat me, and asked for ₹300, for prasadam (a basket of offerings comprising flowers, fruits and two coconuts).

But there was a young Kannadiga couple (people who belong to Karnataka) standing right next to me, the lady noticed and told her husband how they were asking for more money, knowing that I was an outsider.

Hence, her husband had a little word with them in their local language, and the vendor reduced it to ₹200 for me.

The couple was kind enough to ask me to join them, and I had no reason to refuse, so we went to the temple, I made my coconut offerings and prayed.

When we came out, I asked them- “May I take a photo of you?”

They nodded.

I pulled out my polaroid camera, clicked and handed the picture to them.

The way they looked at the little card, it was hard to tell if they had seen a Polaroid before or not. But I couldn’t think of any better way to thank them for their generosity. 

So, do I regret travelling with just my Polaroid?

Absolutely Not. I think I loved the transition of tactile over digital and once I was back from the trip, I pasted all my polaroid pictures in a scrapbook. So now, whenever I feel like revisiting those memories, rather than connecting my external hard drive, and then searching for the right folder among numerous other folders from other trips taken over the past years, I just pull out my scrapbook and turn the pages, and live all those moments once again.

In terms of sharing the images on social media, I think people are more interested in the stories rather than the pictures. My mother travelled around North-East and Eastern India when she was my age, but she had no camera back then, she’d write a postcard to her family from every new city she’d visit. She still has a stash of postcards she wrote as well as a journal she kept, and it’s these stories, recounted over the years, that has given me a real sense of her experience during that time.

So, on the whole, the grandeur of the places in Bengaluru or the rustic beauty of the temples and markets of Mysuru, a photo will never be able to convey how beautiful they were in person. But ask me how many times I’ve flipped through my scrapbook- I’ll be honest: a lot.

Let me know in the comment section if you guys would ever take a big trip with just a Polaroid camera to document it?