SHORT ’N’ SNAPPY

There is no coffee these days

In Those Days There Was No Coffee happens to be a favourite read for The Man from Madras Musings. Written by one of the finest brains that MMM knows of in this city (and heaven knows it can do with many more), it is a book that deals with many sociological changes that happened in Madras that is Chennai, at the turn of the 20th Century. The first chapter, from which the book takes its title, deals with the arrival of coffee, how the entire city took to it, and how some disapproving ancients wrote wistfully of a time when there was no coffee.

But those carping crones can take heart, for these days there is no coffee. Well, almost. In MMM’s view, good coffee is more or less dead in our city. What remains, barring those served at one or two places, are pale imitations. Perhaps it is a sign that MMM is advancing in age, but he does think that it is high time coffee had a square photograph published for itself in the obituary column of our daily newspaper. (For that matter, even the obit column is not what it was, having shifted from the sports page to a more commercial spot. But MMM dwelt on that just last fortnight did he not?)

MMM, being a man who loves his cuppa, makes it a point to accept an offer of coffee whenever he calls at an office or household for the first time. This is chiefly to ascertain how bad their coffee is. The logic on which MMM operates is that once you have tested the coffee and suffered the consequences, you need not ever make the mistake of asking for it the next time you visit the same place. On all subsequent visits MMM makes it a point to ask for tea, the logic being that there is no such thing as good tea and, so, conversely, it can never taste worse than what it is.

The arrival of the automatic vending machines was the first nail in the coffin for coffee. From being a bitter-sweet beverage, it was instantaneously converted into a cloying confection in liquid form, the kind that almost immediately makes you put on a couple of kilograms, suffer stiffening of arteries and much heartburn. The second and deeper nail was the price rise in coffee sometime in the late 1990s and early 2000s. That is when most people imagined that chicory was a good enough substitute and began making coffee entirely from it. MMM is not exactly sure as to what is chicory but he assumes that it is the offspring of brick powder, brown shoe polish and ground glass. The sure sign of knowing that you have been poisoned by chicory is when after a cup of what was passed off as coffee, yyyyooou-uu-rrr hhhaaannnd-ddssss aaannnddd lllleeeeegggsss begin trembling violently, your pulse races and you feel that what you need are a couple of doctors and some lawyers clustering around you, the former to present you with a bill and the latter to document your will. There are, of course, some branded varieties that boast of a chain of coffee shops. But even these, according to MMM, are very inferior in what they give. Their idea of coffee is to hand you a mini-bathtub filled with brown, hot water.

Good coffee in short, has passed on, much mourned by all. It was such a good friend and comforter that all who came in contact with it will miss it. But a century of existence is a long life and so we must celebrate and not mourn its passing. It was good while it lasted.

Playtime!

It was billed as two hours of sheer nonsense and The Man from Madras Musings quaked in his shoes. For it also claimed to be based on the works of Perhaps Greatest Writer (PGW), an author whom MMM has venerated for years. In fact, MMM has often proudly stated that he came to read PGW and lived happily ever after. This has largely contributed to MMM’s goofy outlook on life, one that borders on madness, for which if you recollect some reader of Madras Musings suggested that he (by which he, the letter writer, meant MMM and not he, the letter writer himself, if you get MMM’s point) ought to see a good psychiatrist, or is it a psychologist? MMM always forgets which. Anyway, such missives pass by MMM like the idle wind, which he respects not.

Anyway, to get back to the point at tissue, as police constables have often said in PGW’s works, MMM saw the advertisement for the staging of a play based on the writings of PGW and was immediately hoisted on to the horns of a dilemma. To attend or not to attend was the question. Lady Macbeth, had she been around, would have termed MMM as being infirm of purpose, letting he dare not wait upon he would, like the poor cat in the adage. And then MMM saw the price of the tickets and decided that he would rather not. But a venerable lady member of MMM’s family, who believes in scattering sweetness and light, decided otherwise, went ahead and bought a ticket and, so, off MMM went, to see the play, plagued with misgivings all the way. The native hue of resolution was sicklied o’er by the pale cast of thought. The chief reason for this was that MMM had seen several stage/TV adaptations of the Master’s work and all of them had come unstuck chiefly because those who did the adapting tried to be one step smarter than the original.

MMM has also sadly been made aware of a so-called author of the current day who has written a sequel to one of PGW’s series of novels. A copy of the book was gifted to MMM and he was repeatedly asked by the giver if he had read it and so he had to read it. But after a few pages MMM had to put the book away, unread. Now what would be the mot juste to describe this so called sequel? MMM knows that eggs come into as does rage – ah! He has it. Egregious. MMM hopes that this wannabe author has since been devoured by bears, rather in the manner of the youth who made fun of the Prophet Elisha.

But as for the play, all went well. Arriving at the venue he found the audience to be small – 350 people for an auditorium that could seat 1,500. This was chiefly because, as MMM said, the price of admission was rather high – in four figures. This for a city that rejoices in being the cultural capital of the country chiefly on the strength of programmes that are marked ‘All Are Welcome’. That tag incidentally is made possible mainly because such events manage to rope in what are referred to locally as ‘sponsorers’ who fork out the moolah hoping for some ‘bubblicity’. And so, the city largely has literati and glitterati who largely litter and glitter at free events. The moment they saw the ticket prices they no doubt drew in their breaths sharply and shook all over like a cat hit in the ribs with a brick.

Well, all MMM can say is that they missed something. The play, entirely faithful to a particular work of PGW’s, was just what the doctor ordered. MMM does not recall a theatrical performance that he enjoyed as much. It brought the sunshine back to his cheeks and he now goes about strewing roses from his hat.

Tailpiece

Among those whom The Man from Madras Musings noticed at the play was a Law Lord of our city. Given his exalted status, he was seated in the front row, where he was pretty much alone, what with the audience being sparse. A key aspect of the play was the stealing of a policeman’s helmet and the difficulties in its disposal. There was a moment when a member of the cast had to thrust the helmet at someone in the audience and they chose Law Lord for it! It tickled MMM no end and he is sure that PGW would have been amused too, had he been around.

– MMM

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