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Unbound.

  It is a lazy sunday summer afternoon as I place my bag on the lustrous teak wood table. I let out a mental sigh!  It requires Herculean effort to retrieve my laptop for work. I am a regular at the Longchamp cafe. It is normal for that cafe to play slow jazz while customers enjoy a cup of coffee but somehow the song , “Somewhere only we know”, booms on the speakers and breaks the monotonous commotion inside. In a split second, I transcend back to his arms. The song floods memories that are ready to pour out of my eyes. The barista snaps me out of my misery. He towers over the counter as he motions me to try the newly brewed concoction waiting on my table. I comply to do the needful as I am one of his unbiased coffee connoisseurs. The aroma of simmering hot coffee permeates my nose, calming my nerves.  I gulp down the bittersweet realisation. It has been close to two long months since I’ve last heard from him. It would be wishful thinking that our brief encounter would et...
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Coffee Shop



Dear Clementine

I am writing to you today. Yes, I know. It surprised me too. There are certain days when your memories come back to poke me. I wouldn't use the word 'haunt' because, they never did. And today I guess, was one of those days.

In the afternoon, I was sitting by myself, hunched up over a desk, working on something. The radio was on and a familiar tune shook me up straight. The same old song about falling in love at a coffee shop.

I had made it a point never to listen to it, consciously.
But you can't really control the radio. 
Can you?

Do you remember the time when you made me listen to the song and I was least interested? Because the name sounded very clichéd? Trust me, at that moment your excitement and the smile on your face forced me to make an exception. And boy. I got hooked to it. 

The very next day when we were lying under the blanket, tired and happy in each other's arms, something got over me. I took the guitar and I sang the song for you. The thing is, people falling in love at a coffee shop is rare. And pure. Clubs, pubs, and discothèques might be the places to fall in each other's arms while dancing. But in a coffee shop, you are there with a mere cup of coffee, frosty windows, and looking into each other's eyes and actually trying to have a real conversation about life, dogs, and people. 

And I guess at that point, that was the thing which mattered to you.

I know most probably this is going to be one of those letters which might or might not be received. And I know that it's going to find it's a rightful place in the fireplace, burning away to ashes in flames. The kind of flames you have for your man right now.

But you can't really control the radio.

Can you?

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