“My Coffee at Six.”

Eventually, he became habituated and got accustomed to loneliness, which earlier used to haunt and leave him in a marooned, paranoid state of mind; during initial years of losing his parents. Now, Moksha was able to comfortably drink the nectar from his lonesome solitude by keeping himself busy by doing simple things in life. Whenever he felt lonely, he would stroll to the nearby café sit on the long couch with his legs crossed and meditatively sip a cup of Indian Chai trying to imitate the mystical Japanese Zen monk, Chuang Tzu. At times, Moksha would just play endless instrumental and anonymous symphonies on his Guitar. Quite often, he would get high on an overdose of opiates and scribble his frustration in a diary; trying to drain them out through poems, pencil sketches and sometimes via paintings, as well. Very rarely, he would drive his scooter to a club, in order to play few Snooker friendly matches. Around 3-4 years ago, Moksha had blown lots of money on buying opiates and books, which he used to win through gambling and playing, ‘loser to pay’ Snooker frames.

It was 6:15 Christmas eve,  Moksha was sipping his tea and was crushing his dose of weed. There was also an uncapped pen laid on the table and a tissue paper containing a half written Song. His eyes were unconsciously and uninterestedly stuck on a couple sitting on a table in another corner of the café. Suddenly, he had to turn his head and look back to that strange and unexpected question by that weird looking man at his 40’s. ‘Are you a Dylan fan? You show eccentric habits of a Poet. It looks like you are trying to write a poem’. ‘Yes, I write poems’ Moksha answered back. Alok responded back with a sarcastic smile, ‘Oh, you can never write one, because a poem only occurs’.  Moksha wanted to continue the chat, but before he could talk he heard  many greetings at the same time. 3 young lads came running and shouting, ‘Oh..!!! Alok Bhai (Bro), after such a long time!’ and they took his blessings. Later on after 3 hours and several sessions of Chillum, he came to know that the strangely curious man was Alok Swamy. A well-known and abstractly brilliant Indian artist, who has graduated from Baroda School of Fine Arts.

In some days, after around 20 cups of tea and 100 grams of weed burnt and blown together. Moksha and Alok became more than best friends, they would have a creative and a gala time in the café. The café subtly turned out to be like a creative studio for Moksha. He would visit the café right in the morning, at 10’o clock and would stay there smoking and having endless cups of tea. Moksha would jam on his Guitars and Alok would be blowing endless harmonies on his Saxophone. Alok would edit and check Moksha’s write-ups, giving him insights from a writer’s view point. They composed so many unrecorded, lost songs by improvising Moksha’s written poems. And sometimes, randomly they would discuss about the concept of post logic applied in creative Arts.

One morning, while Moksha was busily jotting his thoughts  an old book fell upon the table to break his inner silence. He flipped the book to read the name ,it was ‘Death of a Myth – John Lennon’. Helplessly eager, he wanted to go through the first page, he did not mind that still he has not lifted his head to see the man, who has brought the book. On the first blank page of the book it was written, ‘To Moksha, with love and blessings’. He got excited and did not even waste a single second to raise his head, he found Alok standing right in front of him; at the other side of the table wearing a cowboy jeans and a shirt with bobby prints on it. They both exchanged a half cracked smile casted in a casual lip twist, whilst Moksha politely said, ‘Thank you, Alok’.

Alok remained casual and replied back, ‘Chill buddy, it was always yours’. He asked Moksha to enjoy reading the book and went for a quick drag of Chillum. After 3 hours of undisturbed reading of the new book, Moksha realized that Alok had still not returned back. In fact, he never returned .Tthat was the last time they ever met.  Moksha returned back to his home and turned around at the book and accidentally his eyes fell on the last page of the book. He found something written over there,it read  ‘I am a road-less traveler, walking on my own. I may not be all right, but I am not all wrong – From, Alok’. And a drop of tear fell from Moksha’s eyes right at the place where Aloks name was written.

“Coffee at Six.”

Carrying a personal bag of,
Ordinary pebbles and few collected stones;
Am strolling down the alley to death,
In this walk of life;

With a will to simply survive.
I have taken a break now,

Vowed to myself to find out a fix;
Sipping in gaps now, so slow;
Sitting in a coffee shop at six.

A beautiful night,
Has come and fallen again.
Upstairs in heaven,
Glittering stars have shone the sky.
And down here on earth,
Love birds flock away;
Wearing lights on them.
Very silently observing it all,
I stir my creams,
Kissing till the brim;
Drinking from my leisure.
I relax in sips now, so slow;
Sitting in a coffee shop at six.
I have taken a break now,

Vowed to myself to find out a fix;
I would meditate on my coffee at six.

Sounding glasses in intervals,
Tolls to distract my thoughts.
Paper napkins arranged on tables,
Sprouts new rhymes within.
And again…
A pen is not at rest.
And again…
A mind is so easily busy.
I love this fix,
My coffee at six…
Sipping in gaps now,
Drinking from my leisures,
I relax in sips.
Thinking nothing while,
Loving my coffee at six.