Papas Coffee Machine

By Sheeraz Shah

 In Delhi's bustling streets, Mr. Zaidi embarks on a personal journey through virtual connections with his American-born grandchildren, Ayaan and Fazal. Amidst the aroma of kadak chai and freshly brewed coffee, Despite his reserved nature and seemingly dull existence, their conversations transcend time and distance, bringing unexpected warm

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Rose Publishers
• Release date: Apr 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9789358194692

Book preview

BLUEROSE PUBLISHERS

India | U.K. Copyright © Sheeraz Shah 2023

All rights reserved by author. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author. Although every precaution has been taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.

BlueRose Publishers takes no responsibility for any damages, losses, or liabilities that may arise from the use or misuse of the information, products, or services provided in this publication.

For permissions requests or inquiries regarding this publication, please contact:

BLUEROSE PUBLISHERS

www.BlueRoseONE.com

[e-mail]

[phone]

[phone]

ISBN: 978-93-5819-988-8

Cover design: Tahira Typesetting: Tanya Raj Upadhyay

First Edition: August 2023

Table of Contents

1) Stirring the Embers

2) The Roast of Life

3) Brewing Connections

4) A Leap of Faith

5) A Cup Full of Dreams

For Ammi – who taught me how to hold a pen and write, who instilled life and its meaning into me, someone whose expectations I can never measure up to cause you always keep raising the bar.

For Papa – who taught me how to write and think in more than one way, who taught me that being emotional is not necessarily a weakness but can be a strength as well.

Preface

Writing is like meditation, it requires belief, discipline, concentration and a tremendous amount of willpower to keep going surrendering to the process and seeing the end result gradually emerge in front of your eyes, I must confess that this narrative was turned from a theoretical understanding to a pragmatic approach by my better half who tirelessly encouraged me, cajoled me, persuaded me, forced me and above all made me believe in my thoughts. Thank you, Zeba.

The novel’s central idea is based on a true story that involves my father and my two sons, this forms the book’s bedrock but the writing follows a purely fictional approach, none of the characterizations is based on any member of my family.

The book delves into three important aspects of human behaviour and hopefully tries to address them, the first being that we all need to find a purpose in life, especially at old age otherwise loneliness can be a silent killer, secondly, generations old and new can learn so much from each other irrespective of geographical boundaries but one needs to be eager, humble and wanting to connect and lastly, there is no love like the love of our family which we should fight for because blood relationships are the elixir of life.

The process of writing is enjoyable, painful, difficult and challenging at times, thoughts can occur in the middle of the night when one is tucked into a cosy blanket, or when one is in a traffic jam and sometimes one can just sit quietly in the wee hours of the night and draw an absolute blank on any useful thoughts for sometimes even days on end, I have observed this process so closely that I have come to the conclusion that it’s an act of the Almighty to flirt with one’s plans just because he can.

Behind every live performance on stage, there are many backroom artists because of whom we are able to accomplish our stage show, from my earliest remembrances as a child, the aspect of reading and writing was inculcated in me by both my parents, my father who taught me a simple technique to see any object around me and start writing a page about it washing down all my creativity I could come up with, in my teens another great influence on me was my Maamu who was my foster father ( Late Humayun Zafar Zaidi) who taught me how to structure the beginning and end of a write up arming it with well-researched facts and ending it with an original judgement that the author needs to come up with.

My submissions will be incomplete without thanking my cheering squad, people who love me unconditionally and offer me support without any expectation in return – Both my sons ( the love of my life)I love you my Babies, Abbi ( Zareen Zaidi) my foster mother for understanding me always in a flash even when we haven’t spoken for weeks, my mother in law ( Nadira Zaidi) for telling me stories and listening to my stories, Faiz, my talented young nephew, an excellent artist who conceptualised and drew all the sketches for the book, my brothers – Shammu (Salman) for being a sincere critic and moral support and Balo ( Abbas) for keeping me in good humour and an inspirational never say die attitude, and my friends whom I learn from every day of my life ( the list is too long to fit in). Lastly, I would like to express profound appreciation for my publishing team comprising of Kashish, Yash, Sakshi and Tahira who have guided me on every step of the way towards the end.

This is my first novel although I have had published articles before they were relatively minuscule in their structure, I believe thoughts in one’s mind are strictly private in nature but once written down, and published in the public domain are up for a sweet and sour show so I keenly look forward to feedback and I hope I can indulge more and be a better-written version of myself in future.

Sheeraz Shah

Papa's

Coffee Machine

Stirring the Embers

Rushing down the narrow staircase, Murad skipped every other step as he descended, grazing his hand lightly on the wooden rail. He wore a crisp button-down white shirt, handling a coat in his arms and his boxy shoes squeaked on the marble-floored steps. In his hand, he had tightly gripped a messenger bag. At the bottom of the stairs, in the centre of the dining room sat Murad’s father, Mr. Zaidi. Mr. Zaidi sat solemnly at the head of the dining table, his hands, weathered by years of life's experiences, resting on the dining table. His fingers were long and slender, the skin etched with lines that spoke the story of his journey. Liver spots dotted the back of his hands, serving as a reminder of the passage of time and the weariness he carried. The weight of his years was evident in the deep lines etched on his face, and the thinning hair that framed his weathered countenance.

Despite the seemingly physical wear and tear, Mr. Zaidi held an innate grace. His shoulders, once strong and capable and ready to take on the world, now seemed weary as if burdened by the weight of life's challenges. No greetings for the old man? I see. Kids these days have said goodbye to their manners. Mr. Zaidi’s first words were not what he intended them to be but this was how it always went with him. "Papa, you don’t have to act like that around me. ‘Assalam Alaikum’, I didn’t see you there, apologies, Murad replied a bit annoyed. Anyways! Where are you headed, you really are missing ‘Evergreens’ mithai, come on, have some! ‘’ his dad called out behind his back as he rushed on his way to the office. Murad turned around to face his dad. Papa, I’m running late for my interview! If I get late my boss will send someone else for the New York job! replied Murad to his father who nudged an assorted box of mithai and halwa towards him. Hmm, Murad muttered Mr. Zaidi, The sweetness of success erases the bitterness of patience Your idol, Imam Ali (A.S) always encouraged tolerance so keep this saying close to your heart in times of need’’. Thank you for your wise words, Papa, as always. I’m taking my leave now his sarcastic reply was not something Mr. Zaidi missed then but now it was a different scenario. This memory had been etched back in Mr. Zaidi’s mind, a recollection of the bond he had been missing with his son, Murad, bringing a rueful smile to his face.

Finding himself jolted by the airline announcement "People, the Air India New York flight has landed at Indira Gandhi International Airport. Passengers will be disembarking shortly. Please clear the waiting areas.

Thank you." The squeaky voice of the airport attendant had brought Mr. Zaidi back to reality as he waited for the arrival of his son. He was almost certain Murad would be accompanied by his doting wife, Hania, on this visit back home, but she was nowhere to be seen. Mr. Zaidi’s heart felt heavy with anticipation but also anxious and uncertain. He had been counting down the days until his son's return, but wouldn’t let anyone back home feel the emotions he did. His face was silent, and as canonical as it could be. Even though the wait had been agonizing. As he scanned the arrival gate, Mr. Zaidi's emotions were on a high but, dulled by the expression, so his wife Shazia wouldn’t start with her exhaustive list of questions, and him acting like her test subject, a silent animal but with a trove of answers at the back of his Mind.

Mr. Zaidi’s eyes finally met those of a man who seemed like a young lookalike of himself, walking towards him with a growing smile and both of his hands settled on a trolley handle, as he glided with suitcases. Murad sought out his mother, Shazia, among the bustling crowd at the Airport. he moved towards her with a determined stride, his heart beating with anticipation. As their eyes met, an unspoken language passed between them. The distance melted away, and they embraced with a longing that transcended words. Shazia's touch was like a gentle caress, a warm embrace that instantly made Murad feel at home. Murad's gaze shifted to his Papa, who stood stoic and composed, masking the emotions that swelled within him. Murad knew his father's reserved nature, but he could sense the love and pride that lay beneath the surface. He bowed, seeking his father's blessing, and Papa's hand gently ruffled his hair, a gesture that spoke volumes despite the lack of words. Murad looked into his father's eyes, seeing a glimmer of tenderness that only a son could discern. With a lump in his throat, Murad uttered the words, I’m back, Papa. The silence hung heavy for a moment before Mr. Zaidi just rested his hand on Murad’s shoulder and said Time has done a number on you, beta. A way of Mr. Zaidi’s admission to the 10 years that had passed since Murad had taken up the New York job. A silent acknowledgment of the unspoken bond between them, and Murad cherished it deeply. In his touch, Murad had felt the need for reassurance and acceptance that he had longed back in New York, a silent understanding that spoke louder than any words could convey.

Upon leaving the airport, the Zaidi family stuffed themselves in a not-so-shabby SUV. Murad had seated himself in the passenger seat with awkward silence as Mr. Zaidi gripped the wheel and navigated the family back home through the bustling Delhi roads, which had certainly caused palpable discomfort. The ride was silent, each member was lost in their own thoughts. Murad's father stared out the window, his face a blank mask. Murad's mother fidgeted with her purse, her eyes darting around nervously. Murad himself felt a sense of unease settle in the pit of his stomach. This was not how he imagined their journey back home. The car bumped and swerved through the crowded streets, the cacophony of horns and shouts filling the air. But inside the car, there was only an awkward silence. Murad tried to think of something to say, some way to break the tension, but his mind came up empty.

Finally arriving home, The Zaidi family home was a grand two-story house that exuded an old-world charm. The exterior was adorned with intricate carvings and decorative tiles, and a small garden with a variety of potted plants and trees surrounding the house. The interior was a mix of traditional and modern elements, with vintage wooden furniture and intricately designed rugs alongside contemporary artwork. The living room had a large sofa set and an impressive chandelier that hung from the ceiling, and the walls were adorned with family photos and paintings. The dining room featured a wooden table with matching chairs and a set of elegant china dishes displayed in a cabinet. The bedrooms had framed Islamic calligraphy and religious symbols on the walls. In one of the snugger corners of the house was a study, a cozy and intimate space, filled with shelves of books on various topics. The family took pride in their extensive collection of literature, with particular emphasis on Urdu poetry and works by famous authors such as Saadat Hasan Manto and Allama Iqbal. The shelves were lined with hardcovers and paperbacks, some dog-eared and worn from years of reading, while others were brand new and waiting to be explored. The walls were adorned with paintings of famous poets and writers, as well as framed verses from Urdu poetry. As a child, Murad often spent hours in this room, reading and discovering new works of literature. Even as an adult, the sight of this room filled him with a sense of nostalgia and comfort. It was a testament to the family's love for literature and the cultural heritage of their community.

In one corner of the study, there was a small section of books dedicated to Islamic culture and history. The books were carefully arranged and included titles on the life of the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH), Caliphs of Islam and Hazrat Imam Ali (a.s), the history of Islam in the Indian subcontinent, and the various interpretations of the Quran. In the evenings, Mr. Zaidi would sit on the front porch, on a wooden bench and a small table, and read the newspaper. This was followed by a long evaluation of the corruption and mistreatment entailed by the common civilian, Mr. Zaidi’s mannerisms really were true to the nature of any South Asian father. Arriving home weary and tired, an overwhelming sense of nostalgia overcame Murad. As he walked inside his childhood room, the space had not changed since he had last left it. The paint on the walls had begun to chip, and the bed was still squeaky. The space still gave Murad a sense of familiarity and comfort despite its age and tear. He sat on the bed and felt the softness of the mattress underneath him. He felt at home because of the lingering aroma of old books and memories. Before he knew it, Murad had fallen asleep and was being peacefully embraced by the silence of the home as exhaustion quickly seized over. Murad was abruptly woken up by the sounds of raised voices coming from the living room. As he rubbed his eyes and sat up on the bed, he realized that his mother Shazia, and Papa were in a heated argument with a third unfamiliar voice. With a sigh, he got up from the bed and made his way to the living room, curious about the commotion. What's going on? he asked, trying to stifle a yawn. Papa turned to him, his face red with frustration. This dhobi is useless, I tell you. He never listens to a word we say. Murad looked at the dhobi, who seemed equally exasperated. What's the issue? he asked, hoping it wasn’t something major. It's his damn clothes, Papa said, gesturing toward the dhobi's bag. Every time he sends them back, they’re all folded up and wrapped in a damn newspaper. Who does that? We’ve told him a million times to hang them up properly, but he never listens. Shazia chimed in, her voice laced with irritation. It's not just that, Murad. He never gets the stains out properly, and half the time he forgets to return something. We’re paying him good money for this kind of service? The dhobi sighed, looking defeated. I’m sorry, saahabji. I’m doing the best I can, but it's not always possible to do everything exactly the way everyone wants it. Papa's eyes bulged. Not possible? What kind of excuse is that? You know we have standards, and we expect them to be met. End of story. Murad couldn’t take it anymore. Papa, come on. It's just clothes. Is it really worth getting this worked up? At this hour? Papa turned to him, his expression softening slightly. It's not just the clothes, beta. It's about having standards, about expecting people to do what they’re paid to do. Is that too much to ask?. Murad shook his head, knowing better than to argue further. His parents had their quirks, and as frustrating as they could be, he knew they meant well. He retreated back to his room, hoping for some peace and quiet.

The morning had passed in a blur, and it was midday. The Zaidis were gathering for a family lunch after ages. As the dishes were laid out on the table, the aroma of the freshly cooked food filled the room. Murad couldn’t help but salivate at the sight of his mother's home-cooked food. He eagerly took his seat at the head of the table and began to serve himself. Murad couldn’t help but enjoy the ‘achar daal’ and ‘parathas’ in front of him, savouring each bite of the delicious food that his mother had prepared.

As the family finished their lunch, Murad turned to his father and said, Papa, do you remember the old times when we used to visit Karim's for lunch? Papa looked up from his plate, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Of course, I do. It's been a while since we visited Karim's. Murad nodded. Exactly my point. Why don’t we go there tomorrow for lunch? It will be like old times again. Papa pondered for a