Strolling down a busy food street, I caught sight of a dimly-lit café. The incense smoke drifted across the tables like fairies sprinkling soothing dust—my fascination pushed me towards its glass door.

I stepped in, oblivious that a cup of coffee would not only fill my stomach but also satiate my soul too! 

A young man with a fair complexion and impeccable manners greeted me. ‘Raghu’, I read his name tag pinned over his white shirt. 

I asked for a cappuccino and a banana bread. 

Surprisingly, the coffee arrived with a joyful smile! 

As Raghu walked towards my table, his excitement resembled that of a mother bringing her child’s favourite food.

Following that day, I started frequenting the café. Some days with a book and other days with friends, but always welcomed and served by humble Raghu. 

One afternoon, my favourite cappuccino felt soulless. Raghu was nowhere! “He left the cafe,” one of the servers told me when I inquired. I was further told that he went to his hometown with no plans to return.

Thereafter, the warmth of the creamy beverage stopped lingering and so did my visits.

Years passed ………

On my friend’s insistence, we visited the food street again to revive our memories together.

As we walked past the unknown faces, I felt an uncanny familiarity with the laughter and chatter in the atmosphere.

And then, there was the dimly-lit café, where (once upon a time) a warm beverage meant care too. 

I stopped for a few seconds in front of the glass door. And once again I stepped in, (this time) to inquire about the man who sprinkled magic over the coffee he served to people. 

“Raghu, he worked here a few years ago, do you know anything  about him?” I asked a server standing next to the billing counter. 

He murmured something I couldn’t understand, and went towards the kitchen. In seconds, an old man appeared wearing a chef’s hat and apron. 

He listened to me intently, and then flashed a picture on his phone. “You mean this man?” he asked, with understanding.  

There was a frail man with long beard in the picture. I exclaimed, “Its Raghu!”

Time had left a mark on his appearance so much that if I had met him anywhere, I wouldn’t have recognised him.

“He is my nephew,” the old man said with pride gleaming in his eyes.  He told me that Raghu had started working at a new café.

My excitement knew no bounds. I wanted to visit him at his new place as quickly as possible. Surprisingly, it was just a short walk from there. 

The place looked busy with live music playing, people clapping and singing along to the lyrics. The servers hovered around the tables like diligent ants at work. 

And then, I saw the gentleman. Time might have changed the way he looked, but his smile and manners were still intact. 

I called out his name from a distance, he turned around, clearly puzzled. The gone years had clouded his memory. 

I mentioned the cappuccino and silky banana bread, reminding him of the old days when I visited the dimly-lit café. 

“Yes, ma’am, I remember,” he said, after a pause. 

He cupped his hands over his face in disbelief, “Someone has come to meet me!”

“Your cappuccino is on me,” he said nostalgically. 

“It’s not the cappuccino…. It’s your motherly love!” I replied.

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