Waking up to the sound of Suprabhatam playing on TV, I find my mother and aunt gossiping about the same relative for the last 30 years, all while judging each other's cooking skills over the world's best coffee. Meanwhile, my father paces around, pondering the government's decisions on payrolls, already on his third cup of coffee and eavesdropping on the lively conversation.
Suddenly, the TV switches to the prime news channel for the day's headlines.
As I groggily search for my phone with half-opened eyes, my mother pops into my room multiple times to check if I'm awake, eager to bring me a cold coffee and the latest gossip (I prefer my coffee cold). She always seems to be in a hurry, a mystery I've never quite solved.
After sharing the gossip, she hurries off to complete her already impeccable chores, leaving me still half-asleep, trying to make sense of the last few minutes.
Outside in the living room, my uncle emerges after his morning walk, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. Despite having his own daily subscription, he insists on reading the news from a different source, just to get a varied perspective. Amidst the morning rush, I emerge feeling disoriented, struggling to piece together where reality ends and my dream began.
All of this unfolds around 6 am, setting the tone for my day at my parents' home. My father always cherished the quiet 5 am mornings and the melodic chirping of birds, claiming his mind worked best in the early hours with a cup of coffee in hand.
I would give anything to return to that chapter of my life at any moment. Life in your thirties is a whole different ball game. Mornings don't wait for you; you have to be ready for them. There's no one waiting with a cup of coffee, and on top of that, you're responsible for planning and organizing not just your day, but the entire family's. Family, children, work, classes, writing, and a myriad of new activities have replaced those serene mornings scented with saffron incense.
Not a day goes by that I don't miss chatting with my mother over the phone, listening to her recount her day. And what does she always say?
"I woke up at 5 in the morning, had my coffee, chatted with your aunt, and she was going on about that aunt who uses a cheap brand of asafoetida in her sambar."
I respond with a smile, "Wow, amma, that sounds like a lovely morning," picturing my father engrossed in his accounts over his cup of coffee.
My 5am Club!