Morning person

These two photos were sent to me by my dad Suneel’s friend Caryn when he died. That’s him and her at German Bakery, a little cafe in Pune, my hometown in India.

German Bakery is nothing fancy. They make decent coffee, squeeze good fruit juice, have a solid selection of wholesome breakfast foods. There’s always always hippies and weirdos hanging out. The crowd ranges from conmen and astrologers to prolific writers and dealers to students and therapists and ashram visitors.

The marble top tables are never really taken at German Bakery. Sit where and by whom you please. I sat by a palmist who read my hand once. I’ve given money to cute street children who snuck in while I was ordering scrambled eggs. A sign on the wall says ‘No sitting for along time.’ Clearly the crowd don’t understand and noone leaves in a hurry. The mint tea is exceptional. And it’s the kind of place you make friends with strangers. I have. Many times over.

But my favourite memories of German Bakery are the mornings I spent there with Suneel four years ago.

We met for breakfast everyday for a month. Both of us had a way we sat, one leg on the floor, one on the bench, left hand reaching for the coconut macaroons or the thick slices of toast with lashings of dense sesame butter, coffee, and always watermelon or sweetlime juice. We both sat engrossed in the paper, just happy to spend time together at breakfast each day almost a decade after seeing each other.

That was the only time in my life I woke up in the morning without hating it.