Inside the Coffee Cup
There are times when I have fallen so bad that I believed I would never walk again. And those are the times when I put an extra muscle into my limbs, not to just walk, but to sprint again. And this time, I had only stumbled. What could stop me from getting back on track again?
Let me begin with a well-known and much-loved coffee story, for once, not written by me.
A group of alumni, all successful in their respective careers, once went to meet their old professor. After initial pleasantries and small talks, the professor went in to fetch some coffee for his former students.
He returned with a large pot of coffee and an assortment of cups, made from different materials — porcelain, silver, some pretty, some plain and a few with ornate designs embossed on them.
The professor was a wise old man. He wanted to put his former students to the real test. Although he was mighty pleased that they had all made a mark on the world, he suspected that they had not decoded life fully to their advantage and wanted to gauge their understanding of success and happiness.
He left the cups and the coffee pot on the table and sat back in his chair and asked his boys and girls (who were men and ladies now, of course) to help themselves to the freshly brewed coffee. The boys and girls huddled around the table, picked a cup of their choice, filled it with the coffee and took their seats, waiting for the old man to speak.
Moments of silence passed amidst measured sips. And then the professor spoke. ‘Did you notice how you have all taken the most beautiful and expensive looking cups to have the same coffee that’s in the pot?’
The silence in the room deepened and the students shifted uneasily in their seats.
‘You have come a long way in life, you have added laurels to your name, but you have failed to learn the basics of life. You still value the cup and not what’s inside it. Until you realize that the cup is only a container and what refreshes you is that which is inside it, your worldly success means close to nothing,’ the professor said conclusively to a room full of stunned achievers.
This is one of my favourite stories on life, one that helps me reset myself every time I slip up or begin to lose sight of the ‘real thing’. I passed by one such occasion recently.
It is more than a month since my latest book, Life is an emoji, was released. These are not the best of times to float a book. Yet, like the devout pilgrim who sends a lamp of faith down the Ganges and follows it as far as her eyes can see, I launched the emoji with a fervent prayer and controlled fanfare.
As expected, along with other things, my book on life too got coronized and cornered, and it struggled to find a place on people’s buying lists. I knew it was in for a rough sail and had braced for it, but nothing could have prepared me for the unpleasant surprise that came in the speed post one day.
Two weeks ago, after a long wait, I received my author copies from the printer of my book’s Indian edition. The book had come huffing and puffing through disruptions and delays, and boy was I excited!
‘Stay calm, lady. You must act your age, and not hop around like a bunny that has seen a carrot,’ I said to myself and assumed a fake poise as the husband ripped the parcel open and announced the physical release of the book in a dramatic manner, ‘TADA!’
My excitement would have touched euphoric levels, you might think. But no. His words broke into gibberish as my eyes dilated and I stood in suspended animation staring at the book. ‘No, this can’t be true,’ I said to myself, as the husband handed me a copy unfazed, oblivious to my rising panic. I tried to make sense of what I saw in my hands. The book, from its covers, looked like a bona fide disaster.
‘Asha, this isn’t what you had planned’, I said. ‘The book isn’t how you had envisioned it. This isn’t what you had so eagerly waited to see.’
I felt the cover against my trembling palm. The blurry image and the hazy mess of the subtitles grated on my hand. I was stung to the quick. Is this what was going out to my readers? This ugly façade of what for more than a month was my pleasure and pride? To which I was singing paeans, convinced of its merit as a book that examined life from 360 degrees?
In no time flat, I imagined becoming a laughing stock. I imagined being ridiculed, reviled and being labelled a fake by the world. I saw my reputation as a soulful and inspiring raconteur going up in smoke. The tag line ‘Writing stories for you’ never felt like a sham as it did now. ‘Filter Kaapi’ never felt this bitter.
That’s how we respond to our smallest of setbacks, don’t we, as if all our goodness of a lifetime, all the efforts and accolades can get nixed with one unkind stroke of luck. We have all been there, time after time. We promptly beat ourselves up and dump our self-worth for the smallest failings. We end up feeling like a crushed paper-ball in the hands of a frustrated author who had lost her plot.
Funny, how in a jiffy, we wipe out our merits and crumble in our own eyes!
I absorbed what I saw initially with disbelief, then with revulsion and then as the frenzy passed, with calm resignation. Something had gone wrong somewhere at the other end, and it was beyond me to reverse now. It was what it was. The Indian paperback edition of my book wasn’t an attention grabber from the exterior. It looked like a poor, pirated copy of the original.
Before the impulse to rip and fling the book to the floor could seize me, I took a deep breath and arrested the morbid thought. I ran my hand over its pale gloss again. I opened it, not knowing what to expect between the jackets. Like a new mother inspecting her baby, I riffled through the pages, afraid that I might just see another abnormality that I couldn’t bear. I paraphrased Murphy and concluded with refined acceptance: anything that can go wrong, will.
But then again, Murphy need not be correct every time, a little voice intervened to defuse the doom. Just because something went wrong once, things need not always go down south. Even when they do, life will always find a way to get back on track for those who want to keep going on.
Much to my delight, the book inside was as impeccable as it could be. I took the book up to my nose, taking in its fresh fragrance and felt a surge in my heart. My breath quickened as I was greeted by page after page of my creative quest, all laid out in a neat sequence, eager to be read, recalled, and get connected. The tragic cover story became irrelevant at once. What mattered was what was between the covers.
It was then that I remembered the story of the old professor and his coffee cups.
I sat down with a renewed sense of fulfilment, ignored the poorly produced covers and dived deep into the book. Once inside, I was consumed by the authenticity of the thoughts and words, which at some point in time had flown through me.
Somewhere among the pages, I read these lines.
‘When should we consider ourselves successful — when credit is conferred on us by outsiders or when the ‘insider’ categorically says, ‘You are successful, here, this moment, despite everything else you see outside’?
Whose validation are we seeking, after all — our own or others? Success isn’t about where others see you. It is about where you find yourself. It is not about how many miles are there to go. It is about how many paces you have come.’
How strange that my own book should serve me as a guide when my feet briefly floundered, and I went through a moment of acute self-doubt! How grateful I am that every time I trip over a stone, a hand lifts me up and a voice goads me to carry on!
Meanwhile, I wrote to the printers expressing my deep disappointment and seeking an explanation for the cover faux pas. I signed my mail off with a note of appreciation for the excellent job between the covers. A good job done merits praise, as much as a shoddy job deserves the stick. And guess what? Not only did they apologize profusely, but also fixed the fault and offered to replace my author copies.
They had erred and they admitted to it without defending themselves. And I, for my part, acknowledged their positive response with a sincere note of commendation. Trust was won and confidence was restored. It was even-stevens in the end.