Coolitude rehashed.

Pop culture reared a most unfounded head long ago, where I've come from. Lead, valiantly, by the yuppies of here. Not those in the Webster. Those who live to adore Sweet Child of Mine. And Slash. (Not so much Axl Rose.) And every note in Comfortably Numb. And Bryan Adams on Thursday night. Heaven. No less.

These are the guardians of the Cool. The popular, cool.

Speak no words on Saturday night without the emphatic mention of the Motherfucker. If you are cool, that is. And if this cool seems "lame", find yourself a vague artform, a one-too-many-earring, and, my personal favourite, a hatred for the sport of cricket. But, try, out of respect, to mention the motherfucker anyway.

But I think now, albeit slightly, there is an uprising. Or maybe a cough. But with heart, nonetheless.

Of dinchak music, of flowery shirts and conmen. Of Bluffmaster and Johnny Gaddaar. It's urban but most visceral. And they like the dhol when it isn't played for Karan Johar. They like rust. They like dancing-like-you-mean-it! They like the occasional bhenchod. Because it doesn't mean anything. Except bhenchod. They want rights. They like dhotis and made up words. They like trying, failing even; screaming, love, anger and jumping. They like hope. They like the real.

To these men and women, I raise my glass. Happy new year.

The familiarity of coffee mugs.

A memory explosion, an instant bridge between that precise moment and this one. As I walk around the city, I step on little pockets of memory treasure that burst open and waft out their scents.

- Suketu Mehta, Maximum City


So, what really makes us pick the same mug every morning? Some households validate this little issue; a reminder just in case the haze gets the better of you at hours you'd rather not be awake.

TUSHAR

And the truth behind his enslavement to caffeine.

I don't particularly care for the idea of a designated cup; allows me to pick my favourite out, on my own hazy, morning accord. But we all come back to the same cup.

My theory is hope. The almost trivial and yet, undying hope, that you savour that one great cup of coffee this morning thus setting in motion a series of fortunate and wondrous events in the day ahead. The bait here is the ailing memory of taste, unable to get your tongue around the taste from the other day. That one cup of coffee that sucked you into possibly having another not-as-satisfying second round. Turned out too sweet, too heavy, too much milk. Every mug since has donned a minor defect in aroma and taste, and hence the result has been just short of gratifying.

Rid yourself, your day, your life, even, of the imperfections, small and large, in that one mystical, epiphanic caffeine-ridden hallucination. Towards the bottom of the cup lies a sour coffee residue. Forcing us to try all over again. Same cup.