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.