Horns are going off competitively, each car trying to outdo the other in pitch and persistence—some sharp and abrupt, others drawn-out and wailing, creating a symphony so chaotic you have no choice but to wake up. I live on the third floor above a restaurant on a commercial street in Bangalore, alarms are for people living in apartment complexes; birdsong, for those near parks. I don’t complain—this chaos saves me from the true villain: Bangalore’s treacherous traffic. That trade-off, I assure you, is worth the morning headache.

I stumble out of bed and as usual my slippers play the usual mischief; they change sides whilst I slept. It’s almost reassuring in its predictability – I hate being barefoot in the washroom! I am a creature of habit for all the basic human experiences, my mornings, predictable as clockwork – indistinguishable from one to next. I find great solace in ritualising it – helps me gather myself for the long day ahead.

As I step out the floor feels cool to touch as a contrast to the tippy toe gymnastics I just did. The sun is sunning today as the kitchen beckons, and I shuffle toward it, drawn by the promise of caffeine and the quiet solace of a ritual that never fails me.

The kettle hums its familiar tune as I contemplate the cupboard—a shrine to my morning choices. Blue Tokai’s Hidden Falls Estate or the bright, floral Chelchele from Ethiopia? My hand hovers, indecisive yet hopeful, and finally settles on Chelchele. Its promise of vibrant berries and floral notes feels right for today. But life, in its infinite mischief, throws its curveball—the French press, my trusted companion, sits forlornly in the sink, coated in the remnants of yesterday’s brew. Alas, Chelchele retreats, replaced by the steady reassurance of Blue Tokai and my aeropress.

Such is life, I think, as I setup the aeropress on my counter. Plans, no matter how small, are rearranged by the day’s whims. But perhaps that’s the charm—the unscripted moments that steer us toward unexpected pleasures. The water comes to a rolling boil, an impatient crescendo, before I silence it, letting it rest for just a breath. As I pour it over the grounds, the coffee blooms in a tender swell—a ritual as fleeting as it is profound. And then, it arrives: a fragrance so vivid, so achingly pure, it seems to awaken something primal within me. It’s not the caffeine—no, that’s merely an afterthought—but this sacred aroma, this olfactory hymn, that truly pulls me from the fog of sleep and into the day.

I let it seep for a few minutes and turn to worship at the altar of the mobile phone gods. It is, as always, an exercise in futility—friends, dispatching reels of absurdity from their porcelain thrones; managers firing off emails with the urgency of kings, no doubt from the same throne; parents, ever diligent, delivering their dutiful good mornings with toilet-bound solemnity. Zepto, intrudes as a faux-friend, cajoling me toward some unnecessary purchase. And there it is, the final offering: the stock market, once again wallowing in its own shitter. Such is modern devotion, banalities masquerading as connection.

It’s been fifteen minutes, and I’ve completely forgotten about the coffee, ensnared by the seductive clutches of my phone. Finally, I set it aside, guiltily making my way to the kitchen. The aeropress awaits, its plunger perched precariously, ready for the final act. I push it down, slowly, deliberately, listening to the gentle drip of coffee hitting the cup below. The aroma rises, potent and audacious, hijacking my senses—an olfactory orgasm.

With coffee in hand, along with my smokes and the morning paper, I walk to the balcony. The hall stretches before me, a passage not just to the balcony but to a moment of clarity. I settle into my chair, a willing spectator to the animation of the city below—hustlers, dreamers, and the resigned, all stitched into the fabric of Bangalore’s morning bustle. The weather, as always, is a gift—a brisk wind, cool and rejuvenating, paired with the sun’s gentle caress. The clouds hang immense, their grandeur almost cartoonish—plucked straight from an episode of The Simpsons.

I light my smoke, the first drag of an exhale of yesterday’s remnants. Then comes the sip—the coffee’s warm embrace, a liquid affirmation down my throat that my ritual has borne its reward. In that moment, as the universe aligns with the rhythm of my morning, I feel it: everything will be okay today.