Ten Espresso capsules in one sleeve. We buy 12 such. A coffee capsule is something that you put inside the mouth of an Nespresso machine, to get a hot cup of Espresso out. Every morning, while I empty a packet of White peony tea into a hot cup of water, my husband feeds the coffee machine two Espresso capsules — the result is a potion of Arabica and Robusta that wipes out any remnants of last night’s sleep.
Over months, the number of capsules decrease, and the number of empty sleeves of Indriya (coffee from India), Kazaar (from Brazil) and Vanilio (from Central and South America) increase. Stacked one on top of the other, it’s soon a mountain of proof of the amount of caffeine consumed by us. I use them to make a home decor that, just like the capsules, helps one kick start the day with a sense of lightness and cruise through it with ease.
The last few words of the chapter get swallowed in a cloud of black ink. It’s dark. And warm. Like someone forcefully wrapped an Alpaca black shawl around my face. The book mark slides off from between the pages. So I fold the corner of the last read into a small triangle, and keep the book aside. I curse the light bulb. What a time to die.
The sudden blindness is unnerving. I am reminded of Jodie Foster trying to find her way around in that particularly spine-chilling scene in Silence of the Lambs. Not a good time to think of Hannibal. Also, by now, the moonlight has leaked in from the curtains shining a blue glow on everything. I can see the outline of the bed, side table, lamp and TV.
But there are still corners in the room that are tar black. It’s hard to leash the imagination. The scariest scenes from the best horror movies coalesce in my head, and cast a blood-curdling trailer. Slimy creatures, babies with grey vacant eyes, worse, dolls with rosy cheeks and a fixed stare. A possessed Emily Rose. Hope it’s not 3 am on the dot. Something is hiding, waiting, ready to pounce. The torch seems light years away. The air seems too viscous. Legs turn into lead. Drops of sweat blind my eyes.
A long travel later, it landed on our doorstep last month. We ripped it open, scooped out the brand new record player from within it, and lay the box down near the shoe rack. It remained there for a long time, with sheets of bubble wraps that no one popped.
Until one day, we hoisted it up from where it was. Cleaned it off the labels and stickers. And painted it dark blue like a star-less night sky. Then we created a mesh using colors – blue, green, golden and red. Let them merge, drip and rebel out of the cardboard boundaries.
After a night’s time of mingling with each other, the viscous colors had settled into a wild pattern. Like lava when cooled down. Like relationships after a fight.
What was scarily close to being binned, now stands tall with dignity next to its pal, the record player, from which a young Barbra Streisand, in a violet tutu and a high bun, sings, and quite aptly so, ‘I’d rather be blue over you’.