Kerala paratha? A flashback to my early professional life—years I could have spent differently. Filter coffee? That’s Mum. The smell of bread? Raja Barley, a bakery in Madurai. Crabs? Pier 39, San Francisco. Churros? San Gines in Madrid. Crisp dosa? Aiyappas in Matunga. Black coffee? I’m in Brisbane. Toast? Singapore. Kulcha? Amritsar. Pomfret? Calicut. Salads? Tokyo.

Not all of these meals were the best I’ve had. Some were far from it. Yet, they cling to my memory like stubborn guests who refuse to leave.

Indian Coffee House is one such guest. It’s not about the aroma or the taste; it’s the memories from decades ago that distort my senses. But there’s something magical about this place, something that keeps me coming back.

On countless walks down MG Road in Bangalore, decades ago, Indian Coffee House buzzed with life. Back then, I’d sit with a butter dosa, sipping coffee, watching the world pass by. People of all kinds. Old, young, rich, poor, men, women—everyone had a story. And in their eyes, in the conversations that filled those walls, I saw my own future unfold. Dreams!

Last month, I found myself in another Indian Coffee House. In another city.

As soon as I sat down and read the menu, it was clear: it wasn’t the food that drew me in. It was the pull of youth. A time when dreams were fresh, the road ahead sunlit, and time was something I could waste. Like in that Pink Floyd song…

“…And you are young and life is long, and there is time to kill today…”

As I sipped the rather unremarkable coffee, pretending it was gourmet, I became acutely aware of how my dreams and opportunities have evolved. They’ve changed colour. But I’m grateful for the dreams that once kept me company. They’ve shaped me, made me who I am today.

I’ve grown, I tell myself. Maybe that’s why I could enjoy that lacklustre coffee. “Thank God for dreams,” I wrote in my journal that night. At least, that’s what I thought I wrote. For when I looked again, it read, “Thank God for Dosa.”