Fragments and Fables

4:45 PM EST.
The evening was cool and quiet, painted in the deep reds and golds of fall. I opened the window, letting the cold breeze rush in. The air smelled of damp mud, a soft reminder of the drizzle that had passed through earlier.

I wanted a cup of coffee. One of those small comforts that could make an evening feel complete. I like my coffee really hot, and I mean really hot.
While preparing a cup for myself, I found my thoughts drifting — coffee has always been my quiet savior. Even in the hardest seasons, it brought something I could hold. A kind of gentle luxury. Warmth. Joy. A moment of satisfaction in the middle of everything unresolved.

Nostalgia stirred as I poured the milk into my favorite cup. My mind slipped into the evenings I used to have in Chennai, my hometown. Chennai, unlike New Jersey, is usually a warm and humid city. I could almost smell the milk boiling on the stove, hear Amma’s voice echo from the kitchen, steady and familiar.
Sowmi, coffee venuma?

Back then, a cup of coffee wasn’t just coffee. It was presence. Belonging. A kind of knowing that didn’t need to be spoken.

Now, standing in a quiet kitchen with a microwave humming and a cup that didn’t taste like home, I felt the weight of how far I had drifted — not just in miles, but in meaning.

It had been over two years since I left home. Life here wasn’t monotonous, but it had become dull in quiet ways that wore on me. Friends had drifted apart. The principles I once held close didn’t seem to be helping anymore.

Lost in thought, I stirred the milk and realized I had added salt instead of sugar.

It was a small mistake, but it mirrored something larger. I rinsed the cup and started over, this time measuring everything more carefully. Still, I felt let down. Not just by the coffee, but by everything. I was afraid of what the future was becoming.

Amma used to tell me that kindness was a strength. That being helpful mattered more than being right. We would sit for hours, talking about everything from family politics to foreign affairs. Her voice always steady, always sure. There was a rhythm to those conversations, a kind of moral clarity I leaned on without realizing.

But now, even that certainty felt distant. The world had grown messier. More layered. And I had changed in ways I didn’t know how to explain to her — or maybe even to myself.

The microwave beeped.
I took the coffee and stepped out onto the porch, heart heavy with questions that didn’t have shape or sound.

What do I like? What do I want? Who am I? Where am I going?

The sky above was a brilliant blue, but near the sun, a strange orange hue had spread. It was beautiful, yet unsettling in a way I couldn’t quite explain. It made me wonder if the orange had disrupted the perfect blue, or added something to it.

The sky had started out clear. An honest, open blue. But as the sun dipped lower, a warm orange spread across it. Not to erase the blue, but to layer itself into it. Slowly, softly, without apology. I watched as the two colors held space for each other, and in that blending, I saw something I hadn’t before.

The world had not turned against me. It had simply revealed its greys. Spaces where right and wrong did not always live apart. Where two things could be true at once. And in moving through those spaces, I began to change. I stopped chasing clarity like it was a finish line. Instead, I started learning how to stay. How to live inside the complicated. How to find stillness in the grey.

I went inside, washed my face, and came back with a bottle of red wine.
The coffee had gone cold.
I opened the wine and sat down again, eyes still on the sky.

Maybe the orange hue hadn’t ruined the evening after all.
Maybe it was what made it unforgettable.
In that moment, I realized the evening was just as perfect as it needed to be.