The Taste of Inclusion

Morning at the Tripathi household began with the fragrance of incense, the sound of cymbals, and the low hum of mantras. Sunaina Tripthi, 50 years old, was known to be an ardent devotee and a person of great religious conviction. As she recites the mantras with her closed eyes, her fingers move over the rudraksha beads one by one. The silver puja thali gleamed beside her. It had been meticulously polished to look as good as new.

Her life was built on rituals: cleanliness, clear boundaries, and a sense of sanctity she fiercely protected.

Rekha, the househelp, came in after Sunaina was done with her puja. She began her chores, and while dusting the room adjacent to the puja room, her hand brushed against the silver puja thali that was kept on the edge.

Sunaina was in the same room. She turned sharply.
“Rekha! How many times must I remind you? These things are sacred—don’t touch them!”

Rekha froze, eyes lowered. Tears welled up in her eyes, but Rekha controlled them and mumbled, “Sorry, madam. I didn’t see.”

Her voice trembled slightly. She backed away, clutching the dusting cloth, and disappeared into the kitchen.

From the balcony, Sunaina’s husband and writer, Vijay Tripathi, had seen everything. He said nothing. Not yet.

Later that afternoon, as sunlight softened into gold, Vijay came and sat beside his wife.
“Sunaina,” he said gently, “may I tell you a story?”

Sunaina sighed but nodded. She always did love his stories.

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Scene 1 — The Train to Santragachi

“Once upon a time,” Vijay began, “there was a woman named Bina. Every morning, she boarded the 9 AM local train from Santragachi station in West Bengal. The compartments were crowded; it was the peak time for office goers. Hawkers shouted over the din, and people fought for seats.

Bina walked through the aisle, clapping her palms together in her usual rhythm. ‘Bless you, baba. Bless you, didi.’

Some commuters smiled and handed her a few coins. Others looked away. Bina was used to both the kindness and the coldness.

Bina would usually engage in interesting conversations with the daily commuters. But one day, a new passenger, Soumen, who has just shifted into the city of joy, frowned when she approached.

‘Why should I give you money?’ he muttered.
‘Not money, babu,’ she replied softly, ‘just a bit of respect.’

Soumen looked down and passed a lewd remark. Bina, who was usually good-natured and friendly, felt a sting of hurt. She decided to give him a slice of his own attitude. Soon, an argument broke out, and chaos filled the compartment. Amid the commotion, a man wearing an orange cap swiftly pressed a yellow pamphlet into Bina’s hands before disappearing into the crowd.

She unfolded it, reading the words slowly. Her eyes widened—but before she could look around, he vanished into the thick crowd.

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Scene 2 — The Interview

“Meanwhile,” Vijay continued, “a young man named Rajiv wheeled himself up a flight of office stairs. His hands trembled on the rims. He had come for an interview. He had studied hard, earned his MBA, and dressed neatly for the occasion.

The receptionist gave him a curious look. However, she allowed him in for the interview. Rajiv entered the interview cabin and greeted the panel. The manager, seeing the wheelchair, frowned slightly.

His first question, ‘You understand this job requires movement, right?’

‘I can manage, sir,’ Rajiv replied calmly.

By now, his file was already shut, and the manager laughed off his résumé, saying they had no ramps for sympathy.

Rajiv felt the sting of humiliation but quietly rolled himself out of the room. He was used to it; nothing shocks him. Not even the fact that he wasn’t given a fair chance in an interview.

Outside, the peon who had been sweeping the floor followed him quietly.
‘Babu,’ he said hesitantly, handing him a yellow pamphlet, ‘someone left this behind. Maybe you’ll want to read it.’

Rajiv took it politely, unfolded it once he reached the gate. His expressions changed.

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“Far away, in a quiet neighbourhood,” Vijay said, “a woman named Lata stood near her balcony watching the kids play in the society park and their mothers doing a little catch-up. She called out to her 7-year-old daughter,” Minal beta, let’s get ready. We are going to the play area.” Minal jumped with excitement. The mother and daughter got ready and went downstairs.

The women, busy talking among themselves, shifted a bit as they watched Lata approaching. “Hi”, Lata greeted everyone. Mrs Verma, without losing any time, intervened, “Hello Lata, so nice to see you. But dear you are late. We are just leaving. You know these kids have school tomorrow and loads of homework to be finished.” The group agreed while exchanging awkward glances and then called out to their children.

Everyone left. Lata and Minal stood there alone and a bit hurt. Even though Minal was too young to understand, but Lata clearly got the message. Her skin was pale in patches—vitiligo, the doctors called it. And everybody feared her condition was contagious. People kept their distance—not just from her, but from Minal too—whether at work or in their own neighbourhood.

Mr. Aiyer, a septuagenarian who was finishing his evening walk in the garden, was oblivious to the whole situation. He came up to Lata and greeted her, ”How are you, beta?

Lata tried to force a smile, “All good, uncle.” Mr Aiyer handed her a yellow pamphlet, nodded, and left without saying a word.

Lata took it, unsure why. She opened it at home, and the message startled her.

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“What was written in the yellow pamphlet?” Sunaina asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Vijay smiled. “It read—‘Looking for a chance to work with dignity? Join us at Café Kindered Beans – where every soul has a seat.’”

Sunaina’s eyes softened. Vijay continued.

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Scene 4 — Café Kindered Beans- Where every soul has a seat

“The next morning, Bina, Rajiv, and Lata reached Café Kindered Beans.
It was a small place tucked in the busy Gariahat Road in Kolkata, and its signboard was hand-painted with bright colours. The aroma of roasted coffee beans filled the air.

As they stepped into the café, it seemed they stepped into a completely different world. The walls of the café were painted in cheerful hues—mustard yellow and turquoise—decorated with hand-drawn quotes about kindness and courage.

A band played at the back. The lead singer was visually impaired, yet his music could awaken any soul. At one corner, a group of college students laughed over board games, while an elderly couple shared coffee. A young barista with Down syndrome arranged cups with perfect precision. A speech-impaired chef communicated through written notes. There was such warmth in the café that Lata just couldn’t believe it yet.

As the three of them stood there, dumbstruck, they noticed a young man in his thirties approaching with a bright, contagious smile, accompanied by a young woman. The man introduced himself as Mohit, the owner of the cafe. Mohit was deaf, and the woman beside him, Sumedha, was his translator. Mohit gestured to Sumedha and with a cheerful tone, Sumedha chimed in:

“He’s saying welcome. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Bina asked curiously, ‘Do people really come here?’
Sumedha conveyed Mohit’s response with a warm smile.

“At first, no. But kindness brews slowly. Once they tasted our hospitality and our coffee, of course, they came back with friends.“

They all laughed together. For the first time in a long while, each of them felt seen and heard.

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Sunaina listened silently.
When Vijay finished, she looked thoughtful. “It’s a lovely story,” she said softly. “Is the café real?”

Vijay smiled faintly. “It’s as real as we allow it to be.”

That evening, while doing her puja, Sunaina was lost in her own thoughts. The flame of the diya flickered, but Sunaina’s gaze was fixed. She stared at it long, lost in her thoughts.

The next morning, Rekha arrived at her usual time, sharp at 9 am. She was quiet and expected silence. But Sunaina greeted her gently and asked, “Rekha, tea is almost done, have it before starting with the chores. Rekha nodded in surprise and reached for her old cup — the yellowed one with a faint crack near the rim.

Sunaina’s voice stopped her.

“Rekha, leave that cup,” she said softly.
Rekha looked up, uncertain. “Madam?”
Sunaina smiled gently. “Throw it away. We don’t need it anymore.”

She then took out two identical cups from the shelf — white porcelain with blue rims — and poured tea into both.

“Come,” she said, placing one on the table. “Let’s have some tea.”

The steam from the cups curled upward, blurring the distance between them.

PS: This post is a part of ‘Currents of Kindness Blog Hop’ hosted by Manali Desai and Sukaina Majeed under the #EveryConversationMatters blog hop series.

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