Kuppusami, a man in his 70s, runs a charming ‘kaapi kadai’—a small coffee shop—on the Girivalam road in Tiruvannamalai, Tamil Nadu. Though the shop is closer to Sri Seshadri Ashram than Sri Ramanasramam, devotees often refer to it by its proximity to the latter. His wife, Chinnamma, is also in her 70s and takes pride in reminding anyone, especially when she is annoyed with him, that she is a month older than Kuppusami. This playful banter happens almost every day, often several times an hour at the shop.
The kaapi kadai boasts a faded name-board, its paint and lettering worn by time and weather, making it difficult to decipher. Its rather grandiose name, “World Best Coffee Shop,” is seldom noticed by patrons who prefer standing just outside to catch the warm morning sun. For regulars, the board’s actual name is long forgotten, serving instead as a sun-and-rain-shade, much more valuable to Kuppusami than any accolade.
Kuppusami and Chinnamma live on the shop premises, though they own a modest house nearby, tucked behind the guest house compound of Sri Ramanasramam, close to the Lakshmi Residency Hotel. Their divorced daughter, Rathi, resides there, managing much of the back-end work for the coffee shop. She prepares condiments, packages snacks, and keeps the shop stocked with tobacco and snuff pouches, meticulously procuring everything needed to keep the kaapi kadai running smoothly. Part of her daily routine involves purchasing fresh milk four times a day—a task she performs with quiet dedication.
Across the road from Kuppusami’s kaapi kadai lies a larger restaurant, catering mainly to international devotees and pilgrims arriving in vehicles. This establishment, run by a charming lady owner, bustles with activity. Meanwhile, a small vendor stall adjacent to Kuppusami’s shop is managed by Rajamani and his wife, Vengadam. They sell newspapers, bananas, packaged snacks, and bottled sweets and savories. Their home-cooked fried snacks—banana bhajjis, onion-green chilli fritters, and brilliantly red fryums—attract a different set of patrons. Despite the close competition, Rajamani and Kuppusami have maintained a friendly relationship, never crossing into each other's territories; Rajamani refrains from selling coffee, and Kuppusami abstains from vending newspapers or bananas.
Every morning, the intoxicating aroma of Kuppusami’s filter coffee drifts across the street, overpowering the delicious scent of Rajamani’s fried offerings. This olfactory invasion has never been a cause for dispute between the two vendors. Instead, it has become a silent yet endearing part of their coexistence. At noon, when the rush of customers subsides, Kuppusami often strolls over to Rajamani’s stall, exchanging pleasantries while paying for the now-cold bhajjis and fryums—a quaint, unspoken tradition between them.
Vengadam, meanwhile, often finds companionship with Chinnamma, engaging in conversations about Rathi, her divorce, and the slim hopes of reconciling with her ex-husband. Neither woman has ever entertained the notion of Rathi remarrying, particularly not to Rajamani and Vengadam's son, Narayana. Employed in Chennai as a "computer fellow," as Chinnamma affectionately calls him, Narayana is a year older than Rathi. Despite their childhood friendship, it has never crossed the minds of the two mothers that their children could potentially become more than friends.
In moments when Kuppusami is absent from the shop, Chinnamma seamlessly takes over the coffee-making duties. Her adept hands brew a perfect cup of filter coffee or tea, satisfying the steady stream of random customers seeking respite in the shop's shade. She employs a clever method to summon her husband back when the crowd grows—by intentionally clinking stainless steel tumblers and banging the milk bowls and coffee mixing spoons louder than necessary. The sound reaches Kuppusami's ears as he chats with Rajamani, prompting a knowing smile and an apologetic return to his kaapi kadai.
When Vengadam joins Chinnamma at the shop, they often sit quietly, pretending to be visiting pilgrims while eavesdropping on the lively conversations around them. Both women have developed an intuitive ability to distinguish the various types of devotees visiting the ashrams. There are the first-timers, whose visits are short-lived; the repeat visitors, who stay for a few days and have already established their spiritual routines; and the seasoned regulars, whose week-long stays at nearby guesthouses have them following a well-worn path between the ashrams and Kuppusami’s kaapi kadai.
These devotees have an established rhythm: enjoying breakfast and coffee at the modest but bustling eating house within Sri Seshadri Ashram before heading to Sri Ramanasramam. When the ashram closes at noon, they find their way to Kuppusami’s for a contemplative cup of coffee. Many sit quietly, pondering the mysteries of life as the afternoon sun casts long shadows on the shop’s veranda. Afterward, they hire an auto-rickshaw to the main temple in town for lunch at one of the larger dining establishments, waiting patiently for the temple doors to open for the evening prayers.
Contrasting this leisurely pace are the hurried families that occasionally descend upon the kaapi kadai in SUVs, eager to sample Kuppusami’s renowned filter coffee before continuing their spiritual journey. The driver, typically flustered, relays complex orders: “Four filter coffees, strong, less sugar; two filter coffees, strong, no sugar; one filter coffee, strong, regular sugar; two teas, strong, less sugar; one tea, normal, regular sugar.” Kuppusami arranges the customized drinks on trays for easy transport back to the waiting vehicles. The price is naturally higher for these bespoke brews, tailored to each family member's specific preference.
Chinnamma and Vengadam anticipate the inevitable final request—a cup of hot milk, regular sugar, no coffee or tea. It's an order that never fails, meant for the elder of the family who has forsaken coffee and tea. As the driver rushes back to collect the forgotten cup, Kuppusami chuckles softly, recognizing the timeless dance of tradition and change that plays out daily in his beloved kaapi kadai.
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