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I learnt to drink South Indian filter coffee as a teen during my summer holidays in Tamil Nadu. Every May, my sister and I made the 48-hour journey by train, with my mother, from Delhi to Tamil Nadu. At some point during the deliciously long and lazy summer, my mother would swoop down on us and announce that we needed to meet some relatives to “get to know our culture”. We would be sullen and truculent, having been plucked out from a sapota tree we were climbing in my grandfather’s overgrown backyard. As soon as the three of us entered the relatives’ home, the lady of the house would ask if we wanted coffee. If I said no, then she would ask, “tea?” in a tone that conveyed how disappointed she was in me. When I declined, she would look relieved and disappear into the kitchen. She would emerge in a bit and triumphantly plonk a glass of lukewarm Horlicks, or worse, rose milk, in front of me. I quickly learnt to accept the initial offer of coffee.

Back home in Delhi, my father was a South Indian filter coffee aficionado before it was a thing in bougie restaurants. As children, my sister and I woke up to the annoying sound of the coffee grinder every morning. The aroma of fresh grounds wafts into my memories of getting ready for school on cold dark winter mornings in Delhi. My father was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 5 am, getting to the kitchen with alacrity so he could begin the process. The hot water would drip slowly through the fresh grounds in the stainless-steel filter, taking its time to travel through and soak in the flavour. When the decoction was finally ready, it was mixed with steaming hot milk and a bit of sugar. No spoon could sully the insides of the tumbler. The mixing involved the swishing of the milk, decoction and sugar between the dabara and tumbler. My father would be appalled if I shared with him the stereotype of the groggy person reaching for his first cup of coffee, so it can wake him up. For my father, coffee is not a thing that wakes you up; it is what you wake up for.

I asked my father a few months ago how he learnt to make coffee. His answer had me time travel back 82 years, to my father’s home in Salem, Tamil Nadu. 10-year-old Krishnamurthy is in the kitchen at 6:30 am, before he leaves for school. I can see it like a movie. The skinny little boy in his school uniform lights the kari adupu — the wood-fired stove in the kitchen. His mother is “out of doors” — the euphemism for having your period — literally and figuratively. She is peering in from the outside, through the kitchen window, and giving him instructions. I imagine her saying softly, “Now, put three heaped spoons of coffee powder in the filter, and be careful with the hot water.” These three days are the only time she gets to rest, so she does not complain about being banished from the kitchen. But she misses her coffee, and her 10-year-old loves to come in early, before the house is awake, and make it just the way she wants it. He hands the coffee to her between the bars on the window and watches her face anxiously. His face lights up as she closes her eyes and sighs as the coffee goes down strong and sweet.

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Cut to over eight decades later, we are in my father’s kitchen. We are just back from our morning walk. I tell my father that it is now official — coffee is good for your health. Apparently, it heals livers that have been ravaged by modern diets of rich foods and alcohol. The American Heart Association just announced that three to five cups of coffee a day may be beneficial for your metabolism. The tone is prescriptive — sort of like a recommendation for fish oil or vitamins. But in my father’s home, the making of a tumbler of coffee was, and remains, a spiritual experience. He is a bit sad because drinking more than half a cup now gives him heartburn. He still loves making it, though, for those who enjoy it as much as he does. I watch him and Karun, my 25-year-old son, as they make it together. Karun is dressed in a pristine white kurta and pajama, borrowed from his Thatha, so the two of them are dressed identically. Karun listens intently as my dad explains to him how to pack the coffee powder down and first wet it with just enough water (“50 ccs, no more!”) to keep it packed. Then he instructs him to add more hot water to the filter. Karun now carries his stainless-steel filter all over the world in his backpack. He eschews the coffee shops, the fancy coffee presses and coffee machines. My dad potters about the kitchen, measuring and heating, and finally hands me my tumbler of coffee. He scans my face as I take my first sip. “It’s perfect,” I say, and he beams with satisfaction.

The writer is founder, developmental pediatrician, Ummeed Child Development Center