Brew me the coffee of scholars and mystics

Coffee is, and always has been, a culture in and of itself.

It’s the middleman between two people with buried history, strangers who still remember each other’s favorite orders.

It’s the red string between two people with a future yet to be written, nervous hands swirling the last couple sips gone cold because an empty mug means a premature “goodbye.”

It’s the ambrosia of academics wearing purple bags under their eyes, poring over cryptic texts and chasing deadlines at ungodly hours of the night.

They say misery loves company, but it also loves coffee. When there aren’t any words to soothe a weary soul, there are still beans to roast, milk to froth, and mugs to leech the warmth from without ever taking a sip.

Come to my kitchen and sit at the table. I can’t promise I’ll have the words to heal what’s broken, but I’ll listen, anyway. I’ll brew you a cup and sit with you a while longer. If it gets cold, I’ll heat it back up and we can contemplate some more.

Because what is the wine of araby¹, if not the means and the subject of contemplation?

The scalding heat of a morning brew is a new beginning.

The lukewarm dregs in a cup forgotten on the counter are the flickering remains of passion.

I’ve always been partial to chai, personally. The way it’s sweeter and lighter and doesn’t leave stains on my teeth or on my breath.

But I want to taste the coffee of Golden Age mystics.

What was in their dallahs² that let them converse with God all night and figure out the secrets of the universe?

I, too, want to search for God. To knock on His door in the dead of night. To stand in His majlis³ with lost lovers and seekers of the Divine alike.

Woh kaisi mai hai jisse log pee kr khuda ko dhoond lete hain? Mujhe bhi usko talaash krna hai.

(What is that wine that leads people to find God? I want to search for Him, too.)

I, too, want to love the bitterness of becoming. To be cracked open and let the flame release what’s inside. To let the rich aromas disperse and color the air and everything around me.

I, too, want to learn patience. To brew the coffee of mystics is to love the space between the kitchen table and the espresso machine on the counter, to learn to live in that space, if only for a few minutes.

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Author’s note:

The origin and role of coffee in historical contexts recently picqued my interest and led me to do a shallow research dive into it. There’s a popular legend about an Ethiopian goat herded by the name of Kaldi who noticed his goats acting strangely excited after eating some new berries (assumably coffee berries), and he experienced the same energy boost after trying them himself. He went to the local monks for answers, and the monks originally suspected the berries being work of the Devil and threw them into a fire, releasing a rich aroma. Further investigation led to the discovery that making a brew of these berries helped the monks stay awake for their night worship, and boom we’ve got coffee.

The social and cultural importance of coffee in the Arab world also gave us the concept of coffee houses, which were referred to as “schools of the wise” because they were essentially exchange ports for knowledge. Scholars and intellectuals would come to these coffee houses to discuss ideas and learn from each other for the price of a coffee, making news and information open and accessible for all.

As silly as it sounds, my second inspiration for this piece was the Pakistani drama, Meem se Mohabbat (iykyk), in which the male lead and his father, who’ve suffered tragic family losses together, make each other coffee when they know they can’t offer any solutions or comfort each other with words.

1. Coffee has been historically referred to as the “wine of araby.” It was revolutionary in trade and in social customs.

2. Coffee pot

3. A gathering