Cafe Coffee Day Civilised Us

Halfway on my journey from Bangalore to my coffee plantation, two hours from home, a Cafe Coffee Day outlet appears. It is set back from the highway, next to a petrol station. It used to be a bright spot but is now jaded by age; it commands severely diminished custom, with competition increasing daily on this stretch.

I ask for an Americano and banana chips there. The chips score better than the coffee, but my twenty minutes there soothe me. Moreover, I have long respected the place for a reason I've never read or heard mentioned.

Until this cafe came up, there was one other stop for refreshments on this highway to Mangalore, which goes through the hilly coffee-growing corridor in peninsular India. That older establishment was clean where food was served but stank where you went to relieve yourself. Once, when using the utility, I sensed something warm seeping about my sneakers—the tube leading down from the urinal had gone missing.

Those were days when folks preferred to attend to the call of nature out in nature.

Then, this Cafe Coffee Day opened with pleasing interiors, a clean kitchen and toilet, and all the minimum necessities. Soon, other restaurants — new and old — began to pay attention to the state of their toilets.

The sights of men going roadside reduced significantly. Women no longer needed to struggle to find cover, looking sheepish, embarrassed, and desperate. Since then, it has been possible to travel with dignity on our roads. I salute Cafe Coffee Day (I'm their occasional customer, nothing else) for starting the change that civilised us a bit.