Coffee, Dust, and the Human Condition

It was a Tuesday—I think you’d agree it must’ve been—around 10 in the morning, when the sun was still gentle and the day held a quiet promise. I was driving toward the fuel station to fill up my vehicle, the steering wheel warm under my hands, when I found myself near Vijaya Bank Circle (Kuvempu Nagara, Mysore). If you’ve been there lately, you’d know the roundabout is a mess of construction—half-finished concrete, dust swirling in the air, and no signs to warn anyone of the chaos. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of unease, not just about the road, but about how we treat each other in moments like these. This day, as it unfolded, became a mirror to that worry.

Before heading to the petrol pump, I pulled over to a small public cafeteria nearby, a modest spot where the aroma of coffee hangs thick despite the dust creeping in from the construction site. Cup in hand, I stood sipping, watching the world go by. The roundabout was alive with activity—workers smoothing wet concrete, the hum of machinery, and a group of college girls, bright and carefree, strolling along the opposite side of the road. Their laughter cut through the gritty air, a fleeting burst of color against the gray of the construction.

Then came the incident that lodged itself in my mind. A middle-aged man—perhaps in his mid-40s, his face weathered by years of labor—was tending to the concrete, his hands steady despite the heat. From the other side of the circle, a Mahindra SUV roared up, a sleek 700 beast that screamed entitlement. The driver, a well-dressed gentleman, maneuvered toward the roundabout, only to realize the path was blocked by the construction. Frustrated, he leapt out and stormed over to the worker. What followed was a torrent of anger—shouts, accusations, and, as I later learned, a string of abuses in Kannada, the local language. The worker stood there, silent, his head bowed, unable to respond.

Curious and unsettled, I watched as the worker shuffled toward the cafeteria after the SUV sped off. He looked defeated, his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. I couldn’t resist asking, “What happened? Why was he yelling at you?” His voice was soft, resigned, as he explained. “Sir, I’ve been working here for five days. That man wanted to drive through, but I told him it’s under construction—work in progress. I can’t do anything about it. He got angry, abused me, said I was too busy staring at the pretty girls walking by to do my job.”

His words hit me hard. This wasn’t just about a blocked road. He went on, his eyes distant. “I’m from Kooragahalli, a village far from here. I came to the city to earn a living. Whatever I make keeps my family going—my sick son, my daughter who works the fields, my wife who holds us together. I’m just trying to fill our stomachs.” His younger son, he said, was unwell, a burden that tugged at his every step. Yet here he was, smoothing concrete under a blazing sun, only to be berated by a stranger who knew nothing of his struggles.

I glanced back at the roundabout. The sky was a brilliant blue, the weather deceptively perfect, mocking the tension below. The girls still walked by, unaware of the drama, their presence a fleeting distraction for the worker—perhaps a small, innocent respite from his toil. But the dust was relentless, rising in clouds, mingling with the coffee’s aroma in a strange, gritty symphony. I could taste it—the cement, the earth, the bitterness of it all.

The man in the SUV wasn’t entirely wrong to be frustrated, I suppose. The municipality had botched this job—no signs, no dates, just an abrupt snarl of traffic and confusion. But did that justify unloading his rage on a man who had no control over it? A man who was just doing his job, scraping by to survive? I’ve seen this too often in my 48 years—people lashing out without knowing, without caring, about the person on the receiving end. It’s not unique to India, but it stings more here, where survival is a daily dance for so many.

As I stood there, the scene widened. People crawled through the traffic, adjusting to the mess with weary patience. Others ignored it, lost in their own worlds. And then there was this worker, one of countless souls laboring to feed their families, to meet the barest of ends. It felt nostalgic, almost biblical—like something out of Ramayana or Mahabharata, where the poor have always existed, always endured, while the powerful rage on, oblivious.

How do we stitch this together? How do we make sense of a world where sensitivity is so scarce? I don’t have the answer. But that morning, amidst the dust and coffee and fleeting beauty of those passing girls, I felt the weight of it all—the human condition laid bare in a single, messy roundabout. Maybe one day we’ll learn to see each other, to pause before we scream. Until then, we survive, we sip our coffee, and we carry on.