ADEEL BABREE

“I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”
T.S. Eliot

So there I was, driftin’ through the aisles with my wife. The trolley in my hand wobbled, squealed like an untamed beast. One wheel pointed towards Household Supplies, the other three in unison, reeled towards freedom, and out the shopping mart. See.. you don’t push a trolley. You have to negotiate with it. You plead, beg, and beseech. One wrong move and the damn thing’ll veer off, take out a towering stack of Rooh Afzas, run over a toddler, and crash into an aunty who’s already judged me as some long-haired hippie doofus. Fair assessment.

Above us, those supermarket fluorescent lights hummed in a chant of some sorts. “Ohmmmm..” The lights cast everything in artificial holiness. Bottles of soda pop stood taller. Packets of chips bigger and tastier. Even drain-cleaners started looking like they might actually work. Every product whispered.. in hush quiet tones.. the same lie.. “Buy me, buy me. Buy me, damnit. And your life will be better!”

And for a brief, dangerous second… you believe it.

I picked up this bottle of hemp-scented shampoo. Now there ain’t a single moment in my life where I’ve thought, “You know what I need? Hair that smells like a gym bag.” But there I was, staring at it like it held answers I hadn’t even asked.

“Hey,” I started, turning to my wife… but before a single word left my lips, she gave me that look. A look honed by women over centuries – forged in the fires of every blundering man’s blunders. Disappointment, disbelief, and disapproval—all rolled into a single, silent death-ray of a glare.

She didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

Dutifully, I put the bottle back on the shelf, and pushed on that bastard of a trolley, my ego limping behind me. After dodging aunties, runaway children, and a sense of purpose, I arrived at the coffee aisle. The shelves were lookin’ thin. My usual brand was gone. Off the shelf. Vanished. Probably inflation, or got itself fucked by some fancy new blend. Left me staring at other instant sludge like a sad junkie with no fix. My eyes drifted, reluctantly, to Davidoff. Ah, Davidoff. Smooth. Sophisticated. And expensive. That ain’t coffee no more—that’s a financial decision.

I stared at it the way a poor man looks at a luxury car. Admiration… mixed with an understanding that this relationship ain’t meant to be.

My eyes darted across various other brands, till I saw it. In all its glory. In all its shame.

PRIME COFFEE

Now that name… that name had confidence. Confidence usually reserved for people who’ve never been told “no” in their life. It sat there like it owned the whole damn shelf.

And it was home-grown.

‘Hayatabad, Peshawar’ it said on the label.

Peshawar?!

Now I had to pause.

The ancient city of saints and mystics. A place that’s been breathing stories since the days of Alexander the Great. Its streets carrying the dust of caravans and prayers, colors spilling out of every bazaar, voices rising like smoke from copper kettles. And somewhere in all that rhythm… there’s kehwa. Golden, fragrant, patient. Brewed slow – wisdom earned the hard way.

So I figured—folks who’ve been pouring warmth into cups for centuries ought to know a thing or two about cooking coffee.

I was intrigued. A little confused, sure. But I’ll be damned if I wasn’t impressed.

And yeah, I got a soft spot for local stuff. Feels noble, in a cheap, back-alley kind of way. Like I’m doing my bit for the country, standing there with a trolley that won’t behave, buying things I ain’t too sure about. You tell yourself it matters—that somewhere, somehow, you’re keeping the whole damn economy from collapsing… one questionable purchase at a time.

I picked up the jar.

Ingredients: 100% PURE COFFEE

Now that right there… that’s gutsy.

No story. No poetry. No marketing fluff. Just coffee. Said with the confidence of a man who either knows exactly what he’s doing… or absolutely nothing at all.

Behind me, I felt it before I saw it.

My wife.

“You buy this,” she said, calm as a judge delivering a sentence, “you finish the entire damn bottle.”

That wasn’t a warning. That was an ultimatum.

Now I stood there… Rs. 2,750 of smoky Davidoff elegance on one side… Rs. 1,750 of sweaty ambition on the other.

And like every middle-aged man who’s ever felt the thrill of saving a grand… I made my choice.

I put back Davidoff.

And walked away with a jar of Peshawari confidence.

Saved Rs. 1,000.

Hah. Felt like I’d conquered something.

That’s middle age for you.

You don’t chase dreams anymore.

You chase discounts.

WAIST DEEP IN THE BIG MUDDY,
AND THE BIG FOOL SAID TO PUSH ON

They lowered Jeremiah by ropes into the cistern;
it had no water in it, only mud,
and Jeremiah sank down into the mud.
Jeremiah 38:6

I return home and plop the jar of Prime coffee on the kitchen counter. First thing I notice is how familiar it looks. Different name, same cheap suit underneath. Same shoulders, same glass, same factory-line soul as the Nescafe bottle. Ditto. I start imagining some warehouse in Peshawar, stacked to the rafters with empty Nescafe jars—washed, bleached, reborn with a slapped-on label. Like a criminal with a fake mustache, a fake passport, slipping through customs. Maybe the workers are chain-smoking in the back, spitting on the floor, cursing their luck while they slap “PRIME” on the sorry bastards.

I twist it open.

And there it is.

That color.

Not really coffee-brown. No… this thing’s got the look of fresh-dug earth after rain. Reddish-brown. Like if you planted a seed in it, you’d get a field of tomatoes by morning.

You pour it. Add milk.

Keep adding milk.

More milk.

Still brown.

That cup don’t lighten up, not even a little. Like that grouchy Uncle.. who refuses to laugh.. when you do your best Shafi Mohd. impression. It just stares back at you, like it’s got a grudge.

Now comes the moment. The test. The ultimate act of martyrdom.

I take a sip.

FERMENTED FUNGAL FRIABLE EARTH!

“That ain’t coffee,” I almost spit out. “This… this is geology!” I declare, eyes wide, like a scientist who just unearthed a new rock formation.

Looks like mud. Tastes like mud. Mud that’s seen things—Precambrian things. I keep shoveling teaspoons in, one after another, four of ’em before I finally get a twitch of something resembling caffeine.

I start to think—this is probably what you taste six feet under. Not fire. Not brimstone. Just slow, earthy bitterness, creeping in as the dust settles and the final chapter closes on your mortality.

This is more than just a mere cup of coffee. This is existential dread in a teacup.

****
There was dank soil in my mouth,
And bitter sea on my lips,
In a dark hour, tasting the Earth.
– Tasting the Earth, James Oppenheim.

PRIME SUSPECT

DISCLAIMER:
Real coffee connoisseurs would laugh. Call this an exercise in futility, a waste of time—which, fair enough, is true. Instant coffee isn’t really coffee, is it? It’s puddle water.

But I am not a man of culture. I am as unrefined as the coffee I drink: cheap, pathetic, and I’ve made my peace with both.

People who grind their own beans, brew their own coffees have time to “unwind.” I have just enough to half boil water and get back to the mess called life.

RANKING THE RANK

So, in a world of rankings, how does this baby stand? Here’s my breakdown on Prime Coffee.

Aroma: 9/10
Smells like rain water.. accumulating on the porch.. since last monsoon.

Flavor: 8/10
Rich, robust, earthy – what your world would taste like.. if you were an earthworm.

Acidity: 6/10
Weak—but where it fails, your own acid reflux fills-in.

Balance: 9/10
It balances its fiercest flavors perfectly—sand, silt, clay, measured with ruthless precision.

Body: 10/10
Broad, dense, brutal—coffee with muscles and three heavyweight belts. Could hold up your ceiling if it wanted to… but it doesn’t want to.

Sweetness: 8.5/10
You catch a hint of floral fragrance—a bouquet of roses, perhaps. But the dead kind, wilting in a dentist’s office vase.

Bitterness: 9/10
Sharp, dry, and condescending. Like the taunts of a 50-year-old spinster auntie who lives alone, covers her sofas with plastic sheets, can and will talk about her porcelain dinnerware/sari collection for hours.

Aftertaste: 100/10 t₁/₂ = 80 yr
Strong. Radioactive strong. This taste could linger, man.. even after.. you’re long dead and gone. The sort your great grandchildren would still taste it in their nightmares.

So, with mud-stained fingers and a tongue that feels like it spent the last century digging through an archaeological dig, I arrive at the inevitable verdict:

Do I recommend this coffee?

Hail, fury, and a rooster on a kazoo, YESS!

Not because it is good, mind you, but because it is important. Prime Coffee comes from these parts, and sometimes, you have to tip your hat to the soil of your land. Only this time, it’s literal. Down-to-earth. Real “Watan ki mitti” stuff.

So, drink it if you must. Support it if you will. But understand this: some coffees wake you up… this one reminds you why you might not want to.

“Mitti mein mil jayengay,
Bhoolo na, bhoola na.”
– Junoon.