Uncle Roberto was having one of those “I’m-a-man-on-a-mission” days. You know the type. He called me and my father over, insisting we come immediately to witness what he proudly described as “the most avant-garde coffee experience of your lives.” Naturally, curiosity got the better of us, and we made our way to his room. What awaited us was something I can only describe as Roberto’s magnum opus—a room that was part café, part construction site, and entirely ridiculous.
Uncle Roberto’s room wasn’t bad, really. It was a decent size, good enough for two grown adults to live comfortably, provided they didn’t own more than three shirts and a pair of shoes each. The walls were plain, the floor was tiled, and the iron-barred window overlooked a scenic view of the neighbor’s water tank. The centerpiece of the room was a bed that seemed to serve multiple roles—sofa, workstation, and apparently, coffee bar. In one corner was an overloaded extension cord sparking ominously, which Roberto dismissed with a casual wave. “It’s fine! Adds to the ambiance.”
The pièce de résistance, however, was his water heater. “My barista machine,” Roberto announced proudly, holding it up like it was the Holy Grail. “This little guy is the future of coffee-making. Forget your fancy espresso machines. This is where the magic happens!”
We sat down, trying to ignore the faint smell of burnt wires, and watched as Roberto began his performance. He poured water into the heater with the flair of a chemist discovering a new element. He wore his signature prayer beads, which he claimed gave him “coffee-making enlightenment,” and stirred the concoction with the seriousness of a scientist preparing to change the world.
The cups were, of course, mismatched. My father was handed a steel tumbler, I got an old ceramic mug that proudly declared “World’s Okayest Uncle,” and Roberto himself sipped from a chipped floral teacup that looked like it had seen better days in the 1980s. “Drink up,” he said, grinning like a magician revealing his greatest trick. The coffee, I must admit, tasted like hot regret with a hint of chaos.
But the coffee was only Act One. Act Two was the real show. Roberto, inspired by a YouTube video he had half-watched at 2 a.m., had decided his room needed “a touch of elegance.” His solution? Thermocol sheets. Yes, you read that right. He shelled out 2000 rupees and hired a local handyman—known only as “Mistiri Ji”—to stick thermocol sheets onto all the walls. The operation took an entire day.
When we arrived, the transformation was complete. The once modest room was now a grey thermocol wonderland. It looked like the inside of a Styrofoam cooler. Roberto stood in the middle of the room, beaming with pride. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” he said, sweeping his arm across the walls. “I call it modern insulation chic.”
He sat back on his bed, gazing at the walls like a king admiring his newly conquered kingdom. “This… this is sophistication,” he declared. For the next thirty minutes, Roberto reveled in his achievement. He sipped his watery coffee, nodded approvingly at the walls, and occasionally muttered things like, “I feel so classy now.”
But the honeymoon phase was short-lived. By hour one, Roberto started fidgeting. “Is it… hot in here?” he asked, wiping his forehead. My father and I exchanged glances. The room did feel a bit stuffy, but we weren’t about to ruin his moment. Ten minutes later, he was fanning himself with a notebook. “Why can’t I breathe? Is this… elegance? Suffocation?” he gasped, pacing the room like a trapped tiger.
“I’ll get used to it,” he assured us, clearly trying to convince himself. “It just needs time. I’ll give it one day—no, two days. Maximum.”
Spoiler alert: he didn’t last two hours. By the 90-minute mark, Roberto had had enough. “I can’t live like this!” he cried, grabbing a spatula and attacking the thermocol sheets with the fervor of a man escaping a foam prison. My father tried to reason with him. “Why don’t you open the window, Roberto?” But he waved him off. “No! That will ruin the insulation! This is about principle!”
Within minutes, the thermocol sheets were in a sad, crumpled pile in the corner, and the room was back to its original, uninspired state. Roberto flopped onto the bed, exhausted but triumphant. “Freedom,” he whispered, staring at the now bare walls.
That night, Uncle Roberto didn’t sulk. No, sir. He plotted his next move, and a few days later, it came to life in what would be known as “The Carpet and Table Renaissance.” Determined to outdo his failed thermocol empire, he hatched a plan involving a Persian carpet, black marble, and the dismantling of his bed.
This plan had actually been in the works for over a year. You see, Roberto had bought a black marble slab during a clearance sale last year. “It’s an investment,” he had declared back then, guarding the marble as if it were a national treasure. For months, it sat in the corner of his room, wrapped in plastic, collecting dust. When anyone asked why he hadn’t used it yet, Roberto would reply, “Patience. Great art takes time.”
Finally, his vision had come to fruition. “Mistiri Ji!” Roberto called, summoning his loyal (and long-suffering) handyman once more. “Today, we create greatness. Destroy this bed and transform it into a table worthy of royalty.”
“Your bed? Into a table?” Mistiri Ji asked, already regretting picking up the phone.
“Yes! It’s time for the marble to shine!” Roberto said with the fervor of a man unveiling the Mona Lisa.
And so, the bed met its untimely demise. Mistiri Ji sawed, painted, and hammered, all under Roberto’s watchful eye. “Make it black!” Roberto ordered. “Black like the night! Black like sophistication!”
When the frame was complete, Roberto declared it needed “sunlight therapy.” For two whole days, the freshly painted table stood in the yard, absorbing the energy of the sun, much to the confusion of the neighbors. Once deemed sufficiently energized, Mistiri Ji installed the gleaming black marble top.
Uncle Roberto’s pièce de résistance, the table, was almost complete. The black marble top gleamed like it was made for royalty, and the sturdy frame, once a humble bed, stood tall in all its sun-cured glory. But Roberto wasn’t ready to stop there. Oh no, greatness demands a finishing touch—something bold, something creative, something only Uncle Roberto could envision. And so, he reached for his secret weapon: flower patches.
These weren’t just any flower patches. Roberto had been collecting them from various bazaars, gift shops, and random impulse purchases over the years. Some were embroidered, others sequined, and a few even had googly eyes stuck on them for reasons unknown. Each patch had a story. “This one,” he said, holding up a garish pink sunflower, “came from that shop near the temple. And this? A limited edition rose patch. Found it in a discount bin last year. Pure treasure.”
Armed with his silicone gun—his Excalibur—Roberto began carefully attaching the patches to the legs of the table. “It’s not just decoration,” he explained solemnly. “It’s a statement. A revolution in furniture design.” He placed each patch with the precision of a jeweler setting diamonds, occasionally stepping back to admire his work.
By the time he was done, the table looked like it had stepped straight out of a children’s fairy tale. Bright red roses, shimmering daisies, and glittering sunflowers adorned its legs, transforming the table into a bizarre yet oddly charming fusion of gothic elegance and carnival fun. The googly-eyed patches, positioned strategically on each leg, gave the table an almost sentient personality.
“Look at this masterpiece!” Roberto declared, gesturing at the table like he was unveiling a new monument. “The flowers symbolize life. The black marble, sophistication. And the googly eyes? They remind us not to take life too seriously.”
The neighbors were, as expected, baffled when they saw the table through the open door. “Roberto bhai, what is this?” one asked, leaning in for a closer look.
“Art, my friend,” Roberto replied, patting the table like it was his magnum opus. “It’s a perfect marriage of functionality and beauty. This isn’t just a table—it’s a conversation starter. A declaration of individuality!”
The table soon became the centerpiece of Roberto’s room, overshadowing even the Persian carpet on the wall. Guests couldn’t help but marvel at—or laugh at—the whimsical flower patches. “Why flowers?” one brave soul asked during a visit.
“Why not?” Roberto retorted. “Flowers are universal. They’re for everyone. You see, this table doesn’t just hold things—it holds dreams, laughter, and the occasional coffee cup.” He winked as he placed his beloved purple water bottle back on the table, carefully adjusting it so it looked just right.
And so, the table with its flower patches became legendary in the neighborhood. Children loved the googly eyes; adults couldn’t decide whether to laugh or applaud. But Roberto? He was in his element, sipping his coffee, admiring his work, and occasionally stroking the table legs like a proud pet owner.
“People may laugh now,” Roberto would say with a dramatic pause, “but mark my words—one day, flower-patched tables will be in every home. And when that day comes, remember who started it all!”
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