A Wandering Cup

..and how it reminds me of a specific place

Well, things are just windy out here. I am sitting with a cup of coffee, looking out at the bluebird that had come on the papaya to suck some nectar from its flower. I don’t know its name.. sorry. I tried picking up the phone camera. It stopped and watched me till my phone lagged before opening the camera app, after that it winked and flew away. This cup though. It’s crazy how far it has traveled. It deserves its own story. This newsletter is about that.

I stole it from a bothy near the Glenfinnan Viaduct, in Scotland.

Oh Ash! How can you!!

Judge me if you want, but I have always had a thing for ceramics. Whenever I like the place that I am in, I take something from there as a memento. I got a tiny vase from the backbreaking digging and sifting work I did during the lockdown in Huntly, Scotland. I hated the work, but the place. It was like God created it just from me!! Anyone from Aberdeenshire/Huntly here? Give me a thumbs up in the comment below. This one though, I got during one of my stays in a bothy.

For the ones who don’t know what a bothy is. You are in for a treat. Imagine a place out there in the nature, where you can sit in silence and just be. A place to process your emotions. A place to reminisce about life. Maybe you can carry your jazz playlist and sit there for hours watching the sky. No one will come to judge you. No one will come to ask you why you are sitting by yourself.

Those days, I was conflicted. I was spending my final few days in Edinburgh, knowing very well that I would have to forget my life in the UK. I had one last string attached to my British life, the lifestyle. The only thing I would miss if I were to move back to India, was having a personal space. I knew it would be hard to gel into a totally different lifestyle all over again. See, when you are simply travelling, you have the privilege to not merge in. You can stay aloof. Not caring about the way of life, the country, its politics, its social settings. But, living for a longer term means, you have to gel into the society. You must make it your own.

I was slowly climbing the art ladder. My circle was growing and my photographs and photography projects were gaining momentum. But living here meant that I had to give up on my dream of living in my village and working for the villagers. It was a tough pill to swallow. And where else than a bothy to figure out life, eh!

The sky had opened up that day, giving me hope, that my time would be amazing out there. Then I reached the train station in Glenfinnan and just like the British weather, my hopes were soaked in rain. It rained - rained - and kept raining till the afternoon. As I walked closer to the viaduct, I knew I had seen it somewhere, but I had no idea where that was. You see, I had only checked on the Scottish bothies website, never had a known a thing about the place other than it had an old bothy in the middle of the Glenfinnan Estate. Hoards of people were standing in different positions, taking pictures alongside the bridge. I heard someone say Harry Potter, and a million tube lights lighted my brain. I had seen this bridge on the TV, growing up in my tiny town in India.

When I reached the bothy, there was no one other than me. A tiny river was flowing in front of me. Some moose like things were standing on the other side of the river. It was all magical. After roaming around to find some dead wood, I came back into the bothy and lit up the fire. Someone must have stayed here on the previous night. The wood was still sitting and some leftovers had filled the place.

I didn’t know what I was looking for, but as I scanned the shelves near the tiny window, I saw it—this ceramic cup. Nothing fancy, just slightly chipped on one edge, but it had character. You know how some things just feel like they’ve been through stuff? Like they’ve heard people cry, whisper, laugh, think. That kind of cup. It was light brown, hand-thrown, and rough around the rim. It looked like it belonged there. Like it wanted to be taken.

So I took it.

That evening, just as the fire started to catch and I was half-wrapped in my damp jacket, the bothy door creaked open. A man, maybe in his mid-forties, entered with a sheepish smile. We exchanged a nod—the kind of nod where words aren’t necessary. “My knees hate me,” he said, “but I promised myself I’d do it before I turn fifty.” I offered him some leftover tea in that very cup.

He took a sip, sighed, and said, “Man, this is the kind of silence I crave.”

He had been walking for days. Said he was trying to hike across all the moors in Scotland. “Why?” I asked.
“Because somewhere out there,” he said, “I’ll find the answer.”
“To what?”
He looked at the fire and smiled, “Don’t know yet.”

That night felt carved out of a dream. The rain had finally washed the sky clean. And when we stepped out after dinner, the whole Milky Way had turned up. Stars like rice grains thrown across black velvet. I was standing there, barefoot in wet grass, and for the first time in a long while, the noise in my head just… quieted.

No city hum. No deadlines. No pretending.

It was cold, sure. My fingers were numb. But it was that alive kind of cold—the kind that slaps your thoughts straight. And standing there, under that mad, magical sky, I felt something shift.

These wild spaces, man. They don’t care who you are. They strip you down to your real self. They ask:
Who are you without your schedule, your job title, your profile picture?

And that night, I finally gave myself permission to ask the big question I’d been avoiding:
Am I ready to go home?

The art scene in Edinburgh/Bristol was blooming. My work was gaining traction, my circle was growing, but somewhere deep inside, I kept hearing my village call.

I had always wanted to return, but I needed the bothy’s silence to actually decide.

So I made my decision. I packed up.
Wrapped the cup in a woollen sock, tucked it safely between the packet of oat biscuits I never ate. Left a note on the bothy shelf:
“I needed this. Thank you.”

And now, I’m here.

Back in my village. Sitting in the backyard. The mango tree is swaying. The monsoon breeze has just begun to flirt with the clothes that are hanging on the line. I’ve got that same cup in my hand. Coffee’s hot, strong, and slightly sweet.

But this cup?
It stayed.

From a bothy near the Glenfinnan Viaduct to my backyard in Konkan…
This little fella has travelled more than most people I know. And every time I sip from it, I taste firewood, moorland mist, and the courage it took to come back.

That’s the story.
The cup earned it.

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