Those days

Being 78 years young, those days are alluring.
The coffee
Roasting coffee was a ritual. Three kinds of coffee beans - peaberry for flavour - plantation A for strength - robusta for color - in proper proportion and roasting them individually - because each took their own time to get roasted properly - in a backed mud pan over a wood stove using the bunch of strings at the center of the coconut palm leaves tied together - specially reserved for this use only - both the stirrer and the pan - to proper color was an exercise only my mother could do. Then these roasted beans were mixed together throughly and ground in a coffee grinder - hand operated, no electric machine - to the required grain size - freshly ground every few days. We had a few cows and a buffalo in our backyard. Freshly drawn cows milk was boiled and decoction was brewed  with a coffee filter. The decoction was thick and a little of it was used with a lot of milk and some water and a heavenly coffee was ready fit for the angels. Now it is only a memory.
Me and my brother went on an expedition along with a few friends, all males of course. We were free in the evening and no one asked where we were going until it was dark. I might have been eight and my brother six. We walked to the nearest railway station called pasupathikovil about two kilometers from home and from there we walked along the railway track to the next station which was about three kilometers away and from there back home another four kilometers. We had no foot ware. We did it barefooted. My brother was naturally tired on the way and was left behind by all of us. I was too young to realise that it was my responsibility to take care of him. I returned home and he did not return for quite sometime thereafter. I got a through thrashing from my parents for my irresponsibility. My brother was traced near a liquor shop a kilometer away weeping uncontrollably. He was spotted by some friends of my father and brought home. At that age how can I know responsibility?