THE TEA CEREMONY

“Chotu, ek cup chai.” Chotu nodded and disappeared behind the dirty curtain. I put behind my ear a strand of hair which had strayed out of my small pony tail. Sweat glistened on my forehead; I was looking for a hanky. “Shit, I forgot it”. I used my hand instead and wiped it on the side of my T-shirt.
The small eatery had a few customers. It was past rush hour. The men on the other table were eating samosas and red chutney which reminded me of Agastya Sen’s chutney which said I’m diarrhea, or something of that sort. “I forget the exact statement; will have to check out the novel. It was a pretty quotable quote. There I go again, me and my pathetic puns.”
I looked up. The painting hung on the newly white washed wall was like a student’s first water color attempt. Actually the wall seemed to speak more. It said: profit, renovation, newly painted walls, and maybe extension and more profit? Where would the next branch be, nearer to home? “No use speculating. Stop doing that.”
The men had finished their samosas. The red chutney had also disappeared down their throats. “Diarrhea, diarrhea! Oh, shut up.”
Chotu, who was going up and down clearing the table and serving the next customer, finally brought my tea, a small, hot, steel glass. “Tumbler, how can you call a glass a tumbler? It’s a glass.” I raised my eyebrows and breathed deeply. Why do people never learn? “Linguistic differences, cultural differences, social differences. Wow that sounds so impressive.” I smiled a self-satisfied, self-righteous smile. For a moment the grass was very dull and brown on the other side.
Malai was floating on the surface of the brown liquid just like it used to in my mother’s cup. I felt the urge to dip my finger in, scoop up the malai and lick it. It just stayed an urge, a small one with a very short life span. Kshanbhangur was the word. Right, it was a kshanbhangur urge. My Hindi teacher would die satisfied. Hindi classes meant unripe mangoes with salt and chilly. My mouth watered. My friend had learnt to cut mangoes at the age of 15. Ten years down the line I was still knife-paranoid. “What are restaurants for?”
I gingerly touched the hot glass. I’m never good at handling hot stuff. No pun intended. I withdrew my hand and kept it on my lap. I suddenly realized I was sitting slouched. “No wonder I get a budi.” I straightened. My father sits straight, so straight that people think he was in the army and fought in the Second World War. “I should repeat that joke to someone otherwise this tea will remain undigested.”
I blew gently into the cup. Ripples formed on the surface and the malai moved to one side. Ripples just like in the physics class experiment in the dark, hot, crowded room; ripples in the bac a ondes. Ripples means physics, uncertainty, boredom. Ripples mean that over-smart teacher whom few like.
I finally tasted the tea. It was perfect, the amount of sugar, tea leaves, milk. Was there masala in it? My mother would know. She would probably make a face and say this tea doesn’t taste good. I don’t remember a single instance when she liked her tea. She should have been a tea taster. Maybe I’ll suggest it today and get the usual negative reply. I’ll yet do it, I believe in nishkama karma. That felt just like Calvin.
Then I burnt my tongue. I always do that when I drink tea or coffee. My tongue would remain sore for the next few days, but the taste buds would be intact. Nevertheless I drained down the glass. How much tea can a small, steel glass contain? “Why is tea not served in bigger glasses? They can charge a bit extra. This is not fair. Or maybe it is a trick of the trade. Maybe the unsatisfied customer will want another cup. Then the shopwalla will make more profit than a single, slightly more expensive cup pf tea. Instead of buying one big cup of tea costing 6 Rupees, the customer will pay for two small cups costing 4 rupees each. I didn’t know I could be good at business and profit making.” I would bore some friend today with that argument.
I got up to pay. Out came my black wallet. “Kitna hua?”
“Six rupees.”
“Not chaar?”
“No, chota cup four. Big cup six. You take big cup.”
I vowed never to drink tea again. It would only burn my ego.