It’s a wet, rainy, nippy day in our field station in Coorg, so we are indoors, with project conversations, banter and my admittedly ghastly, inept attempts at humour. But, ever so often, it is time for a cup of tea - this weather doesn’t just suggest the idea, it demands it - so we make the pilgrimage to my favourite tea stall.
In case you didn’t know (which would place you in a rather delicate position), I take my tea seriously - black, orthodox, brewed for flavour, if you are taking notes. But what one gets in the vast badlands of India is an awful, effluent-brown syrup that needs two doses of promethazine, immediate fresh air and ambient light and a Vicks inhaler to prevent feeling dizzy, because the tea is generally a mix of three unnerving ingredients:
a) Something dazzling white that is alleged to be milk (Nandini-Aavin-Milma genre) and, if chemistry becomes a miracle science in future, might even become so
b) Tea dust that was once a self-respecting leaf and should have stayed that way
c) Sugar, stored in an Asian Paints bucket, tightly sealed to protect the flies inside from harm
The only people - the only people, I repeat - who make good tea with these usual ingredients that promise perdition come from the southernmost state and that is because they aren’t tea sellers, but artists in disguise (be warned that, on this issue, I take no prisoners).
The artist here is the laconic sort, one of those strong, silent types, and the epitome of focus. His tea is superb. No, there is no paint bucket in evidence.
And he is busier than a woodpecker.
A glass of tea. Twelve rupees on the counter.
As I am about to leave, I decide to check if he will be open tomorrow.
Now, the only thing that is as bad as my memory is my Malayalam. So, amidst the din, the bustle and the hum of conversations in that little shop, my question to him is not if he’d be open the next day, instead I ask him, “Will you be there tomorrow?”
He does not flinch but continues making tea and, when it has been poured out, points a finger up. “Depends on Him,” he says, meeting my eyes for the first time. And did I just see the hint of a trace of a smile?
He is back to making tea now.
I walk away from the meeting determined to improve my Malayalam. I know I need to improve something else, but now I have forgotten what that is……
