Measuring up to a 'tea'

I drank just half a cup of bitter Darjeeling Tea that summer, vowing never to try it again.

I was nine. It was summer in Kolkata, and my grandparents were busy with the proceedings of yet another of their evening social gatherings. Aloo cutlets and fresh samosas sat piled in modest heaps atop a rickety table (the ageing aren’t all that restricted here in Bengal).

Women dressed in saris, red vermillion staining the parting of their hair, and men in their kurtas and coloured, stiffened vests. They all spoke loudly, in voices that carried far and out of the verandah to the quiet street below. The whole neighbourhood had the gentlemen’s political opinions vehemently reconfirmed, while a little wisp of schmooze that never meant to wander from its modest circle of three, was now in lengthy circulation.

Amongst this chatter, my brother and I peeped through the heavy curtains, scanning the room for something that we could eat. Something fizzy, sweet and not grossly arcane. All went in vain, and it was our cue to leave.

“Array! Won’t you come over and say hello to the uncle right here?” My grandfather’s voice rang through the clustered living room, and all eyes fell on me. Soon enough, I was seated uncomfortably between two boisterous women, questioned by voices so (falsely) eager and saccharine, I could not taste the sweet in the mishti doi. I wanted nothing more than to be left alone, and jumped at any small falter in the conversation to excuse myself. That opening never came. Only  three heavy porcelain pots, their spouts misted in white steam did.

“Would you like to have some, darling?” I wasn’t given a chance to answer; the hot cup of tea almost burnt my red palms. Amongst these chattering elders, I sat twiddling my thumbs. They all took dainty sips from their daintier cups, each time with a hearty sigh of sacred devotion. I assumed I was to appreciate this bitter boiling water with the same alacrity as they did, but I couldn’t bring myself to take a single sip (they hadn't even added sugar!). The cup of tea sat alone on the teapoy, it’s solitude often intercepted by my narrow demeaning glances.

However, this limbo did not hold up for long. The women around had just poured themselves seconds, and I was yet to begin my first. My silent revolt was now subject to the elders’ attention. So, after much coaxing and subsequent threatening, my front was broken. I gave in and allowed the tiniest amount of brown tea to graze my tongue.

It was bitter and bland and it burned my poor tongue. I drank just half a cup of bitter Darjeeling Tea that summer day, and I vowed never to step near it again. The next month I drank an entire cup (under questionable circumstances). It wasn’t all that bad, I decided.

The following years entailed many more of such gatherings, and to the alarm of my nine-year-old self, I searched the bottles of Coke no longer. Instead, it was another beverage that took it’s place, in the early hours of the windy, Bangalore 5 o’clock mornings – the first thing when my mother returned from work.

Since then I have become quite fond of it, you see. It has grown on me, this habit of tea.