<p>Recently, I was on a drive to the nearby tribal district of the Dangs in Gujarat. At 4 o’ clock--my usual teatime--I stopped at a roadside teashop to order a cup of tea. What I received, in a small paper cup, was much less than what I would drink at home; the taste was different, and the price exorbitant.</p>.<p>The incident transported me to my schooldays in Kerala and my morning visits to the teashop near my home with my father. The owner was a man named Mohammed, while the proprietors of other teashops in the area professed different religions. But for us customers, what mattered was only the quality of the products.</p>.<p>We often found many of our neighbours at the tea shop--bare-chested, wearing colourful lungis or white dhoties, with thin towels, thorthu, tied around their heads. Most held pages of the morning Malayalam newspaper in their hands. </p><p>The owner was known to support a particular political party, and the newspaper he stocked echoed the same views. Yet, although the customers owed allegiance to different parties, this never affected friendship among neighbours or their patronage of the shop. Some greeted my father while continuing loud discussion on various topics reported in the newspaper, all the while consuming dosas or idlis with coconut chutney and sambar.</p>.<p>The steaming glasses of tea or coffee were primarily without milk, though a few preferred them with milk. The liquids were kept in brass pots on wood-fired hearths--one holding boiling water, the other milk.</p>.<p>The owner or his wife prepared the beverages with practised ease. They poured hot water and milk from separate pots into a large aluminium vessel, added sugar and tea leaves or coffee powder, stirred the mixture, strained it through a cloth filter, and poured it from a height into a glass below. The top of the glass was crowned with froth--bursting bubbles over hot tea or coffee.</p>.<p>Some of their children worked as waiters; others were hired from outside. Most customers lingered even after breakfast, continuing their discussions, before returning home with parcels for the womenfolk and young children. There was ample time to get dressed and reach school well before 10 am, when classes began.</p>.<p class="bodytext">When we rushed home after school, the aroma of medu vada, parippu vada, or unniappam cooked in coconut oil would waft towards us. The items were placed in a glass-fronted cupboard and handed to customers wrapped in pieces of newspaper. By sunset, the cupboard would be empty.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Some able-bodied men prepares the batter for the next day’s idlis and dosas, grinding the soaked rice, urad dal, and other ingredients in a large stone grinder for nearly two hours.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The batter would then be left to ferment overnight in large vessels, ready to be cooked and served the next morning—to men once again busy discussing the news. </p>
<p>Recently, I was on a drive to the nearby tribal district of the Dangs in Gujarat. At 4 o’ clock--my usual teatime--I stopped at a roadside teashop to order a cup of tea. What I received, in a small paper cup, was much less than what I would drink at home; the taste was different, and the price exorbitant.</p>.<p>The incident transported me to my schooldays in Kerala and my morning visits to the teashop near my home with my father. The owner was a man named Mohammed, while the proprietors of other teashops in the area professed different religions. But for us customers, what mattered was only the quality of the products.</p>.<p>We often found many of our neighbours at the tea shop--bare-chested, wearing colourful lungis or white dhoties, with thin towels, thorthu, tied around their heads. Most held pages of the morning Malayalam newspaper in their hands. </p><p>The owner was known to support a particular political party, and the newspaper he stocked echoed the same views. Yet, although the customers owed allegiance to different parties, this never affected friendship among neighbours or their patronage of the shop. Some greeted my father while continuing loud discussion on various topics reported in the newspaper, all the while consuming dosas or idlis with coconut chutney and sambar.</p>.<p>The steaming glasses of tea or coffee were primarily without milk, though a few preferred them with milk. The liquids were kept in brass pots on wood-fired hearths--one holding boiling water, the other milk.</p>.<p>The owner or his wife prepared the beverages with practised ease. They poured hot water and milk from separate pots into a large aluminium vessel, added sugar and tea leaves or coffee powder, stirred the mixture, strained it through a cloth filter, and poured it from a height into a glass below. The top of the glass was crowned with froth--bursting bubbles over hot tea or coffee.</p>.<p>Some of their children worked as waiters; others were hired from outside. Most customers lingered even after breakfast, continuing their discussions, before returning home with parcels for the womenfolk and young children. There was ample time to get dressed and reach school well before 10 am, when classes began.</p>.<p class="bodytext">When we rushed home after school, the aroma of medu vada, parippu vada, or unniappam cooked in coconut oil would waft towards us. The items were placed in a glass-fronted cupboard and handed to customers wrapped in pieces of newspaper. By sunset, the cupboard would be empty.</p>.<p class="bodytext">Some able-bodied men prepares the batter for the next day’s idlis and dosas, grinding the soaked rice, urad dal, and other ingredients in a large stone grinder for nearly two hours.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The batter would then be left to ferment overnight in large vessels, ready to be cooked and served the next morning—to men once again busy discussing the news. </p>
