My cup of tea
Where shall I start? Tea has a special place in my heart. From the moment I started feeling my taste buds and distinguished between what felt right and what felt wrong to my tongue, I knew Tea. I didn’t start drinking it until I was six, but the familiarity of tea has been with me for as long as my brain has been ticking. My grandmother would go to the kitchen, off-limits for unmarried girls and those navigating their way through that time of the month; the symphony of aromas began with first heating the kettle with water. Once the water started boiling, she would rush for aromatic herbs, cinnamon, elaichi, bay leaf on the counter, and if she made it in time and the water does not spill, a dash of ginger would go in. I’d watch from the distant dinner table as the kitchen came alive.
And then she would put on the milk and sugar, a lot of it. She had her own special glass, a big one with a solid metal frame, set apart from the rest. Her tea was a private affair, poured with the woody, sugary aroma flowing down the glass until the tea reached the top and spills out. No one dared to share her tea. For 75ish she was; she had a great balance to take the dripping tea without spilling it. She’d gracefully navigate to the balcony, overlooking mango trees, a bel tree, and the neighbor’s children, and took her first sip. Back then, I never got a sip. Tea felt like an adult thing, something beyond my reach.
Be it a stranger or a known face or closest ones, the first thing you would hear in a Nepali household is “I’ll bring some tea”. Nobody was asked if they want tea or not. It was never a question but an answer. Answer to greeting people. It was a value. It was medicine. It was what brought people close, and it was what started the conversation. If I start writing tea tales, it would be political, spiritual, misogynist, feminist, debatable, and so on.
When I was 9, my uncle, my grandpa’s brother’s son, who is kind of more like a family to my dad than his own brothers visited. He does it quite often. Mum was busy with some chores. I, out of nowhere, announced “I’m making tea”. My uncle couldn’t hear it properly, but my dad laughed and said, “you don’t have to, let me come”. But I had already started and I pushed him to go. Tea leaves, sugar, water, and milk, simple! But I fumbled, unsure of spice proportions, I realized I never looked closely enough. Did I mess up? Perhaps. But my father’s approving smile told a different tale. Sometimes, confidence in simplicity yields unexpected goodness. The news of me making tea was all circulated in any family gathering as a way to laugh. But my grandfather, his face frowned. He said, “the day our little girl starts to go to the kitchen to cook and use the mop, it’s the time she gets married”. It sounded like he was declaring something that he didn’t want to happen. “Please don’t let her use mop”. “And who let her make the tea when you were there?” He looked at my mother, and everyone laughed, including my mother as she said, “don’t worry ba! She is still young!”
My ba and Ama got married when Ama was 9, and ba was 15. Ba had lost his first wife when he was 13 or so. He had a daughter, one alive, one dead. In the time to mourn his dead wife and daughter, everyone forced him to get married again. Sensible. But he definitely would need a partner for the rest of his life. Nobody asked if he was ok; in 13 to have all these events, but he wasn’t, but who cared? Poor ba. But glad he married ama and after a generation, I am here, writing to you. Their marriage was strange. Someone used a wooden stick to measure ama’s height, then went to ba and said, ‘Here’s the girl, this tall.’ He just nodded in agreement. And that’s how they spent 78 years of togetherness, giving birth to 8 folks. My dad being the youngest son.
My ama used to say, girls must get married before their first period; that’s how it worked back then. I was amused.
Tea went in our blood. As my grandmother enjoyed tea, my father drank tea nearly 4 times a day during his work and my mother also grew on this habit. Me, first feeling like a ritual, now I started enjoying it. Tea has been my friend. Today I drink tea to feel fulfilled. Some days the tea would taste different, but it would give the vibe of the day.
Tea, even with the same blend of milk, sugar, and tea leaves, always carried a different flavor. In the past, this inconsistency used to irk me. But today as I made tea, relaxed and took a sip, it tasted like the time… the time after my grandmother had left us, my mom and dad were away, and I found myself in charge of my brother and me. We shared a quiet afternoon, indulging in our favorite TV show and a side of chips. The air was crisp, hinting at the arrival of spring. In that moment of solitude, we didn’t need words. We just cherished the warmth of the tea and the crunch of the chips, the sitcom providing a soundtrack of laughter. Why was this in my memory? It marked a significant moment, the first time we experienced joy while having tea without her, my grandmother. Grandfather’s passing didn’t stir me as strongly, but Grandma’s departure left an ache; I was older then. Family transition from 6 to 5 and then 5 to 4, a shift that consistently tugged at my heart. It felt odd arranging dinner tables, realizing we were now just 4 — confusion often gripped me. I felt glad that the tea doesn’t taste same always.
My lifestyle now has changed. My home has now been parted. One part feels like home but not entirely, and the other feels like home but only halfway. Perhaps that’s the subtle magic of marriage. I wake up, attend to morning chores. The routine remains unconscious, and similar. Yet, one thing I look forward to is when my husband, my dear one, arrives with the sign ‘T’ or ‘C’ — tea or coffee.
I’m aware of the health concerns surrounding early morning caffeine, but there’s something about sharing a moment over a cup of tea with the one I adore. It’s a stolen minute or two for ourselves, perhaps because tea holds a special place in my fondest memories. My husband doesn’t make but crafts tea with a level of precision that would compete with a Thanksgiving turkey. His approach is systematic but delicate, like making art. Not blinking. He literally and most descriptively makes it with love, placing much more effort into making the froth, the precisely prepared cups, and the graceful pour. His efforts shine through every sip. It’s a cup of love; he can never seem to get it wrong. When I see him make the tea, he looks utterly lovely and irresistibly cute.
Before completing my studies, tea was a constant companion. College memories were painted with hues of tea, especially in tea shops where my classmates, aware of my sweet tooth, would go ‘no sugar’ for themselves and ‘more sugar for her!’ to me. It became a cute routine they never forgot. Sometimes, tea even made its way into the classroom, and everyone remembered I liked my tea sweet. It’s these little things that made me feel special.
There were days when I’d crave sweets, but less money. Living in a hostel, my solution was simple: tea outings. Not because it was cheap, but because it was a budget-friendly adventure. Sipping on tea, I’d let my imagination run wild, pretending it was a lavish black forest cake. No kidding. After all, both had sugar and milk!
Tea and its memories are thousands. Tea became my cup of love.
I have a passion for tea, but if you enjoy this piece of writing, you can show your support by buying me a coffee here 😊👇
