Talking of tea

White. Orchid. Pu-erh. Oolong. Green. Jasmine. Orange pekoe. Makaibari. Lopchu. My adventure into the world of tea began more or less around the time that I met Vijay, another tea lover. When we got married, I made a deal. I would take care of the cooking, if he would make me my first cup of tea in the morning. These 12 years, with the exception of two years when he was in Mumbai, Vijay’s made my morning cup of tea. And if you include the many afternoon and evening cups, I would guess he’s made close to 5,000 cups of tea for me. Golden brown, just stopping short of orange and brewed just right – not a minute over, so that the leaf turns bitter, and not a minute less so that the colour pales. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

In Kolkata, you can’t get away from good tea. Visiting the homes of college friends, I would watch in fascination the stately tea trolleys, tea cosies and white china cups with delicate handles. Tea formed an integral part of the future dream home that I sketched in my mind. I understood why the Japanese go to all the trouble of a tea ceremony. If I had the time, I would do a tea ceremony every day.

I stubbornly believe – with no shred of evidence – that tea absorbs the fragrance and taste of the vessel in which it’s made and served. No stainless steel, no plastic, no paper – tea must be drunk out of decent china. And tea must be made with love – love for the leaf and for the people for whom you’re making it. I also believe that tea absorbs the maker’s emotions, which is why I’ve always believed in settling fights before going to bed!

Over the years, we’ve collected tea memorabilia from our travels around the world. From Sri Lanka came a ‘tea mummy’ to hold tea bags (though tea from a bag is a sacrilege allowed only in the office where it’s impossible to brew a good cup or when I’m feeling incredibly lazy!) Vijay bought a flat and squat black teapot from Singapore that I now use every day. A friend gifted us a teapot-cum-cup from Pondicherry that makes a single cup of tea. I have strainers of various shapes and sizes, even travel size (these are a bad idea because they don’t allow the leaves to fully open.) And though I’ve been teased mercilessly about it, yes, I finally bought a tea cosy that now hangs prettily in my kitchen (but if truth be told, I haven’t used it much.)

All this makes me sound like quite the tea expert. I am not. I do know what good leaf tea is, and I cannot stomach the tea in most parts of India. In north India, I graciously decline all offers of tea after a furtive look around, and very truthfully, cite heartburn as the reason. Tea in north India is boiled until it gives up its soul and is doused with so much over-boiled milk that you have to wade past a layer of malai (cream) to get to the tea. Even if you do get through, the malai monster coats your tongue and oesophagus till you want a good brush with Scotch Brite.

In Punjab, the tea has so much sugar that it’s got a name of its own – khhadi chai, or tea in which the spoon stands! I must admit it has character, though a bit like Gabbar Singh. Sure, he’s interesting, but you wouldn’t want him in your home, would you?

The tea in south India is, in contrast, and as the Bengali would put it, ‘characterless.’ What I mean is that it’s prepared as just another convenient beverage, with no passion or interest. In essence, it’s tea made by non-tea drinkers. Of course, this is a generalisation – apologies to my several friends and a couple of colleagues who also drink good tea – but it’s largely so.

And then you have the masala chai drinkers who like anything from cinnamon to cardamom to mint leaves in their tea. It seems a bit strange to me that they should like that, but since they’re not judgmental about my choices in life, I return the favour.

There are also flavoured and herbal teas, from raspberry and chamomile to a bouquet of flowers and exotic herbs that I cannot pronounce. I have often drunk these varieties of tea, and still do. But I have never bought them. I will never buy them. And even when they find their way onto my shelf, I never suggest drinking them. But once in a while, I quietly allow someone else to pick out the raspberry tea bag and make me a cup. I nurse the cup till it has cooled and down it in a shot. I’m all for exotica, but give me my leaf any day!

A few years ago, I was on my way to Madhupur from Kolkata in a local train, when I heard the familiar call of a chaiwalla. I was alone, and my destination was hours away, so against my better judgment, I beckoned to him, hoping that he would not dish out Tetley-teabag-and-milk-powder tea in a paper or worse, plastic cup.

What I got was strong golden brown desi tea, with just a little milk and a bit more sugar than I have now got used to. But it came in a kulhad (earthen cup) like the tea of my childhood on countless journeys from Kolkata to Andal and back. Tea sweetened with gur (jaggery) since sugar was not available. Tea that tasted of the Chotanagpur red earth. And most of all, tea that smelled of the summer heat rising up to greet the first rain.