This is a new story for Kaitley:
We had Kahwah today with breakfast. Crushed almonds and a few spices. No green tea, my usual dust tea from the hills of Kerala.
First time we lived in Kashmir, I was probably too young to notice the beautiful cups of tea. But we do have a faded photo of my parents holding up the one year old me. My mother’s red shawl is striking against the snow.
Later on with my own one year old in my arms, I was not so blissful that visit, perhaps reflecting the strife those 27 years had brought. The photograph we tried to take now was blurry.
But I remember the endless cups of tea. Many many cups of tea, made by men who were probably present there with reluctance. These were men who had left behind families in villages that were slightly calmer than the villages they were patrolling now. In the edgy life they lived with their rifles, their minds were disturbed. It is a wonder that they made sweet and milky tea day in and day out. Handed out in gold rimmed porcelain cups with saucers.
And then one evening we had tea in a dim lit living quarters above a warehouse. We had gone there to buy shawls. It was the Kahwah, poured out from an ornate metal teapot, served in small cups. They rarely had electricity, the lights had to be dim. A young girl who was going to the university made friends with my sister. She poured us the tea, her talk was hopeful.
Two teas in the valley, each one tinged with its own flavour of discomfort.
life-moonlighter 