Why I said "Yes" to chiya after a decade

Whenever someone mentions “chiya”, what do you think of or rather who do you think of? Whenever someone mentions “chiya” to me, I think of conversations and people. And as someone who has never really been good with either of them, I could not really ever come to terms with “chiya”.

At home, mum has to have three cups of tea before actually starting her day. The first is a strong black tea, followed by a sweet milk tea and finally a milder milk tea. Do not ask me why. Please. Do not. Because, honestly, I don't know. Every time we have an argument over how it is always late for lunch at home, I keep mentioning her early morning tea drinking ritual. A bad strategy, but well, it always becomes my best argument.

Moving on, I am now going to tell you why I was a tea-virgin for almost a decade. The tea rituals my mum religiously follows is not hers alone. My dad is her partner in crime. After every sip that they took of their three different varieties of tea, there followed a discussion (yes, I am being subtle here by replacing “arguments” with “discussion”). Every morning, you ask? Every single day, I affirm. They always found something or the other to pull each other's leg and that was just that and still is. I also drank tea as a child. But one day when I had asked my mum from an extra cup of tea, she said: “Kids should not drink much tea.” My naive little heart took it to depth and I had uttered back: “Okay, I won't drink tea now.” So this is how it all began. This is how I passed almost a decade of my 19 years of life saying no to tea immediately anyone said “Chiya khayera jaau hai!”. Everywhere I went, it was rather a tough job for the hosts to arrange a vegetarian, tea-free lunch. (Yes, I am a vegetarian.) My already different social behavior was marked even more different every time I told them I had not had tea for the past ten years.

The reason that I mentioned earlier was only a part of why I did not drink tea before. The discussions that my parents had whenever they sipped in tea played an important role for this. I never really liked speaking to express my thoughts so watching and listening to them both talking in louder-than-normal voices as the steamy tea slipped down their throats was a chore for me. Listening to my father's tone of voice change and turn into some sort of angry music accompanied with the occasional sips of tea was a scary experience. At the same time, listening to what my mother hummed as the tea cups rested on her lips was a different music of it's own. The whole idea of arguments and discussions always hovered around chiya for my little mind.

Everywhere I saw, chiya was a part of conversations. Be it at the small chiya pasal down the street or the every get together and meet up ever held. Chiya was there in the round tables at the canteen. Chiya was there in fancy cups and coasters along side newspapers. Chiya was also there in glasses that held half lit cigarettes. Chiya was there. Chiya was there in groups, that I thought I could never be a part of. Chiya was there having conversations I thought I could never have. Chiya was there being social, as I watched from isolated windows, doors and comfortable beds. Chiya was meeting people and I was there saying: “No, I don't drink tea,” to avoid conversations. Chiya was there where I was not. Chiya was there when my parents sang songs with their voices. Chiya was there at my best friend's home sitting aside Oreo cookies and what not. Chiya was there as I passed neighborhood uncles gather around and talk politics. Chiya was there is thul dai’s hand as he smoked his lungs black. Chiya was there.

But I drink tea now. In fact, these days I have moments when I actually crave for chiya. I still can not seem to make myself drink chiya at home, though. The concept of having to have a “discussion” here at home alongside mum, dad and my brother  is a scary picture for me. However, I like drinking tea while I am at work now. There are mornings when I like to caffeinate my brain so I ask for some tea in the college canteen. On mornings like that, I take a paper cup full of tea, sit down near an open window in the classroom and watch the Maitighar street bask in the morning sun as the city moves awakens to its everyday hustle. The tea breaks that I have started have been a part of my daily me-time, often prompting me to believe that not every chiya has be a part of a conversation. Chiya can also be a friend of your own, a friend of your thoughts, a friend of your demons, a friend of your musings, a friend of your solitude, a friend of your silence…

Rather than hissing our thoughts out after every sip, I would like to have actual conversations. Maybe someday, I am going to handover steaming cups of tea to dad, mum and my brother with a couple of cookies and tell them a share of my tea-diaries in the city while listening to their stories of everyday life. Maybe. Maybe someday.