By Harihar Tripathy
Sawan, also known as Shravana, had a special scent. Back then, our village didn’t have electricity, and the clay road was pretty rough. After school, walking home along the muddy path, I’d see the ridge gourd flowers chuckling at the little ranja my mother made in front of our house.
Clocks were a luxury in most homes, so when the ridge gourd flowers bloomed on cloudy days, it was like a sign that evening had arrived.
There was a person named Piusha in our village, and he used to host delightful evening tea parties. He brewed red tea in clay pots, boiling ginger, black pepper, bay leaves, and other spices in water for an hour along with tea leaves. The taste of that tea was simply incredible.
I many times joined at Piusha’s tea party with my father . They served me some tea in a silver pot (steel wasn’t commonly used back then). The tea was so hot that it burned my mouth, but everyone else sipped it happily. Sometimes, they’d also have baked Chuda (flattened rice) and locally grown onions, which were chopped and fried.
Lots of people attended these tea parties, and even though the dimly lit, rainy night made everyone’s faces a bit blurry, they all felt perfectly content. Outside, you could hear the sound of crickets chirping, occasionally disrupted by the ripe palm fruits falling from the trees. The sound scared me a bit, so I’d find safety sitting between my dad and Piyush!
Nowadays, you won’t find many such gatherings in villages. Instead, there are older folks who don’t make or drink tea at home. They head to the village tea shop on the illuminated Pichu road in the evening to chat and discuss politics. The serene atmosphere of Piusha’s tea house from my childhood is something rare these days…
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