The Tea-Man

Under the Neem tree. A tall man with a longer moustache. He squatted. Numerous kettles circled him. A gas cylinder stood stout behind. From the matchbox peeped a lone stick. They rubbed each other and magic!!! His stove lit with the yellow orange. But the flame shone blue and brighter. One tumbler is chosen. Be seated on the hot brick is the task. An Amul milk pouch was tore open callous. The plastic added to the already contended lives of his predecessors. The mixture of white and water planned to boil. And they giggled at the flame getting hotter. Two spoons of tea leaves. The mixture sat quiet at the new neighbour. Slowly they gelled together to effervescence. Shades painted to brown, they leapt to jump out of the room of theirs. To enjoy freedom, to discern the life beyond. But the man continued lowering the glow. A spoon kept jetting in and out of the sugar tin, spitting the crystal candy into the mix. A style so indifferent. Music as the same spoon hit the side of the kettle with sincere regularity. Ginger added to the boil squeezed and squashed with an iron rod. Hot tea is poured to strain. Not on a strainer, but a cotton piece. The cloth wrung to its maximum. Solid and liquid filtered of their togetherness. A moment of melancholy. Decisiveness of collectiveness still stood in every molecule. The kettle is fuelled full. Tea leaves, sugar, ginger, milk and water packed in the essence of my plastic cup. I sip it hot.. aaaaaaaahaaa….soothing.The tardiness blown away, a fresh breeze filters through the Neem leaves too.