There are few things more distinct to a man than how he takes his tea. A lot could be told about the sort of person he is, if only one was allowed to observe how he took his tea.
Or so Roy would like to think. He paused, and thought about it again. Nah, that probably wasn’t true. When you think about it, the only thing you could say about a man by seeing him prepare his tea, was in fact how he prepared his tea. Nevertheless, how he liked it could still be called unique to him.
Roy took a sip from his own cup, smiled, and placed it back down on the desk. This, this was how tea should be enjoyed. He smiled at his grandfather’s mahogany desk before him, he smiled at the fully carpeted British-era furnished room around him, he even smiled at the fresh flowers in the modern glass vase that had been placed on the desk, although the vase was probably a lot newer than most of the other furniture in the room. That didn’t matter. It went well with the regal look of the entire hall. He only stopped smiling when he looked back down at his teacup. It was a new teacup. It made him wince. He reached out, and carefully rotated the cup until the logo on it faced away from him. Then he smiled again.
Roy was happy, for now. He was happy because he was comfortable, and back in his grandfather’s room, the grandest in the whole of Ooty. He was especially happy because of the tea-making kit before him. A small kettle, a few cubes of sugar, several Earl Grey tea bags from Twinings, London, and plenty of sachets of powdered milk, which he approved of, even though they too, like the vase, had probably come here long after his father’s misfortunes, were all present in the compact little tray. And none of that masala nonsense. No elaichi, adrak, or any of the other strange spices the roadside riff-raff seemed to insist on putting in their tea. The horror. That was not tea. That drink was coarse, mud-coloured, and cheap. He knew tea. Water was to be boiled and the tea bag placed, but not shaken, in it for a minute and a half. It was as simple as that. The most unorthodox thing he would allow to be done with his tea was the addition of a few drops of lemon, and that was all. His grandfather had once even-
“You see Sir? He’s back again”
Roy turned. He had not heard the door open. At the entrance stood a young man in a apron, whom he had grown to dislike over the last few weeks, and another, older man, familiar, smartly dressed, upright, and wearing a tag on his chest that said ‘Manager’. Roy barely noticed either of them. He was busy grimacing at the metal plaque that he could now see had been attached to his front door. VILLA SUITE.
“Sir,” the older man said after the young attendant had left them alone, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave”.
Roy turned to look back at his beloved kit.
“I do not wish to be spoken to right now.” he said, “And this is my grandfather’s room, I will come and go as I please, thank you very much.”
The manager sighed, and dropped his formal tone, “Roy. Come now. You know you can’t stay here. Go back home. You can’t keep coming back here.”
Roy heard him but didn’t say anything. He clenched his jaw, and stared down at his bare feet resting on the richly carpeted floor beneath the grand desk. For the first time since he had broken in, he realized he was dressed in rags; worn versions of clothes that had once appeared quite fine. He wore no wristwatch, as that too he had had to sell, as his father had once this house.
His father’s old manservant looked at him sympathetically, and said, “I’ve got guests on the way here now. Finish your drink son. But I want you to leave after that, alright?”
He had turned and was about to shut the door again when Roy spoke again.
“I had no part in his gambling! It was just as much YOUR fault as it is mine! Why am I being punished? Why was I robbed of what should have been mine??”
Roy turned around again without waiting for an answer. He could be forced out of the property, this he knew and accepted. But he would not bear people looking at him with pity in their eyes.
There was a long pause, and the door closed behind him.
***
“Has he gone?” the manager asked the attendant half an hour later.
“Yes, he’s gone. But he’s probably-“
“Yes I know. Have the kit refilled before our guests arrive.”
“Refilled? You don’t think he’s taken the entire tray with him?”
“Oh no. The tray, the kettle, and the cup. Anything with our name and seal on it is still in that room waiting for us.”
Or so Roy would like to think. He paused, and thought about it again. Nah, that probably wasn’t true. When you think about it, the only thing you could say about a man by seeing him prepare his tea, was in fact how he prepared his tea. Nevertheless, how he liked it could still be called unique to him.
Roy took a sip from his own cup, smiled, and placed it back down on the desk. This, this was how tea should be enjoyed. He smiled at his grandfather’s mahogany desk before him, he smiled at the fully carpeted British-era furnished room around him, he even smiled at the fresh flowers in the modern glass vase that had been placed on the desk, although the vase was probably a lot newer than most of the other furniture in the room. That didn’t matter. It went well with the regal look of the entire hall. He only stopped smiling when he looked back down at his teacup. It was a new teacup. It made him wince. He reached out, and carefully rotated the cup until the logo on it faced away from him. Then he smiled again.
Roy was happy, for now. He was happy because he was comfortable, and back in his grandfather’s room, the grandest in the whole of Ooty. He was especially happy because of the tea-making kit before him. A small kettle, a few cubes of sugar, several Earl Grey tea bags from Twinings, London, and plenty of sachets of powdered milk, which he approved of, even though they too, like the vase, had probably come here long after his father’s misfortunes, were all present in the compact little tray. And none of that masala nonsense. No elaichi, adrak, or any of the other strange spices the roadside riff-raff seemed to insist on putting in their tea. The horror. That was not tea. That drink was coarse, mud-coloured, and cheap. He knew tea. Water was to be boiled and the tea bag placed, but not shaken, in it for a minute and a half. It was as simple as that. The most unorthodox thing he would allow to be done with his tea was the addition of a few drops of lemon, and that was all. His grandfather had once even-
“You see Sir? He’s back again”
Roy turned. He had not heard the door open. At the entrance stood a young man in a apron, whom he had grown to dislike over the last few weeks, and another, older man, familiar, smartly dressed, upright, and wearing a tag on his chest that said ‘Manager’. Roy barely noticed either of them. He was busy grimacing at the metal plaque that he could now see had been attached to his front door. VILLA SUITE.
“Sir,” the older man said after the young attendant had left them alone, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave”.
Roy turned to look back at his beloved kit.
“I do not wish to be spoken to right now.” he said, “And this is my grandfather’s room, I will come and go as I please, thank you very much.”
The manager sighed, and dropped his formal tone, “Roy. Come now. You know you can’t stay here. Go back home. You can’t keep coming back here.”
Roy heard him but didn’t say anything. He clenched his jaw, and stared down at his bare feet resting on the richly carpeted floor beneath the grand desk. For the first time since he had broken in, he realized he was dressed in rags; worn versions of clothes that had once appeared quite fine. He wore no wristwatch, as that too he had had to sell, as his father had once this house.
His father’s old manservant looked at him sympathetically, and said, “I’ve got guests on the way here now. Finish your drink son. But I want you to leave after that, alright?”
He had turned and was about to shut the door again when Roy spoke again.
“I had no part in his gambling! It was just as much YOUR fault as it is mine! Why am I being punished? Why was I robbed of what should have been mine??”
Roy turned around again without waiting for an answer. He could be forced out of the property, this he knew and accepted. But he would not bear people looking at him with pity in their eyes.
There was a long pause, and the door closed behind him.
***
“Has he gone?” the manager asked the attendant half an hour later.
“Yes, he’s gone. But he’s probably-“
“Yes I know. Have the kit refilled before our guests arrive.”
“Refilled? You don’t think he’s taken the entire tray with him?”
“Oh no. The tray, the kettle, and the cup. Anything with our name and seal on it is still in that room waiting for us.”
