This is the scene on every Sunday afternoon at my residence in India.
Eschew the bright rays from entering the room, two huge curtains were hung along the large windows of my living room. That made the room bathe in a buttery glow.
My dad would be lying in the deewan with a CA journal in hand. His eyes will keep checking the clock every 10 minutes and his brain will simultaneously plan on when to start nagging his wife and daughter for a cup of tea.
My mom will finally be enjoying her afternoon nap and rest.
I will be totally tugged inside the couch with legs stretched over the coffee table and busy browsing the TV and complaining that nothing entertaining exists despite having more than 100 channels.
At 3:00 PM sharp my dad will start asking us to prepare tea. My mom half in sleep and half annoyed will spare a “can-you-prepare-it-look” on me. I give an expression as if I don’t belong to this house and stare at my dad for asking tea this early.
Chennai is hot round the year and afternoons are the peak period for maximum heat to drain through the ceiling and that’s when the AC would have reached a pleasant temperature and no one wants to go near the stove to cook anything.
So even without uttering a single word, the “NO” is conveyed through our expressive eyes.
One more reminder from my dad at 3:30 PM. Still the denial continues from both of us. My mom having lost her complete sleep will instruct me to leave the rectangular Tupperware snack box next to him so that he will munch for sometime and will stop bothering her.
Having felt sad for my dad, my mom would finally wake up and head to the kitchen grabbing a packet of milk from the fridge. I will race behind her, definitely not to help but to watch her prepare the tea. She will first boil little water in a stainless-steel kettle. Periodically, throw in the crushed ginger, cardamon and cloves into the bubbling water.
She will then add the tea powder, sugar into the brew and finally pour the milk. With her hands around the hip, she waits for the milk to boil and watches the vessel with furious concentration as they growl and sizzle into the gas stove.
The hot tea is poured into a strainer where they drip into a fresh mug. Hot and ready to be served for my dad. His face glows with happiness, my mom spares a flat smile for that and I am back to the TV browsing.
And today, being lost in those memories, I let the tea seethe over the stove. As I grabbed the pan away from the heat, I laughed to myself as how nagging my dad was and those thoughts reminded me of the Sunday moments with my parents.
I hugged the mug and closed my eyes to inhale a lungful of its aroma – it smelled of homemade bliss. At the thought of my home, I grew quiet and continued to glance at the empty sky from my kitchen window.