“You
know how to make thingpui now.”
“So
grown up. A right little lady”
“Shaping
into such a good daughter”
The
art of making thingpui—tea—is a rite of passage for every young girl in most
households. It’s seen as a measure of how well one has been raised. Muani made
her first cup of tea all by herself when she was in Class 5B.
Her
tea turned out milky—she had added a little too much milk because she was
nervous. First, her mother wasn’t around to hover with her usual two dozen
instructions. Second, the guests sitting in the living room were five prominent
neighbourhood women —matriarchs in their own right, and likely the same age as
her grandmother. Lastly, they were there to visit her sick grandmother. These
women had probably drunk copious amounts of tea in their lifetimes and were, in
all likelihood, connoisseurs.
A
little shaky, Muani brought the tea over in dainty rose-printed teacups and
carefully set the tray down on the small centre table in the middle of the
room. She anxiously watched as the women took their first sips, then sighed in
relief when they began offering the customary compliments—not to her, but to
her mother, for raising a daughter who could make tea. They never directly
praised the tea itself, but for Muani, that was still a clear victory.
The
women stayed for two hours, and Muani had to make a second pot of tea that very
day.
From
that day on, the tea-making never really stopped.
Muani
did not like tea — that was the hateful part. Had she liked it, there might
have been some sliver of joy in the process, some small reward at the end of
each careful brew. But no — she was always making tea for other people.
To
her, tea was nothing more than leaf soup — slightly bitter, coarse on the
tongue, and endlessly overrated. She despised the very idea of it. Not the
innocent plant itself, when she really thought about it, but the ritual that
surrounded it. The ways her relatives’ guests declared their tea preferences — not
as polite requests but as though their tastes were sacred birthrights and Muani
was expected to bow and scrape until their whims were fulfilled.
Only
red tea.
Green
tea, but strong.
Some
with a splash of milk, no sugar.
Others
with no milk and a single teaspoon of sugar.
Or
two teaspoons, but only if the tea wasn’t too strong.
Some
wanted it with lots of milk and no sugar.
Some
with no milk, no sugar — but yes, a piece of jaggery, please and thank you.
The
combinations were endless. The demands, relentless. Through it all, her
grandmother never got any better. In fact, she only grew sicker.
And
Muani?
She kept making tea.
…….
The
Pastor came to pray on a Monday.
Muani
made tea.
The
women’s group committee from church came to pray on a Tuesday.
Muani
made tea.
Her
father’s work colleagues came to pray on a Wednesday.
Muani
made tea.
Her
mother’s sewing circle came to pray on a Thursday.
Muani
made tea.
Her
schoolteachers came to pray on a Friday.
Muani
made tea.
Her
Sunday school teachers came to pray on a Saturday.
Muani
made tea.
The
church elders came on a Sunday.
Muani
made tea.
Even
her late grandfather’s old friends came to pray.
And
still, Muani made tea.
………
When
Muani was finally relieved of her duties as the household ‘Tea Princess’, it
wasn’t because she had earned her rest. It was because she had to keep vigil at
her grandmother’s funeral. Weary, aching, and utterly heartbroken, she wept
quietly, tucked between her parents. Her grandmother's body lay peacefully in
her bed, surrounded by blood relatives and closest friends. Some sat with tears
in their eyes. Others wore the solemn expression of duty. This grandmother — her father’s mother — had
been a little crinkled and wrinkled, with ashy wisps of snowy hair and what
seemed like an endless supply of candies tucked into the hidden corners of her
sweaters, shirts, pants, and skirts. A walking candy dispenser. Muani had
adored her beyond words.
She
remembered once — as clear as if it were yesterday — how her grandmother had
turned into a veritable tiger, unleashing her fierce love when Muani’s father
scolded her. That moment had felt like magic. Her father — usually stern, tall,
and all-knowing, the man who paid her school fees — had gone quiet at the sound
of his mother’s sharp, protective voice. Muani had been barely four, but oh,
the thrill of knowing the oldest person in the house was entirely on her side.
She basked in the glow of that mighty love.
Another
time, when her mother refused to let her play outside after school, Muani had
gone straight to Grandma in tears. Grandma, calm but firm, said to her mother,
“A
child cannot only think of serious things. She must have moments to run free,
to play, to learn from nature. She has been locked in a classroom all day.”
Then,
turning to Muani, she added gently, “Go. Play with your friends. Have fun.”
And
how fast Muani had run out the door — free as a bird. She knew there would be
no consequences. Grandma outranked everyone. And even though she got a B-minus
on her geography homework the next day, Muani couldn’t have cared less. Grades,
in the grand scheme of life, felt so terribly silly.
“Would
you like some tea?”
The
voice pulled Muani from her reverie. A youth member from the church stood
before her, balancing a large tray full of steaming cups. More youths were
going around distributing tea out in little plastic cups. The house was filled
with mourners. The Pastor would soon give a final sermon for Muani’s
grandmother and they would start the procession to the graveyard where she would
be laid to rest. Her soul though would soar to eternity, Muani was sure.
The
scent of the tea hit her at once—milky, overly sweet, and faintly burnt from
having boiled too long. The smell alone made her stomach turn. She was drowning
in the very sense of it all.
Tea.
How
she hated tea.
She
hadn’t even been able to sit properly with her grandmother during those final
weeks — there had always been someone to serve, a pot to refill, cups to wash.
All because of tea.
She
loathed it to her very bones.
She
wished tea had never been invented. She wished God had never created the
wretched plant at all. The world would be better off without it. People might
have more time for one another without their endless tea-drinking rituals — less
sitting and chatting and laughing over cups she had to make. Less money wasted
on something that wasn’t even filling. There were far tastier things to spend
money on.
But
no. It was always tea.
To
Muani, it was an atrocious abomination.
She
wanted to hurl the entire tray to the floor — but instead, with quiet
restraint, she simply shook her head.
Next
to her, her father cleared his throat and said softly,
“Is
there red tea without sugar?”
…….
Lydia Lalduhawmi Ralte has a
Ph.D. in English Literature and is presently on the English faculty at IQFAI Mizoram. She began writing from
a very young age. A powerful earlier poem was featured here in 2017 My Resting Bitch Face - Lydia Ralte
This short story focuses on a hospitality custom in Mizo culture - offering tea to visitors which is not always particularly remarkable or talked about but remains an important norm in welcoming guests and making them comfortable. And over the last few decades, the way that people prefer taking their thingpui or tea has diversified a great deal which is partly what creates the conflict that the author has cleverly built upon here.
