The Tea Seller
Who is this chaiwallah? the newspaperman thought, parking his bicycle.
It was still early morning, and Chimbai Square was dark and quiet. The newspaperman, always the first vendor to open up, stood next to his simple stand. Wooden planks atop two thick tree branches that spread horizontally beside the wall of a nearby house. The makeshift tarpaulin roof was originally dark green but was now rust-colored from years of accumulated street dust. It looked as weathered and worn as the newspaperman’s jeans and checkered khaki business shirt.
After a few careless swipes of an old cloth to wipe down the platform, he walked to his bicycle and unloaded the papers, stacking them onto the wooden board. After going back and forth a few times, he removed his cracked brown leather sandals and settled down cross-legged on the platform to fold his papers one by one.
Glancing to his right, he investigated the chaiwallah’s cart, watching the man’s tea-making process. From his metal spice box, his masala dabba, the old, white bearded man pulled fresh ginger, cinnamon sticks, black peppercorn, cloves, nutmeg, and green cardamon and tossed them into a large shiny aluminum pot full of water.
“Good-morning, sir!” the chaiwallah called enthusiastically.
The newspaperman hesitated, surprised by the old man’s energetic greeting. “Oh, hello. Welcome to Chimbai,” he replied in a friendly tone. He continued folding his papers, staring at a few lazy street dogs in the otherwise deserted square, and decided to try a cup of chai when he was done.
Chimbai Square, where four roads intersected, sat beside the Arabian Sea in Bandra West, a well-known residential suburb southwest of Mumbai. Apartment buildings with shops below blocked the unassuming square from having a water view. The square and surrounding roads were paved with small bricks that time had burnished to a rust color, like the roof on the newspaperman’s stand. Except for a few, most of the weathered beige and brown apartment buildings surrounding the square and connecting streets were just a few stories high.
Neighborhood residents often referred to two key landmarks in Chimbai Square: the century-old white crucifix statue near its center and the large ancient bodhi tree at the east corner of the square that connected it to St. Joseph’s Road. This was a short road housing the area’s government school and several residential apartment buildings. The other three streets, all named Chimbai Road, branched out from the square.
On the southern end, between the road and the sea, were Bandra’s Koliwadahs, a four-hundred-year-old fishing community residing beside the beach. Despite rapid urbanization, the Koli people’s lifestyle was mostly unchanged. Koli men were usually around the beach repairing boats and nets to prepare for their next fishing trip, which could last days, weeks, or even months depending on the season. The Koli women took care of the household and sold their husband’s catch along the southern Chimbai road or to wholesalers.
By the time the newspaperman finished folding half his papers, sunlight had started to filter into parts of Chimbai Square from between the apartment buildings. A man and woman wearing sneakers passed by. A moment later, the newspaperman saw the early morning delivery truck park in front of the supermarket underneath one of the apartment buildings and wait to unload.
On the left side of the supermarket was a hairdresser, and on the right was a hardware store, a pharmacy, a liquor store, and a doctor’s office. The supermarket always opens first with the other shops opening at various times later in the morning.
The newspaperman saw three young men get out of the truck to help supermarket staff unload the goods. As they unloaded rice, dal, water containers, and other items, two black and yellow rickshaws parked behind the newspaper stand, awaiting residents headed for work. Then another couple speed-walked across the square. When the men finished unloading, the three truck drivers walked across the square to the chaiwallah’s cart.
“His first customers,” the newspaperman mused out loud, as he folded his last papers. He watched the fruit seller next to the bodhi tree open up, with the owner loosening the ropes around his stall. “Done,” the newspaperman said. He stretched his legs, slipped on his sandals, and strolled to the chaiwallah’s cart. “Let me be one of your first customers,” he said.
“Thank you. I am grateful, sir,” the old man replied politely.
“First time in Chimbai?” the newspaperman asked.
“Yes, I like moving around.” The man smiled and picked up a cutting chai glass from his rack. “I am a bit of a nomad,” he laughed softly.
As the newspaperman watched the chaiwallah pour the filtered chai from his patila, a smaller pot, he noted the old man’s neat white beard and dark, deeply wrinkled facial skin and radiant light brown eyes. This man looks old and young at the same time, he thought. The chaiwallah wore a bright, white, well ironed business shirt with a white lungi and shiny light brown leather sandals. Keralite or Tamil? the newspaperman guessed as he accepted the glass of chai.
“Thank you, sir.” The newspaperman examined the rich, caramel-colored concoction then lifted the glass to his nostrils, inhaling its aroma. “Fragrant!” The chaiwallah waited for him to take his first sip. “Rich, complex, and delicious,” the newspaperman complimented.
Wonderful to hear that, sir,” the old man replied happily. After letting the newspaperman enjoy a few sips, the chaiwallah asked, “Tell me, what are the headlines today?”
The newspaperman glanced back at his stand, gathering his thoughts. “Umm… this year’s flourishing agricultural sector after a great monsoon,” he began.
“Some highlights from the Durga Puja and Navaratri festivals across the country, and updates on India’s countrywide solar panel expansion.”
“Interesting,” the old man responded. “I’ll buy one. And I’ll make sure to share today’s headlines with each one of my customers to help you sell a few more.
”Oh,” the newspaperman said, surprised, “that is very generous of you. Thank you, dada,” kindly referring to him as grandfather.
The chaiwallah smiled warmly. “You’re welcome, beta,” he replied, calling him son.
ADITI
In the maze of narrow, dusty dirt road alleys in the Koliwadahs, Aditi woke up just before the alarm. She lived in a simple ground-floor studio in a low-rise, brick building in the midst of the fishing community. The room was filled with the scent of damp earth and salty sea air. While basic, her studio was much better than many of the self-made shacks the majority of the Koli community lived in nearby.
Aditi turned her head to see Vishal sleeping beside her. Such a wonderful boy, she thought fondly, but then felt some guilt that he would soon need his own room. He’s growing up so fast.
Suddenly, a deafening bang from the adjacent wall shattered her thoughts and made her sit up straight. “Are macchi!” she uttered aloud, using the Koli expression meaning “oh fish,” to out her frustration. I can’t take this noise much longer, she thought.
Her gaze fell once again on Vishal, who had turned but slept through the noise undisturbed. Her eyes locked onto the golden-colored photo frame on the wall between her kitchen and dining table. Inside was a picture of her parents, taken before Aditi was born just a short stroll away. They were standing proudly beside their fishing boat.
She slipped out of bed and padded past the mandir attached to the wall. The small altar, facing northeast, was draped in saffron cloth and held three small brass statues. Lord Ganesha, the remover of obstacles, Goddess Mahalakshmi, and the great King Rama. In front of the three gods stood a gold-plated incense burner Aditi got from her grandparents, an oil lamp, and a small brass bell. Most of their poojas, their prayers, however, were held in her auntie’s home in a nearby alley.
Aditi turned on the light of the bathroom, which was absent of natural light, and closed the flimsy plywood door. Dark green tiles lined the bathing area with a hole in the floor for drainage. On the tiles stood a white plastic bath stool next to a large plastic bucket beneath the tap, with a small plastic mug inside. Brushing her teeth, Aditi looked in the mirror that hung above the sink. Maya will probably make a decision within the next two weeks, she thought. We can move to a slightly better place. She stared into her own eyes with defiance. Yes, Diti, but you need to do better…
She changed into a classic, modern navy-blue cotton kurti that fell just below her knees. Tiny lilies were stitched onto the collar in a darker shade of blue. All other edges along the dress were stitched in contrasting light blue. Underneath, she wore bright white leggings and light brown sandals. Her thin, feminine, golden necklace gleamed, matching the gold bangles decorated with colored glass gemstones she wore on her left arm. The glistening gold and bright colors contrasted with her rich, deep skin tone, radiating warmth and beauty. Before reaching over to Vishal, she walked up to their to-do list on the whiteboard above the dining table to check on progress.
After a brief moment, she whispered, “Wake up, baala. Today is your lucky day.”
Vishal sat up, yawned, stretched his arms, and leaped out of bed. “Lucky?” he asked, as Aditi walked back to the kitchen.
“I'm making your favorite poha.”
“I'm starving!” Vishal said, ambling toward his mother.
“You are always starving, baala,” she laughed, looking back across her shoulder.
“Something special today?” Vishal asked, observing her from behind.
“Why, baala?” Aditi asked, cutting the last chilies.
“Well, you look like that.”
She turned around, smiled, and reminded him, “You know what I always say….”
“That the way you look impacts the way you feel,” he swiftly answered.
“Yep,” she nodded.
“But I wear the exact same school uniform every day!” He laughed.
“How is your research going?” she asked, now sautéing the chopped chilies and red onions.
“A bit boring. Why you are always giving me these kinds of assignments?”
“They are not assignments,” Aditi chuckled, adding asafetida to the pan.
“I just want you to create the habit of reading and thinking critically.”
“Extra jaggery, please!” Vishal requested, before walking into the bathroom.
Aditi added boiled potatoes, green peas, carrots, turmeric, salt, and extra jaggery to the pan.
Vishal walked out of the bathroom in his school uniform. Aditi said, “The assignments, as you call them, give us interesting discussions in the evenings, don't you think?”
“Yes, very interesting,” Vishal replied, his tone somewhat sarcastic. “When are we going to the Elephant Caves?” he asked.
“Maybe next weekend, baala. It depends on my workload. Come, sit. I’ll be right there.” Aditi dished out two bowls of poha and sat down. After the first scoop of the soft, spiced flattened rice flakes, she opened her laptop. “Sorry, Vishal, I need to check if anything is urgent.”
Vishal ate silently.
“Oh, come on!” Aditi suddenly exclaimed aloud in frustration.
“What happened?” Vishal asked.
“Nothing. It is just this email.” Aditi continued to read, trying to hide her disappointment and surprise. I really thought I would be invited for an interview. I am more than qualified, she thought. She updated her file showing a long list of jobs she got rejected from in various stages of the application process over the last few years.
“Chal, Vishal!” Aditi said closing her laptop, telling him to hurry up and go.
Vishal closed the warped aluminum door behind him and climbed onto Aditi’s old, white kinetic scooter, flattening the back tire.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Yep,” he answered.
She maneuvered them through the narrow alleys, rocks and sand skipping from the tires, until she finally stopped short of the southern Chimbai Road. She looked for traffic and turned left, heading toward Chimbai Square. Now it bustled with shoppers, cars, and rickshaws. As she waited for a car to pass by, she spotted the chaiwallah’s chai cart across the square. He’s new, she thought. Then she continued on, passing the bodhi tree into St. Joseph’s Road before pulling up in front of the school.
“Bye!” Vishal called as he hopped off, almost making Aditi lose balance of the scooter.
“Bye, monkey. Study hard, God will do the rest,” Aditi replied.
When Vishal was out of sight, Aditi placed a purple shawl over her mouth and nose and headed back to Chimbai Road, driving south as she passed the small Hanuman temple and St. Andrew’s Church until she stopped at the busy Hill Road crossing. The street was a whirl of vehicles, but she joined the heavy traffic with confidence. Past Mehboob studios, the beacon of iconic Indian films, she turned onto Mount Carmer Road, around Lilavati Hospital, and finally onto the Western Express Highway. The sprawling six-kilometer Bandra-Worli Bridge that crossed the murky sea from Bandra to Worli was on her right, but she veered left, driving twenty kilometers north to Malad.
In the basement of an old office building, she parked her scooter and took the lift to the third floor. Walking through the labyrinth of call center desks, she suddenly heard a voice from behind.
“Good morning, Aditi.”
She turned to see Maya, the floor director standing outside her office. “Good morning, Maya,” Aditi said.
“I have news to share. Let’s sit in my office?” Maya gestured towards the room behind her.
“Yes, sure,” Aditi responded eagerly, her heart pounding with anticipation.
This is much faster than expected, Aditi thought, following her. Apprehension crept in as she sat opposite the director. This was the moment she had been waiting for. I really need this, Aditi thought.
“Aditi, I'll get straight to the point. Unfortunately, it's not good news,” Maya began.
Aditi felt a knot tighten in her stomach.
“You were not successfully considered for the team leader role,” Maya said.
A rush of disappointment washed over Aditi, but she forced a nod and a smile. I knew it, she thought.
“I know you’ve applied a few times for this type of role, and you have made tremendous progress these past years. You’re a high achiever and never troublesome.” Maya smiled.
Never troublesome? What is that supposed to mean? Aditi wondered.
“It’s just that someone else in the team was better suited this time. It happens,” Maya concluded.
“Okay,” Aditi replied, waiting for further explanation, but there was none. Feeling somewhat defeated, she said, “Maya, is there something I need to improve to increase my chances of being offered a managerial role? I’ve applied a few times now. Are there skills I need to develop further?”
“No, Aditi. You’re doing fine,” Maya answered. “Sometimes it is just that someone else is better suited. We will announce it soon, and you will understand. Chal, let’s get back to work,” the director said, standing up to end the conversation.
“Thank you, Maya,” Aditi replied, smiling politely as she stood up and left. I can’t take these rejections any longer! Aditi shouted to herself internally, now briskly walking across the call floor. What do I need to do to get promoted after all these years? I’ve hit my targets and built relationships with the team leaders, and lately I’ve been sharing ideas on sales strategy, organizational structure, and productivity improvements to help the business.
Back at her desk, she opened her laptop, fighting off a storm of discouragement and confusion. Maybe I am just good at sales and don’t have what it takes to lead, she thought, staring at her screen.
“Aditi, did you hear?” her best friend voiced from behind, interrupting her thoughts.
“Hey, Maryam. Hear what?”
“You won’t believe it,” Maryam started, pity showing across her face.
“What? Tell me,” Aditi urged her.
“It is Veda. Veda will be our new team leader,” Maryam revealed.
Aditi’s face flushed. “What?”
“I know, I know. I am so sorry, Aditi. Everyone knows it should have been you,” Maryam said. “You should have been promoted years ago. Veda graduated only recently and lacks experience.”
After shaking off her disappointment, Aditi said convincingly, “It’s okay, Maryam.”
“Honestly, Aditi, you should move elsewhere, to a place where they appreciate you,” Maryam suggested.
Aditi felt grateful for the comments from her friend and nodded slightly, not wanting to reveal that she had been applying externally for a long time but without any luck.
“You know,” Maryan continued, “this time you had one clear disadvantage. Maya and Veda’s families know each other; they grew up in the same neighborhood. And you… well, you know how it is. They just don’t want someone like you to rise in the ranks. And I can already predict that…”
Aditi stared ahead, no longer listening as she thought about her next steps.
