The Tea

I try his number again. As it tries to connect, I heat water on the small burner plugged into the cigarette plug. Dried Earl Grey tea leaves leak from the small mesh bag, revealing its age. It barely darkens the water when I drop the bag in. No answer.

I call again.

This time it goes straight to voicemail. The reception in my van can be spotty, but I’m connected to Starbucks Wi-Fi, and the signal is strong. It isn’t like him to ignore my calls. For the last two weeks we’ve connected at eight every morning. Arjun usually hands the phone to Kai. As toddlers do, he runs around the rooms in a blur with a clear picture of his nostrils.

I sip the weak tea, trying to dispel the dark, intrusive thoughts. The phone chimes. I grab it immediately.

A voice crackles through. A female voice. “Rachel?”

“Hello?” Static fills my ear. “Hello?”

Her voice fades in and out. One word comes through: “kekkutha?” I know this one; Arjun says it over and over on the phone with his mother in India. She’s asking if I can hear her in Tamil. My voice spikes, “Hello? Yes, I can hear you. Hello?”

The line drops.

Knuckles rattle the window. My body jolts, spilling the hot tea on my knees. I hiss out words as I lower the window. “What, what?”

My scowl glares back at me in the officer's sunglasses. “You need to move, ma’am, no loitering.”

My hands fumble for my phone. “It’s an emergency; I need to make a call.”

He snaps, not listening.

My voice rises an octave, “I said it’s an emergency…”

He turns away, his radio barking numbers. “Five minutes or you’ll be towed and fined.”

The phone vibrates again. “Hello?” The Beartooth mountain range in front of me seems to grow with my anxiety. Montana’s plains stretch out, pulling the caller further away.

Again, a faint voice comes through, “Rachel, can you come to India? There’s been an accident.”

My heart pounds in my ears. “Kai, what happened, hello?” My hands go numb.

Her voice crinkles on all the important words. “Can you come to India?”

“Yes, I yes, what…” My mind races as I try to remember Arjun and Kai’s fight information. “I’ll figure it out.”

The line goes dead. My head spins. Words fly across the page as I scramble to apply for a visa on the small screen of my phone. My vision blurs as tears stream down my face. “What the hell!” I feel so small.

By Thursday, I’m boarding a plane. My hand trembles as I hold a printed approval to enter India and a one-way ticket. With two hundred remaining in my bank account, it’s all I can do right now. I’ll figure the rest out when I get there. It’s sheer luck I even have a passport. Arjun convinced me last year. He wanted me to visit his hometown once he got his parents' approval.

Once they meet Kai, they’ll want to meet you, he assured me. My mother had doubts. She didn’t think things would work out. But she didn’t believe I could survive as a travel blogger in the back of a van. I’m on year five. Four years ago I met Arjun while spelunking in Utah. Three years ago I found out I was pregnant.

Families with three or more large suitcases board with me. I find my seat near the back of the plane. A text came through several hours ago with an address in Kerala, India. This would be flight one of three. The stewardess walks by with beverages.

My voice comes out raspy as I order tea. She hands it to me with packets of sugar, creamer, and two extra Biscuff cookies, empathetically. The cookies land hard in my knotted stomach. I try to mix the creamer into the tea, but it curdles, leaving cottage cheese-like clumps at the top. I sob.

A bright pink sun peeks over the haze hanging over the city below on the last leg of my journey. My plane descends. I silently pray to every god I can think of. My seat jostles as the plane lands at Mangaluru International Airport.

The heat pulls at my clothing, forcing me to catch my breath. Hundreds of people mill about me. I mentally practice the address over and over as I near the taxi stand, but the words come out jumbled when the driver asks where I'm going. A new text comes in from the woman I now know is Arjun’s cousin, “See you soon.”

Despite my protests, we stop halfway. The driver scurries into a convenience store. Even with the windows down, sweat dripped down my face. I step into the rest stop. Large red tables border counters full of hot food. I slip into a seat under an oscillating fan. A man slaps a menu down in front of me. I try to push it back. His words came out more brashly.

Not wanting to lose my seat next to the air, I blurt out, “I’ll have chai tea.”

A steaming steel tin cup comes in a cupped saucer. He pours the brown liquid between the saucer and the cup. I sit mesmerized by the warm waterfall. Milk marbles the top of the dark brown liquid. Cinnamon and cardamom aroma swirl around me. Pepper bites my tongue. Despite the heat outside, the warm liquid soothes me. I think of Arjun and the way he’d hug me from behind in our little kitchen.

Back on the road, I long for more, wanting something to fill the hollowness left by the gaps in what I know. Where was he going, why by moped, why in the rain, where was his helmet, was he okay?

Thatch burns in a pile by the house. A long-horned yak pulls a wooden wagon by the front gate. I step out of the car. A spotted cow coos by my side. I fight the urge to rub its ringed nose for comfort. Its nostrils flare as it plods on down the road. White patterns, rangoli, decorate the front tiles. I slip my sandals off by the steps. Stone cools the soles of my feet.

Incense burns. I hear voices down the hall. Red and yellow flowers wilt on thin strings. “Hello?”

My hands automatically clasp together. Metal clinks against a counter. I turn into an open kitchen. The stove looks like a city of chimneys as the fire crackles beneath cast-iron pans and steel pots. An older woman stirs rice. Her sari sways as she turns, thread-gold glinting with each pleat. A long silver braid trails down her back. Gold earrings hang low in her ears. As she raises her hand, her bangles clink together. She has Arjun’s eyes. Deep brown with a slight hazel ring. Warm, welcoming eyes that settle your heartbeat. She gestures toward a chair.

My eyes bounce between her and the table. Another woman creeps around the corner. Much younger, timid, and equally silent, she mimics the elder woman’s gesture, inviting me to sit. Her cotton sari dances around her feet as she squats on the floor. Fresh okra lies on old newspaper. Beyond the kitchen, I see doors line the corridor. I hear a cough echo from a room.

“Arjun?” My shoulders tense. “Kai?”

Both women stop. The younger one stands up abruptly. A goat bleets in the distance. She disappears through a side door to an open field. The older woman gestures to the chair again. “Priya?” I ask.

Her hand waves to the chair.

I can’t sit. The anxiety, exhaustion, and heat force me to seek coolness. I press my hands against the fridge, searching for the polite gesture to ask for cold water. I point to my mouth and try to mimic drinking. The few words I know scramble in my mind, “Thanni?”

The elder woman takes my hand. A peeler rests by long, dirtied ginger roots. I wave my hands in disagreement. She pulls me closer to the counter.

Panic takes over, but I pick up the peeler. Her hands cup mine as the peeler scrapes down the side of the root. As we peel it, it transforms into a bright white, knotted, tree-like shape. The sharp ginger scent tingles inside my nose. Her arms shake as she lifts a stone mortar and pestle. I take them quickly from her. She drops the root inside. Her hand wraps around mine. I feel the callus on her palm, the warmth of her wrinkled skin as we rhythmically grind the ginger.

Water boils on the stove. She settles it with dried cardamom pods. Brown star-like spices bob on the surface. A bowl of dried black tea leaves touches my elbow. I pick it up, thinking of all the times I poured them with Arjun. The leaves turn the water amber. The ginger clumps in my fingers as I drop it in. She stirs, causing the stars to dip and resurface. I turn down the fire as it licks the sides of the pot. She pours in thick white milk. It froths, forming cosmic swirls filled with stars, ginger, and cardamom. It smells like home, when Arjun is with me. She brushes a knuckle across my cheek to stop a rogue tear. Her eyes water.

“Mommy!” I hear Kai’s voice from the door. Priya waddles in, arms overflowing with bags, blocking her view.

“Kai!” I leap as his small body collides with mine. I breathe in his hair. My hands squeeze around him. I cannot speak. My lip quivers. I fall to my knees with him pinned securely to my chest.

Priya helps me from the floor. “Priya.” She guides the older woman to me. “Devi Athai, Arjun’s mom.” I bow my head.

Priya’s gentle words drip from her lips as Devi Athai pours the tea through a strainer into small tin cups. All the spices and clumps of ginger are contained. Like me, everything I know has been sifted, and I’m not sure I’m ready to swallow the truth.

“Rachel,” says Priya with an outstretched hand holding the warm tea. “Thank you for coming.” A crumpled hospital sticker droops from the pocket of her shirt. The long black maxi skirt shifts as she nears. “Come with me.”

We follow her to the atrium. A wooden bench hangs from long chains. She sits, leaving space for me to join. The older woman crosses her legs on the floor. Kai curls into her lap. Her fingers brush through his hair. He rests his cheek against her chest.

The tea is hot against my fingers. I sip to keep from shaking. A nervous sweat breaks out.

“Rachel, Arjun is at KMC hospital,” says Priya.

The ginger kicks my senses. “When can I see him?” I feel a chill run down my spine.

Priya’s hand squeezes my arm. “I can take you.” She spins the tin cup, letting the tea swirl. “But he can’t come home.”

I grip my cup. “Whatever it is, I’ll work with him to figure it out.”

Priya’s voice catches. “Rachel.”

The ginger hits me again. I drink it in, trying to keep myself from losing consciousness.

The light halos above Priya’s head as she speaks, “I wanted you to have a chance to see him. To say goodbye.”

A sop slips through my lips. Ginger lingers on my tongue. It pulls up memories of us around burners, pouring ground-up convenience-store spices into little pots. Improvising with black tea bags and condensed milk. I sop again.

The woman pulls Kai close. Priya nods at her. “Please stay with us.”

My voice drags against my vocal cords like a rake. “We can’t.”

“Please.” Her eyes search mine. “She needs him.”

I shrink back on the bench. My cup is empty. It’s gone, and so is he. This home, Devi Athai and Priya, is all Kai has left of his father. My mouth feels dry. Everything is slipping away. My memories of Arjun are suddenly blurry and disoriented. I stutter, “I need more tea.” I want him back; I need the familiar scent, the warmth, the feeling I had before Priya spoke.

Kai jumps up. His hands grab my arms. I pull him into me. Cardamom and ginger from Athai’s hands waft through Kai’s soft black hair. I close my eyes. The memories of Arjun flood back.