My small-batch blend of cha masala would be nothing without its dried ginger, cardamom or black pepper and other spices.
A tan liquid sits cooling on the kitchen counter, the wisps of spicy creamy steam are calling my name. The flavors of my cha masala with black pepper, cardamom, dried ginger, mixes in with Earl Grey, Darjeeling, Orange Pekoe and leaf tea I had purchased from tea plantations nestled in the hills of Connoor. They had been teasing the milk and sugar in a small saucepan. They had spent a few minutes bubbling, brewing, and arguing together. They had finally come together as my morning cha and now sat in a large white cup chatting away to glory, tempting me with their daily gossip. Some rebellious droplets of cha had escaped from the cup and had left a tan ring on the aging white Formica of the kitchen counter, joining other aging tan rings like this one in the same one square foot space. This was their routine. This was my routine. Perhaps, if I placed the cup each morning in a new spot, the tan cha-rings would eventually mimic Olympic rings. On some mornings, conquering the kitchen and mothering tasks at this early an hour felt like an attempt to test my endurance and speed. I was already an undefeated champion of my little kitchen, but I was destined to practice every day. The dishwasher was already empty, clean dishes and spoons had found their homes again. Other tasks were calling my name before I could get to my cha. It was a race against time not only for this routine but others as well, while my cha waited its turn, in patience.
Cha would simply have to wait for a better opportunity to seep into the corners of my brain, to let it function for the day. So that it could be cha, and I could be me.
But Cha or no cha, it was ‘go-time’ after three different tunes of alarms each morning. Other sounds then replaced the melodious interruptions to our slumber. They invade the quiet of our house over forty-five minutes between 5.25 and 6.10 a.m., same every weekday.
Wake up. Wake up, sweetheart, you will be late.
(Fifteen minutes later)
Hello… mom. (a peck on the cheek)
Hmmm. Hello. I packed up your lunch and your breakfast is ready and waiting.
Why? You didn’t have to.
Because you don’t have the time to do it yourself. Your breakfast is getting cold.
I will get to it, in two minutes.
(Ten minutes later)
You might only have 8 more minutes to eat your breakfast and get in the car.
But I have so much to do. Ugh, my breakfast is cold now.
You should have eaten it when it was still warm.
But I had so much to pack!
We are late already. The bus may not wait for you today.
Why don’t we just drive over to the next stop?
Because you need to manage your time better. Every minute counts.
Every single weekday. This is a newer routine.
As I pulled out of my driveway, I can tell which home is awake by the light spilling out from their climate controlled spaces. Very few. It is still a dark and cold morning, today's’ late October fog is lifting gently. The air is brisk and cold. Winter is coming sooner than I like.
The sight of the golden light from the streetlights spilling through the sparse tree canopy reminds us: we were too tired still, and that we had left our cozy beds behind for the rest of the day. It was even more depressing than leaving a cup of fresh cha untouched on the aging kitchen counter.
Today, the glowing headlights of busy cars approached our neighborhood intersection with steady speeds and reckless abandon. We waited to find a break in the flow so we could join in. A sharp turn and we became one with ‘them’. One intersection, one red light, stop. One turn lane and wait. I began mumbling “go-go-go” to the two cars ahead of us – we needed to turn.
The parking lot to the neighborhood gym was already full. It was not even 6.20 a.m. A black road sinuously snaked towards more neighborhoods, many homes with more cozy beds, pots of tea and coffee being brewed, but one would not know from the outside – everything looked pitch dark.
A slight turn, another bend, and the road continued. With a bump I remembered, this stretch had some roadwork. A row of orange construction barrels smirked at us from the edge of the road along the grassy ditch like eerie Halloween clowns lurking in the shadows of the night. The comforting white center dividing line of the road was temporarily erased under a new coat of fresh tar. Short, nearly invisible yellow dashes had replaced the white lines. The road suddenly looked and felt bigger and wider. I blinked hard to keep my eyes on the road, to not be seduced by the sudden vast and spacious openness of the dark empty road in the pre-dawn hours. Its dark expanse was calling. I swerved to avoid a large rock in the middle of the road and it reminded me of a recent tragedy when some teens threw rocks at passing cars from an overpass. Tragic. Unnecessary. Final. Sad. Final. Kids. Stupid. Why?
I was momentarily rescued from the sadness of needless loss, by the sight of a cell-tower beacon. It blinked to a rhythm that mimicked the patterns of a heart monitor on a sleeping patient – blink, one breath – blink, one breath – blink, one breath. It was the pulse of the community. It felt more important than the fully stocked and affordable grocery store I had just passed, which was incidentally closed. The cell tower determined how we existed in the ‘real’ world. Talking, sharing, breathing, going, traveling, doing. Everything relied on it. Subliminal. Subtle. Yet critical. Essential. Life-affirming?
Their sight reassured us. We have come to rely on its invisible waves to help us become doers, to be. We need those invisible signals to affirm our identity. Who have we become - tethered to its inaudible hum? These conveniences, these tall monstrosities are the lifelines of our existence. I sighed.
A few more gentle bends in the road and we approached a small business district. It just looked unsettlingly cheerful at this early hour – so many lights! So much ‘glow’. Who was shopping here at this hour? Even the runners and dog walkers were not out yet, I thought to myself. Perhaps it improved street safety. Perhaps it was a reminder of businesses there. ‘Doing business’ never stops – no matter the hour of the day. But I have not had a sip of my cha yet, I moan internally. Another stop light. All the cars ahead of me turn the same way I am going. I groan again. We will be late.
Both cars ahead of me turn into parking lots of an elementary school. I felt embarrassed that I had been groaning a few minutes ago. Teachers were at school, even though the children would not arrive for another ninety minutes. I wondered about their own children, their cozy beds and their own cups of tea or coffee they may have left behind. But work continued, business does not stop.
Another light. I narrowed my eyes to look past the lights of the parking lot to see if the school bus was still waiting. The speed tables are awful here, I wondered what was rattling in the trunk of my car. My kid's eyes showed her discomfort - the speed tables made her stomach hurt. But I could not slow down. Her business of going to school could not stop because of a speed bump - we were late.
The silhouettes of the stately sycamores in the parking lot reminded me: their leaves had been turning yellows and tans. I had seen it the evening before, reflecting the glow of a Fall sun. They lined the parking lot. No one plants trees in the parking lots anymore, I lamented. A golden bus waited in the distance, the driver hunched over his newspaper, revving the engine, urging us, tempting me to ignore the speed tables. We were late. He had waited an extra two minutes. I felt relieved. Saved.
A few more pecks on the cheek and I was back into the dark and quiet space of an empty car with something rattling in the trunk each time I went over a speed bump. The bus rolled away with my sleepy teenager on board for her long trek to school. I knew she would nap on the way. She had told me she woke up just as her bus passed by an old couples’ porch as they sat in two rocking chairs each morning drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. In her mind, she says hello to them. Or sometimes she woke just as her bus passed over the Chattahoochee River – and she catches a glimpse of flocks of geese and wading birds swimming in the slow waters that are just beginning to glow with the rising sun. She had told me that it was her routine.
The public radio became my brief companion, I was not awake enough to enjoy musical interpretations, or commercials just yet or listen to the public radio’s own banter about its pledge drive. I was momentarily glad for the news. For the next eight minutes home, I hoped to hear salient worldly events. Today they discussed lawsuits, Congress, and public disappointment. By now, I was mechanically driving home, oblivious to the distractions of the road - the lights, the cell tower, the orange traffic barrels, and the gym parking lot. The car was doing its thing, my foot was doing its thing, my hands firmly on the steering wheel. Two more turns and I would be home.
The news segment was just ending as I pulled into my garage. The engine idled while I gather my things and the news segment ended with a sponsorship note – sponsored by X, Y, and John Grisham’s new book ____ available via retail giants A, B and C. I did not know publishers sponsored news segments about congressional indecision's and bank lawsuits, just to promote their best-selling author at 6.28 a.m. I wondered how John Grisham felt about the news segment itself. Truly, business does not stop.
I returned to find my cup of cha now lukewarm and silent on the kitchen counter, nearly pouting at being ignored. Thirty seconds in the microwave and I had coaxed it back to life again. The ginger and the cardamom from the cha masala began to chat with me again, repeating a simpler synopsis of the conversations I had missed. It gets to be cha, and I get to be me again. That is our routine. Together, we get back to business.
Today, I am revising a chapter from Not For You, Book Two, in the summer of 1946, when Sumati-Atya visits Bandu and Tatya in the Blue House, and Mukki makes her a cup of Pati-cha-Cha, with lemongrass. Or perhaps I will visit with a grown-up Mani in her home, as she tried to navigate her domestic and professional life in independent India in the mid 20th century. What were those routines like? Coaxing these silhouettes of women from generations past to share their life with me, to visit as I sip my own cup of cha, has become my routine.
Mani and the post-Independence era. How does she navigate domestic life?
{Original Watercolor, Not For You Series, (c) Nandita Godbole, 2017}
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Nandita is an Atlanta based food-writer and author of several cookbooks.
Her first food fiction: Not For You: Family Narratives of Denial & Comfort Foods (Turmeric Press), is a two part novel. Book One is available for purchase directly from the author on her website, and via retail giants. Book Two is now available on Pre-Order.
#routine #cha #notforyou #newbook #amwriting