The Many Moods of Tea

One of the more delightful things I have noticed among the people who visit me is how differently they like their tea. Just as in a forest each bird sings its own tune, here each person approaches their cup of tea with a manner that seems to reflect their way of being in the world.

Tea serves many purposes, as varied as the people who drink it. Some reach for it in the morning to shake off sleep, while others rely on it to ease their bowels; some drink it to aid digestion, others to slow it down and linger over a meal. For some it is an appetizer, for others a sweet ending. Office workers, out of habit, gather around and have tea while standing in a group on the lawn or the deck, similar to standing around vending machines, using tea as an excuse to kill time and reminisce. I, at times, drink it simply when there is nothing else to do. For some it is a reason to chat and reconnect, for others a quiet companion that fills the mouth of talkative spouse and offers a brief moment of calm. Even businessmen use it as a tool in negotiations, where a shared cup helps build trust or ease tension. More than a beverage, tea is a ritual, a comfort, a pause, and sometimes a way to slow down and simply be.

In the hills we prepare what I like to think of as the classic chai. The tea is simmered in milk with a generous hand, left to bubble eagerly for a few minutes, with frequent churning using the sieve itself, until every last drop of its goodness has been drawn into the liquid. The process itself is a kind of ritual, a slow and comforting beginning to the day.

Yet once the cups are served, the tea takes on a life of its own. Over time I have come to observe several distinct habits that visitors bring to the table.

The poor man’s tea is what the villagers jokingly call the brew favoured by city folk and even by people abroad. I remember one gentleman from Delhi sitting stiffly at breakfast. He stirred his tea with great care, as if afraid the milk might offend. When I asked how he liked it, he whispered, just a few drops of milk please, perhaps one more, barely clouding the tea at all. He seemed determined to uphold a certain discipline, sipping cautiously as though tea itself were a luxury not to be indulged in too freely. Another lady I met, who enjoys this kind of tea, calls it ‘dropper wali chai’.

The purists’ tea is a world apart. These are people who want tea in its barest form, without adornments or embellishments. A lady from Delhi once brought her own tin of leaves and asked me very politely to prepare it without spices. She drank it with quiet satisfaction as if reconnecting with herself. Later she told me the aroma reminded her of long, reflective afternoons spent with books and silence. I realised that for some, tea is not about flavour but about returning to simplicity and stillness.

The tea aficionados are contemplative souls. One gentleman from Lucknow brewed his tea himself, using a small pot that looked like from some ancient Japanese village scene (he had carried his own tea pot !). He watched the water slowly turn a soft amber and sipped it with eyes half closed, as if every flavour were a quiet message. He lingered between sips, letting the warmth settle and the moment stretch. His mindful approach made me realise that tea can be a meditation, a way to slow down and simply be present with the senses. It felt like the refined grace of old Lucknavi Tehzeeb blending effortlessly with the quiet ritual of a Japanese tea ceremony.

Then there are the drinkers who insist on piping hot tea and those who wait for it to cool. A friend from Haldwani would take a cautious sip, wince, and then drink another as if determined to endure the heat. I suspect the sharp temperature helps distract from the thin taste. On the other hand, an elderly schoolteacher from a village nearby would hold his cup in both hands and wait patiently as the steam drifted away. He would then sip gently, allowing the warmth to seep into him slowly. Watching him, I thought that tea can offer comfort not through intensity but through unhurried presence, especially in cold winters.

Even the way tea is brewed becomes a matter of preference. Some, like a retired army gentleman from Almora, demand that the tea be boiled vigorously until it almost protests, extracting every trace of flavour. Others, like a doctor from Haldwani, insist that the leaves be added only after the water has boiled, as though the tea must be handled with care and respect. Their methods reflect a desire to control the unpredictable, but also a kind of devotion to the craft.

Over the years, I have learned how to accommodate the various preferences. I often let guests prepare their own tea. After all, no one wants to admit that their cup did not turn out as expected. At other times I serve tea in a simple way that invites participation. I keep one flask with hot water infused with tea, another with hot milk, and bowls of sugar and sweeteners nearby. Each guest can then craft their own perfect cup at their own pace, savouring the ritual. This works for most, except for those who crave piping hot tea and prefer the effort of mixing it themselves to be left to someone else.

For my friends, however, I still prefer to prepare the tea in the traditional way. It is a slow, comforting ritual, rich with milk and fragrant with herbs and spices. I serve the sugar on the side so that each person can sweeten their tea just as they wish. Watching them sip and relax, I feel that tea is more than a drink. We chat, connect, and enjoy the hot drink. It is an invitation to pause, to savour the moment, and to reconnect with the rhythm of a slower, gentler way of living.

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