Elaichi chai

Elaichi chai is the cure.

He put the saucepan on the stove, lit it and added the tea leaves. The concept of tea is different in Mumbai. It is rarely steeped here. It is not the delicate kiss of the tea leaves, leaving behind a faint aroma and a sunset hue. It is the compromise the ingredients make with each other because of being in a hot dark cramped place: like everything else in Mumbai. And yet, it is a cure for the gloomy weekdays that you spend at home because of rains.

It was a Thursday. An off today meant that there was a possibility of an extended weekend. Just take a day off, and you could have four days of bliss; or misery. The rain would not stop, neither would the water on the roads recede. He was used to it, the way a person submits to destiny. It was the same every year, and nothing could be done about it. Mumbaikars deal with days like this as they deal with chickenpox in their childhood. It is inevitable, and nothing you do is going to ease the situation. You have to let it run its course, and then you are free. He hated how his colleagues from other places complained about it.

They all came here to be at a better place. They never complained of all the good things they could enjoy while being here. There is no place in India where you could be at such an ease as in Mumbai, or so he thought. And yet, they complained about the food, about the rains, about the crowd, about the heat. The list would go on and on. And yet, they would never leave! They did not understand that Mumbai is not a loving mother that would nurture you. It was a huge ship that treated you like the barnacles stuck on its hull. Enjoy the ride, but if the current gets too strong, it the ship would not care.
Water had logged below his building. He could see plastic bags floating around, and stray dogs perched on cars in the silt parking of the opposite building to avoid the water. He checked his phone. There were a dozen emails from his overseas colleagues. But they could wait. He was in no mood to work. Besides, he did not want to sit in front of his laptop all day at home. It would be better to come up with stuff life power cuts. People would believe it anyway. 

The tea was almost done. He added some milk and let it boil some more. He thought of switching careers. He thought of taking up photography. He lacked passion in his life, and photography was the only thing that was close to what he could call one. Though, to leave a well-paying job and take up something alternate was not something he would consider seriously. It was one of the many regrets he would have at his deathbed. 

His phone buzzed again. It was an email from his Desi boss from the West Coast who had migrated there a few years back, and had adopted the convenient ways of the Americans. There was, however, no concession for his subordinates in Mumbai. The email was about a certain presentation that was ‘urgently’ required. He know the drill. He would send in 50 slides and he would be told to compress the whole thing into 6, without losing the ‘essence’. He had tried sending 6 slides once, only to be told to do the job wholeheartedly. 

He looked at his laptop, at the corner of the table. ‘You would have no rest today my friend’ he thought looking at it. He sighed. Soon, he would spend his Thursday, at his own desk, till his neck was sore, and some more. But first, there was always time for some tea.