I made tea once.
Just once. That’s all it took to get permanently appointed for a role I never applied for.
That particular day, the house felt… exhausted. Everyone was tired in their own quiet, heavy way. Just people who had given up for the day. And I, with zero experience and unnecessary confidence, walked into the kitchen and said, “I’ll make tea.”
Nobody stopped me. That should have been my first warning.
I opened the fridge, found ginger, and picked it up like I knew what I was doing. Took the grater out. First stroke, and I grated more finger than ginger. Stood there for a second like… this is normal. This is part of the process.
But I didn’t stop. There was something weirdly nice about it. Just standing there, doing something simple, something I’d seen happen a hundred times but never really done. No big thinking. No pressure. Just… make tea.
Water, milk, tea leaves, ginger. Not in that particular order. No measurements. Pure guesswork. Full jugaad. And somehow… it worked.
I don’t know how. I don’t know why. But it worked.
Everyone had it. There was this pause after the first sip. You know that pause where people are deciding whether to lie or not. Then someone said, “This is good.”
That was it. My life ended there.
From that day on, I was “the one who makes tea.” Morning tea? Me. Evening tea? Me. Guests? Me. Random craving at 5:37 PM? Obviously me.
I didn’t even realise when it became permanent. There was no discussion. No agreement. Just silent acceptance. Like taxes. And the worst part is, I can’t even be angry about it. I walked into this trap myself. Volunteered. With enthusiasm.
Idiot.
But something stuck with me from that day. I had just tried. Didn’t overthink. Didn’t plan. Didn’t wait to be perfect. Just tried. So I kept doing that.
Tried to do better.
Tried to be better.
Tried to be a little less messed up than yesterday.
And yeah, not everything came out like that first cup of tea. A lot of things were bitter. Some things straight-up failed. Some things looked perfect and still tasted like nonsense.
Even tea betrayed me. I remember someone tasted it at home and said, “Come make the same tea at my place.” I went there like a champion. New kitchen, new stove, different milk… suddenly I didn’t know who I was anymore.
That tea was bad. Not average. Not okay. Bad.
They still drank it. Out of politeness. I could see it in their eyes. That “what is this” look mixed with “it’s okay, beta.”
Humbling experience. But I kept going. Now I can make chai, coffee, buttermilk… all of it. Not fancy. Just solid. Reliable. The kind people ask for again.
People actually wait for my tea now. And I won’t lie… I like that.
But I also get weirdly irritated when someone else goes and makes it. They’ll say, “You sit, I’ll make tea.” And I’m like… NO. I won’t say it out loud, but inside I’m already in the kitchen supervising.
“Put ginger.”
“More. That’s not enough.”
“Why are you doing this to the tea?”
Because now it’s not just tea. It’s my thing. On good days, I get a little extra. Elaichi. Sometimes saffron if I’m feeling rich. Lemongrass, if it’s around. On bad days, plain tea. No drama. Just enough to get through. And somewhere in all this, I realised… this stupid, small thing I did one random day became my backup plan.
If writing doesn’t work out someday, if everything else feels off, I know I can still stand in a kitchen and make a decent cup of tea. No thinking. No pressure. Just… do it.
All because one day, for no real reason, I said, “I’ll try.” Should’ve just kept quiet that day.
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