It’s been one of those weeks. One that began with a crashed computer and gained momentum with homework battles, galloping influenza, and a new violin that refused to be tuned. Then came the frantic request for nine kimonos for a 40-second scene in the school play. Not to mention an epidemic of frayed tempers and nasty moods.
In short, the kind of week that would drive most people to drink. Or a value pack of Lindor chocolates. Or, at the very least, a big mug of hot, sweet, steaming tea.
Which explains why, although it’s just 9am, I’m already on my third cuppa. The first was sugary, milky chai that should ideally have been gulped down from an earthen
Nevertheless, as I conduct my very own monsoon Madhatter’s Tea Party, I feel cheered. And even banging out this article on an 11-year-old replacement computer seems manageable with my chipped, clunky mug at my side. But then, like Samuel Johnson, I guess I am a “hardened and shameless tea-drinker, who has, for twenty years, diluted meals with only the infusion of this fascinating plant; whose kettle has scarcely time to cool; who with tea amuses the evening, with tea solaces the midnight, and, with tea, welcomes the morning”.
After all, when it comes to the remarkable camellia sinensis, there are many kindred spirits out there. Water apart, tea is the most widely consumed beverage in the world. It is the inspiration behind essays and books, speciality restaurants and bitter debates. Not to mention complex cultural rituals.
A formal Japanese tea gathering can last up to four hours and involves intricate rules and conversational gambits about tea caddies and tea scoops. Similarly, being invited to a Tibetan household for a cup of salty butter tea made from yak milk can be a stressful affair — unless you are really up on Tibetan etiquette and know that the right response to an invitation is to dip your hand in a bowl of wine and flick some away. Equally, the British are famous for their finicky ways with tea.
So much so that serious writers actually take time off from important novels to write essays on the subject. In ‘A Nice Cup of Tea’, George Orwell has listed “eleven rules, every one of which I regard as golden”. These specify that the tea must be Indian, the teapot made of china, the water should be boiling at the moment of impact, and the cup should be cylindrical. And if you adhere to these rules when you make your nice cup of tea, you will feel “wiser, braver and more optimistic after drinking it”.
All of which sounds like much ado over a simple cuppa. But be fair. Here too, every chowkidar has his favourite peripatetic chaiwala , who comes careening on his cycle with flasks and plastic cups. Just as every tea connoisseur — a fashionable state of being at the moment — can discuss the relative merits of smoky Lapsang Souchang, green Sencha and Kashmiri Kahwa. And every office has its own addictive brew that, even if it tastes of boiled rags, is the essential fuel on which the enterprise runs.
The story of tea began, according to a Chinese legend, in BC 2737. Emperor and herbalist Shen Nung was sitting under a tree while his servant boiled water. A few leaves from the tree fell into the water, which turned into a glorious golden colour. Shen Nung took a sip and approved.
By the third century, tea was being mentioned in Chinese medical texts as a drink that “makes one think better”. Portuguese traders acquired their taste for tea from the Chinese in the 16th century. And it was Catherine of Braganza, the princess whose dowry included the small fishing village of Bombay, who took the tea-drinking habit to England.
Not that you or I would ever drink that particular brew. For the tea was taxed in liquid form, so the entire day’s tea was brewed in the morning, inspected by a visiting officer and then reheated through the day. Resulting in a concoction so bitter and strong that it’s a miracle that people continued to drink it.
Meanwhile, fed up of the Chinese monopoly on tea, the British tried to grow it in India — not realising that Indians were already familiar with the magical leaf. Certain tribes cooked it as a vegetable. Also, legend has it that 2,000 years ago, a Buddhist monk decided to spend seven sleepless years in meditation. Sometime during the fifth year he became drowsy and so he chewed some leaves from a nearby bush and felt revived. Which is how the wild tea plant was discovered in India.
Initially, the British tried to plant Chinese tea in India but the experiment failed. Things went much better when they switched to the indigenous Assam variety. Then Indians started experimenting with tea, sensibly doing away with the fiddly business of teapots and caddies and debates about milk first or tea first in the cup. Somewhere along the way, masala chai was born.
On a morning like this, as I take a sip of the sweet, strong stuff, all I can say is “thank god!”
Burmese tea leaf salad
Ingredients
* 1/2 cup green tea leaves
* 2 lemons
* 6-8 garlic cloves
* 1 green chilli
* 3 green onions
* 1 tsp ginger
* 1 tbsp sesame oil
*3 tbsp peanut oil
* 6 cups chopped lettuce or cabbage
* Cherry tomatoes
* Fried moong dal
* Roasted peanuts
* Sesame seeds
* Fish sauce
* Salt
Method
Pickling the tea leaves
1. Steep tea in moderately hot water for 10 minutes. Drain and rinse. Then soak in cold water for an hour and drain and rinse. Squeeze out excess liquid.
2. In a small food processor, add tea leaves, juice of one lemon, three cloves of garlic, chopped chilli and ginger, and salt. Add sesame oil and one tbsp peanut oil. Pulse till you get a rough paste.
3. Store for two days.
Salad
1. Chop lettuce or cabbage and place in an even layer on a large plate. Add a scoop of fermented leaves to the middle of the plate.
2. Fry the garlic in 2 tbsp peanut oil on medium heat.
3. Then place small heaps of all the remaining ingredients on top of the lettuce.
4. Add plenty of crunchy bits. Squeeze lemon over the salad and toss.
Shabnam Minwalla is a journalist and author of The Six Spellmakers of Dorabji Street