The masala chai that sat unceremoniously at her Tuesday work table on this present day, reminded Damayanti of a holiday she had been on, thirty years back. This was a piece of memory that had sat in a quiet corner of her brain fluff, waiting for a chance to surface. She hated it then. The gloopy texture of the drink. But she had felt a bit grown up, drinking it from a thermos, in the bone-chilling Himalayan rain.
Today, that spice felt reassuring. The taste was like a bridge that she could cross to reconnect with lost things. It’s only with these passing years that Damayanti has realised, we end up tolerating or even loving a lot of things that we weren’t keen on, while growing up. It’s a clear case of how our social environments and our changing circumstances affect our choices.
In this instance, the spices gave her that warmth she misses amidst this perpetual greyness. She sits for a while, singling out the flavours - the heat of the cloves behind her tonsils, the cinnamon at the tip of her tongue, and the ginger on her palate.
Despite a gazillion worries crowding her mind, she relishes the hot cuppa. Not her thing. But she surprises herself.
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