A Cup Without Tea

She was late coming home one October night. Fireworks from outside rattled the teacups on the shelf. The sound of fingertips tapped the glass windows. Was she home? The tapping dissolved into a heavy rain coaxing the windowpanes. I sat in the kitchen waiting. Then finally, she came home. The rain made her porcelain-colored skin glow. She wasn’t alone; a man trailed behind her. They were drenched from head to toe. Their laughter filled the air. He appeared exotic, clad in a long sequenced shirt and sandals.

“Is this usually how Diwali ends? Running through a rainstorm?” She asked with a playful smile on her lips. 

He grinned broadly. “Is it odd to say my first American Diwali has been my favorite of all my years?” 

Her smile grew wider. “I’ll get us some tea.”

On cue, I warmed my teapot as she placed the leaves inside my lid. I felt my insides coming to life. I was steeping chai, a tea I’m sure he liked. She thanked me quietly before taking me into the living room setting me carefully on a tray. They settled on the carpet, wrapping themselves in towels. Their knees practically touched. She poured my contents into a cup for him before serving herself. They sipped the chai without breaking their gaze from one another.

“Andamaina,” he said. 

“An-da-may-na.” She repeated mimicking his accent. 

“There’s no ‘may’.”

“But you said ‘may’.” They shared a laugh. “What are we even saying?”

His cheeks blushed. “Beautiful.” 

She sipped her tea still not breaking her gaze. “Say it again, but let me watch your lips this time.” She requested edging closer. He obliged speaking slowly. She watched his lips carefully.

“Your tongue.” She said.

“What about it?”

“It moves differently than mine.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It could be an advantage.”

“How so?”

“For this.”

And with that, they kissed…

And kissed…

And kissed.

***

I churned my black tea leaves repeatedly in my pot. The Earl Gray was extra potent, strong, and caffeinated. They’d need it. They always needed it. For several months, every day followed a familiar pattern. The early sunrise peeked through the windows before an alarm clock blared, followed by a quick press of the snooze button.

I’d start up the tea.

They’d exchange kisses in the kitchen, kisses while cooking breakfast, then have to hastily eat their meals. Tea was often neglected. Then it was:

"Goodbye."

Kiss.

"Goodbye again."

They’d both leave for the day. Other dishes needed washed and a vacuum needed to be run. I’d remained submerged in my tea leaf traces until the day’s end. My stains grew deeper into my porcelain. Evenings followed another similar pattern:

"Hello."

Kiss.

"How was your day?"

Kiss.

They were too preoccupied to notice me. I didn’t mind.

If she was happy then I was happy. 

***

I brewed chamomile. Pots and pots of chamomile.

Despite the amount of tea drank their hands still trembled. A blackened cloud perpetuated their anxiety. One phone call could change their lives. While he paced she sipped.

“They’ll call. I promise they will.” She reassured him gently.

“I’ve done everything I was supposed to. Always studied as a child, bachelor’s in engineering, grad school in America, and graduated with honors. I get this or I have to fly back to India.”

She sipped more tea. “It took me almost a year before I got my job.”

“But you’re American. Things will always be easy for you.”

“That’s not true-”

A phone rang. He answered. She squeezed his hand. He nodded, thanked someone, and hung up.

“I got the job!” Their joy overflowed as they embraced.

They kissed...

And kissed...

And kissed.

***

I felt extra clean one day. So did every inch of the house. She was buzzing in motion all around like a hummingbird. She watered the flowers on the windowsill, mopped the floor again, and polished my pot once more.

“Marigolds, your mother likes marigolds right? I planted fresh ones in the front. Should I have planted jasmine instead? They’re much more subtle.”

“It’s fine, it’s tea with my mom. It will all be fine.” He drew her close placing a tender kiss on her head.

A knock rasped the door. An older woman with the same eyes as his was welcomed in. The woman frowned, scanning the house. I was positioned between the three of them at the table. I ensured the chai was made well. Less hot and properly balanced between the tea leaves and water prepared for the perfect amount of milk poured overtop.

The woman took a sip from her cup before speaking. “So tell me, dear, what is it that you do again?”

“I’m a teacher.” She replied.

“At university?”

“Pre-school.”

The woman’s frown deepened.

“Did you notice the flowers out front?” He interjected. The woman barely nodded. “They were planted just for you.”

“Besides a love for teaching, I’ve always wanted to be a florist. Flowers bring me so much happiness.” She looked at him taking his hand.

The woman slammed her cup down accidentally hitting me. A part of me chipped. “Is this what you’ll do with your life? Just be a teacher?”

“Amma.”

“No!” The woman stopped him wagging her finger. “My son engaging himself with a teacher? Staying in America? Was this your plan all along? To keep him from his own mother?”

“Amma!”

I boiled my water.

“No.” She said. “That wasn’t my plan. I didn’t plan to attend Diwali but my girlfriend insisted, I didn’t plan to meet your son that night. I didn’t plan to date him and fall deeply in love with him. But I do have a plan now. And that’s to marry your son.”

The woman sipped her tea and spit it back into her cup. “She can’t even make tea correctly, how can you marry her?”

I steamed.

“She’s nothing like the good Indian women back home.”

I whistled.

“She’ll never be good enough for you!”

I burned the woman.

“Ahhh!”

“Amma!”

“I want as far away from here as I can get.”

She finally spoke. “I’ll gladly show you the door.”

***

I was dry and weak. My insides had been untouched for weeks. Dust formed in the crevices of my handle. Each evening was unfolding predictably: a silent dinner, tv, drinks. The sound of empty bottles rattled in the trashcan beside me. At least he took the garbage out. He usually didn’t speak. He never cooked or cleaned. She would wait until he left the house to cry. She talked for hours on the phone holding a cup.

A cup without tea.

A cup filled with a drink that wasn’t from me.

I was hurting because she was hurting.

***

One morning I felt replenished. I was steeping with herbal tea. She decided to brew her cherished favorite: Rooibos tea.

Why was she having her favorite tea?

She only had it during moments of celebrations or times in desperate need of serenity. She didn’t look as if she liked sipping her tea. Tears trickled down her face nearly mingling into her tea.

How could my pot be so full but also feel empty?

***

The first day of spring had arrived. Birds chirped in the open window. A breeze with fresh lavender floated inside from the garden.

And then I crashed onto the floor.

I lay shattered, pieces scattered around the house. She paused taking a deep breath before picking me up. She didn’t mean to knock me over. She gathered my pieces and carried me to the table.

For hours she glued me back together until I was finally whole again. Instead of lifting my lid to drop in tea leaves, she placed a handful of earth. Over and over she scooped it in me. It smelled nothing like tea. It sort of tickled. Then she planted three daisies nestled in the earth inside my pot. I sat on the table as she beamed at me. It had been ages since I saw that happy smile.

There will be other teapots to make her her tea. The flowers I hold will showcase the serenity she needs. No matter what, she needs to know of her infinite beauty, put herself first, and choose a love that is free.

And never hold a cup that is without tea.