Tea is something that, as a rule, I never refuse. Kolkata loves tea, and it works well to my benefit to be here. There may be places where good tea may be available, though it remains for me to check them out.

Tea in Kolkata has been served in earthen cups - banr - for donkey's years, though with the changing times, plastic cups are replacing them.

The taste of tea when drunk in these earthen pots; the smell of the earth as it blends with the tea; is one that I would rate as better than any of those served in grand hotels. Grander the hotel, more the effort of drinking tea - making it yourself from the teapot and waiting till that lump of fat-free sugar piece dissolves - making the whole effort not worth the money spent and the cleanliness and sophistication provided. It is a well-established fact now, and one to which I strongly adhere to, that "uglier the shanty, better the tea."

Just outside our office, there is one such ugly shanty. A wooden table, a small stove that runs on kerosene, an earthen handmade fireplace that needs coal to run, a few glass jars kept on the wooden table that host a variety of biscuits, a wooden box just behind the wooden table that serves as a dumping ground for cigarettes, some snacks and money.

Early in the morning, when I reach office, it is a great pleasure just to stand there and have a tea. During the day the trips are quite frequent, for after all tea is tea! But what endears me to this shop is the Didi who runs it along with her husband. Didi has an earthen warmth, her wrinkled forehead adding a few more years to her age and hands that speak of the daylong labour. I watch her in awe as she handles all the customers and her chores efficiently, at the same time taking care of her crying child.

Her day begins early in the morning with getting ready before the first company bus arrives. Their residence is beside this shanty in an equally dingy place. A small cupboard, a clothesline that holds her two saris, a few shirts of her husband, some frocks of her two daughters and some utensils is all that they have as a home. Just behind the shop is their toilet and bathroom, which also serves as a place to wash the utensils.

By the time the bus arrives, she has already made up the earthen fireplace, stacking the coals carefully in the fireplace and lighting them with some kerosene and fanning it to have a roaring fire. The kettle is getting heated with water and tea. The hot water being for those interested in lemon tea - for those health-conscious beings. Sometimes, the tea has a flavour of cardamom, sometimes of ginger and sometimes it is bland.

As people start thronging the place, Didi's deftness and memory come to play. She is always aware of what each person needs. She knows exactly what type of tea each person prefers and what brand of cigarette each person smokes. She is even aware of who would ask for tea in a glass and not the regular plastic cups. Her hands work deftly, confidently, swiftly, as she makes omelettes, gives biscuits, pours tea and calculates the money - simultaneously. It reminds me of Elco Market in Bandra. The person who serves paani-puri, knows exactly how many puris each customer has been served as he calculates it amidst the bustling crowd of a dozen people around him with their outstretched plates, awaiting their turn.

Her breakfast and tea rituals carry on till around eleven in the morning, when she gets ready to cook food. The stove dishes out the dal-rice that would satiate her family as also some acquaintances nearby. Though I have never seen her cook it for sale, I would still want to sit and eat the food from her hands. Noontime is the slack period as people come over, more for cigarettes rather than tea. Afternoons again see that same roaring business of tea and biscuits. Evenings see her cooking some pakodas, as people come for an evening snack of a pyaaji or aloo chop. As her one hand is busy frying the pyaaji, she is still pouring out tea from her other hand. The mouth is giving instructions to her husband, who appears to me to be quite less gifted in the art of remembering the likes and dislikes of a customer. So there she is again, helping him sort out the Gold Flakes and Wills Filters amongst the various customers.

Once the tea that she gave me was scalding hot. The heat took me by surprise and I spilled some of it on my fingers to add woe to misery. The expression on her face, the way she reacted with warmth, the concern, just made it cooler! She immediately offered the pallu of her sari to clean my hot fingers. That humanness is something that I can never forget and brings a lone tear to the eye.

A fine Saturday morning saw me reach office at around 8:30 am, quite before the regular timings. And Didi was getting herself ready for the day ahead. She had just had a bath, her oiled black hair, just washed and let loose, made her look so beautiful. I almost felt like meeting a mamima. And thoughts took me to my village where my own mamima is in control of the house in the same way as Didi is in control of her house and shop. During those innocent childhood trips to my village, I had named my aunt 'Hitler' - my cousin joining me in the naming ceremony; the reason being that she took control of my jeans and washed it after me having worn it just once - without caring to ask me! That was atrocious! A grave disrespect of the very concept of jeans! My cousin joined me in the naming ceremony as girls generally do against their mothers and we had a great time later on during the cousin's marriage calling her 'Hitler' a bit too often.

But the similarity is clear. Both my mamima and Didi are women - complete in their own sense, not beautiful in appearance but having a beauty that is the backbone of each family. That beauty which makes homes out of houses.

For the world, there might be some other Didi; for me there is but this one Didi.
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