The extinct teashops
K S S Pillai
Of late, my visits to my native village have become infrequent due to various reasons. As a result, sometimes I feel like Rip Van Winkle, who has just woken up from his 20-year long sleep and finds himself in a strange place.
One thing I miss badly is the teashops of my childhood. I remember accompanying my father to the nearest one in the morning for tea and refreshments before going to school. No one would raise their eyebrows at the sight of a boy drinking tea. There would be some more children there having tea and breakfast, and, occasionally a glass of milk. I continued the practice during my visits after I got a job and settled down in another part of the country.
The shop was an open one. The preparation of tea was the monopoly of the owner, who was always bare-chested. He left the other tasks to his sons and nephews. Tea was prepared in full view of the customers. There used to be a copper vessel on the wood-fired hearth with water on the boil and another with a pot containing hot milk.
When someone ordered tea, he would scoop some hot water into a copper jug and add milk and tea leaves to it. The whole concoction would then be poured into a cloth strainer. Sugar would be added to the resultant brew, which would be poured into a tumbler in an acrobatic style from a height as far as his hand would go, and finally fill the glasses with bubbly, frothy tea. The strained tea leaves would be discarded into another vessel, and fresh ones would be used when someone ordered tea.
Along with tea, the clients would usually order the usual morning dishes of fresh Dosas or Idlis with Sambar and coconut chutney. The batter would be prepared the previous evening in a large grinding stone by the owner’s sons. It took more than two hours to prepare the required quantity of batter. Instead of undergoing the tedious task of preparing the batter at home, womenfolk would ask their men to bring some dishes from the teashop for them and small children.
A vernacular daily newspaper would be an integral part of every teashop. The customers were as much interested in the newspaper as the tea and refreshments. Someone would read the news aloud, and the others would listen attentively. All would then take part in a lively discussion on the hot topics of the day.
In the evenings the teashop would prepare Parippuvada, Pappadavada or Unniappam in coconut oil and display them in glass-fronted Almirahs. Most of the evening customers would relish a steaming glass of tea or coffee without milk with these dishes.
There were several small units that made silver ornaments in the village. The workers would be given a break at four in the evening. As they had an hour to spend, they would walk to the teashop owned by an ex-military man in the town for their tea and snacks.
The old teashops have now been replaced by modern ones. A natural transition, as the village has now become a small city with multiple facilities. All sandy roads have given way to asphalt ones and there is a busy state highway at the outskirt. Houses with thatched roofs and a few with tiles have been replaced by concrete ones, some multi-storied.
As I entered one of the new teashops I was met with dazzling tube-lights, modern furniture, whirring fans, and waiters in uniforms who handed me a menu of available foodstuff. There were even air-conditioned rooms for those who wanted privacy. The kitchen was not visible from the eating area. I was told later that many of the hotels employed ‘guest workers’ from other states as cooks. I was handed a printed bill at the end of the session.
When I came out of the restaurant, I was nostalgic about the extinct teashop culture.
( The author is a retired professor of English. A regular contributor to The Kashmir Vision, his articles and short stories have appeared in various national and international publications)
