By Akshita Sharma
Nathu anna, with his soft paunch and hearty laughter,
would welcome us with the same
comforting warmth and enthusiasm every day.
His repertoire of teas was extraordinary:
cardamom, ginger, clove, butter chai, Irani chai,
and a strong masala chai
with three extra Osmania biscuits
on days when you got up on the wrong side of the bed.
In college, from 1997 to 2000, we were juvenile and artless,
tasting what we today reminisce as the springtime of our lives.
We dillydallied with friends who were like family,
dawdling by Nathu anna's tapri each evening
to try out a different chai every day
and munch on those salty-sweet Osmania biscuits,
while chitter-chattering like birds,
or guffawing, or crying,
or making many important decisions,
falling in love,
sometimes falling out of it.
Every so often, we went there just to breathe,
just to be.
Food and places create strong memories.
I think it’s the sensory experience—
the vibrant colours,
the smells and tastes,
the happy sounds of others around us,
and the touch of the food he serves,
the crisp tablecloth,
the handshakes of friends.
These are people we’ll never forget,
and Nathu anna was our favourite chai sommelier.
There are recollections attached to food and places,
to patterns of intake,
and then there is a hierarchy that they quietly create,
rising to something lofty.
It is a pity that man presumes he constructs these pecking orders.
How misplaced his stations often are,
how sorely mistaken—
the errors of conceited narcissism.