By Bhavya Choudhary
The morning sun was soft and pale,
The wind outside, a whispered tale.
Inside the house, where silence grew,
A voice called out—tender and true:
“Beta, come here,” the father said,
His voice not loud, but calm instead.
“Let’s make some chai—just you and me,
Like old times, slow… intentionally.”
The son looked up from books and screen,
Surprised to hear that tone serene.
He joined his dad in the modest space,
The kitchen worn, yet full of grace.
The kettle sat, the cups aligned,
A tiny ritual, sweetly timed.
“Start with water,” the father smiled,
“Like all of life—so soft, so mild.”
“Now light the flame, but gentle, slow,
Don’t rush the heat; let patience grow.
We add the leaves, the colour's weak,
But give it time, let silence speak.”
The son obeyed, with careful hand,
While father leaned against the stand.
“Now ginger… cloves… and cardamom,
A touch of sugar—not too glum.”
As steam began to dance and swirl,
The father’s eyes began to blur.
He blinked it back, and smiled again,
“Now pour the milk… let it remain.”
The boil began, the scent arose,
Warm memories stirred beneath their nose.
Two cups were poured, the table laid,
Two spoons beside the tea they made.
They sipped in peace, no urgent call,
Just clinks of glass, the evening’s fall.
Then later, tucked beneath his sheet,
The father lay, worn out, but sweet.
He whispered low, “That chai, my son…
Wasn’t just tea. It had begun—
To show you life, how it must be,
From quiet leaf to destiny.”
“The tea leaves vanish in the blend,
Their role complete—they meet their end.
They give their taste, then fade away…
But what remains will always stay.”
The son looked on with quiet eyes,
Then saw a truth he’d missed disguised.
The father coughed, his breath grew thin,
As night crept softly on his skin.
“I’m fading too,” the old man said,
His voice now fragile, barely thread.
“My time is up, my job is through—
But I’ve made tea…
And now it’s you.”