Steam curls out of the spout of the brass teapot. On its surface, you can see the reflection of an old man slowly arranging two cups and two plates of biscuits. He sits down and opens up a newspaper, reading its contents with a painstakingly slow thoroughness – from headline news to obituaries of people he doesn’t even know. A young girl stumbles into the room, rubbing her eyes and yawns. She greets her grandfather in clumsy Tamil, her tongue fumbling over its sounds. She slips into the chair next to him with a sheepish smile. He smiles at her, the corners of his mouth gathering wrinkles at the corners before silently pouring out a cup of chai – first for his granddaughter, and next for him.
Chai spills out of the spout and into the cup, swirling around its round bottom before gaining height. More steam wafts into the air along with the scent of ginger and cloves and other spices.
They drink in a comfortable silence, dipping their biscuits in their chai and pulling it out before it becomes too soggy and drowns in its depths.
The brass teapot cools down, tamed by the breeze caressing its surface. The girl washes it carefully, swishing water in its cavity to cleanse it completely, before setting it back on the
cupboard.
Another day cycles by, and a pair of wrinkly, wizened hands pick it up.