Day Eleven: The Tea-Stall (23 June)
on From Banglatown to Bangladesh (Bangladesh), 05/Jul/2010 15:10, 34 days ago
I have written many times about the consistent inconsistencies of the Desh. There is, however, at least one constant amongst this continuous wave of never-quite-being-sure-about-what-is-coming-next. And that is my proximity to a tea-stall.In the little market just by my house there are at least four spots for a cup of tea and a sit-down. The road leading up to it, with its towering banyan tree, and one-room school on the corner, has at least another four. Walking through these streets, four times a day (to and from the office in the morning, lunchtime, and the evening), I estimate I pass about ten tea-stalls. Which gives me approximately forty-four opportunities for a cup of tea. In a combined total of forty minutes.You get the idea. And tea-stalls aren’t just a small-town thing. In Dhaka too, the streets are lined with opportunities for sugary goodness. Ranging from long rooms with concrete walls, with lunghi-clad men turning snacks over hot oil out front; to bamboo huts with wooden benches crammed together; to one-table affairs, with the maker’s materials behind; tea-stalls are everywhere in Bangladesh.The goods on offer vary too; some serve only the glop of tea leaves and condensed milk in tiny cups ubiquitous to the country. Some have cakes and biscuits in plastic bags and jars. And some have a full-on selection of fried savouries and sweets.Yet, despite my proximity to tea-stalls, I don’t visit them all that often. It’s the wrong time of year, you see. In my office at least, tea-stall visits are definitely a winter activity. We may make occasional trips in other seasons, but it is in winter that the words ‘ca hebe?’ (Chakma for ‘will you take tea?’) ring out regularly, just in time for elevenses.I am not entirely sure of the reason for this choice of seasons. The tiny cups are too small really to be warming. I suspect it has something to do with the availability of Marmapitha, winter-only cakes made of coconut and rice flour. Whatever the reason, the choice certainly doesn’t extend to all: the tea-stalls I pass everyday are never devoid of people.It had, however, been a while since I’d sat in a tea-stall, watched the people and chickens wander past, and battled with the ever-present condensed milk skin. (What exactly are you supposed to do with it? Do you chew it? Try to swallow whole? Attempt to leave neatly hanging on the side of the cup? These challenges, while lessened, have never completely disappeared in my time here.)Today, however, I had my chance. Going down the stairs to leave the office, I realised it was raining. Proper raining, the kind that makes your clothes cling as you get drenched in seconds, and makes you question what protection umbrellas actually provide. I loitered on our porch for a while, waiting for a gap in the downpour. Eventually, getting impatient, I thought I spotted a slight let-up in the fall, enough to keep me dry-ish, combined with my umbrella and raincoat (both ever-present in my bag these days). And I stepped out into the storm.I was wrong, however. There was no let-up. Quite the opposite in fact. Two minutes from the office, my clothes were already dripping. I had overlooked too that I was wearing white salwar, which promptly had gone see-through in the wet. And my umbrella, twice-broken and twice-repaired, was turning inside-out in the wind.So, too late to return to the office, to the tea-stall I went. This is an office favourite, Marma-run, and always filled with men and women commenting on the people walking past. What exactly they thought of me, soaking wet and with transparent trousers, I don’t know. But I was ushered under the low roof, and room was made for me on the small wooden benches. Tea was served, and conversation ensued: ranging from where I was from, to where I worked, to all our recent illnesses, to the role of the British in the Chittagong Hill Tracts (this is the onlyplace I have ever been where colonial powers are spoken of positively).And eventually, the rain really did let-up. My trousers were slightly less see-through, the tea and conversation had finished, and all of us were on our way. A random encounter, a chance for me to practice my Bangla, and an overdue opportunity for me to sit and enjoy the interactions, the people-watching, and the thick, sweet liquids of a Bangladeshi tea-stall.