Testy twenties it was…
The first cups were always too hot,
steam rushing against my face on Shimla’s Mall Road.
Books pressed to my chest, laughter spilled too easily,
boys roared past on motorbikes as if noise were a language.
I drank greedily, let the burn sting my tongue—
wasn’t that what being young meant?
To mistake heat for certainty,
to sip before the world cooled into sense.

Thirsty thirties arrived…
The tea was half-drunk,
left on the kitchen counter in a restless metro,
its warmth slipping away between cries of a child
and the scrape of dal at the bottom of a pan.
He hummed while grading papers,
and I learned to take quick mouthfuls
in the pauses between chores.
Was this adulthood?
Tea gone lukewarm before I could claim it,
yet still sweetened by voices in the bliss of motherhood.

Thoughtful forties settled in…
I brewed it strong,
leaves steeped longer,
as if strength could be swallowed whole.
Chalk dust clung to my hands,
children taller, already restless.
September smelt of damp uniforms and damp clothes,
a rush of errands that drowned out silence.
I longed for verandas where tea once cooled in peace,
a cup cradled without interruption.
But at forty, who dares to cradle?
You gulp quickly, knowing the day won’t wait.

Fractured fifties broke me open…
The tea I could not touch.
The kettle whistled, his chair stood empty,
cups cooled untouched beside the ringing phone.
Friends poured comfort into saucers,
but each sip betrayed me—
steam rising like his breath on cold mornings,
the stir of the spoon humming his absence.
Grief left the tea bitter,
every swallow catching in the throat.
September no longer warmed; it hollowed.

Faltering sixties tried to steady…
And still, the ritual endured.
In a new country with skies so wide they startled me,
and hills that leaned softer than any I had known,
I brewed tea as anchor,
its steam curling into a place where my past had no map.
Magpies argued in voices sharper than any I had known,
the Pacific light poured itself into the cup,
and slowly I learned to drink without hurry—
to let the tea steep,
to let myself steep in change.
By then, I was calling Wellington home.

Shifting seventies, still here…
I let the tea cool gently on the porch rail.
Magpies quarrel, the hills lean softly,
and Wellington’s winds still sweep the cup if I forget to guard it.
If I squint, Shimla’s ridges rise again,
folded inside these newer slopes by the sea.
The cup carries all the others—
youth’s burn, motherhood’s half-sip,
ambition’s strength, grief’s untouched silence,
and the steady comfort of ritual.
I no longer rush.
I wait for the right warmth,
and finish each September
while it is still whole.