Post by tcn on Jul 10, 2007 22:27:29 GMT -5
Summer in Calcutta
It never feels like summer in Calcutta despite the sweltering heat. The house is bleak, and by the gardens, mounds, stones and trees a serene yellow-green glassiness chills the speech of the lovebirds.
My mother-in-law is in the kitchen boiling tea the Indian way, bringing the water to a boil, separating it from the stove before pouring it into a Bone China decanter. I see her add the exotic tea leaves and spices with care before covering it with a "tea cozy" letting it sit for three minutes, slowly brewing. She gives me a playful and reluctant look of anticipation. Once ready, she filters it into fine, delicate cups adding milk and sweetener to taste.
She takes a sip sampling the brew and smiles before offering me a spoonful. It has a unique flavor, one brought about by the variation of culture, language and customs. We both bow our heads in agreement but no words are exchanged. There is a calm in the house, on the land, not to be mistaken for peace, just a deadening quiet.
In the next room an illustration by Edmund Dulac hangs on the white wall and I dream about Queen Scheherazade telling her stories to King Shahryar. I want the same enthusiasm of an artist over the mere order of a solitary home impatient over her lover's absence.
It never feels like summer in Calcutta despite the sweltering heat. The house is bleak, and by the gardens, mounds, stones and trees a serene yellow-green glassiness chills the speech of the lovebirds.
My mother-in-law is in the kitchen boiling tea the Indian way, bringing the water to a boil, separating it from the stove before pouring it into a Bone China decanter. I see her add the exotic tea leaves and spices with care before covering it with a "tea cozy" letting it sit for three minutes, slowly brewing. She gives me a playful and reluctant look of anticipation. Once ready, she filters it into fine, delicate cups adding milk and sweetener to taste.
She takes a sip sampling the brew and smiles before offering me a spoonful. It has a unique flavor, one brought about by the variation of culture, language and customs. We both bow our heads in agreement but no words are exchanged. There is a calm in the house, on the land, not to be mistaken for peace, just a deadening quiet.
In the next room an illustration by Edmund Dulac hangs on the white wall and I dream about Queen Scheherazade telling her stories to King Shahryar. I want the same enthusiasm of an artist over the mere order of a solitary home impatient over her lover's absence.
and 
all
time for me 
echoes, hope you all are doing well 
