Afternoon Tea

by Joanna Crea (Australia)

Making a local connection India

The infamous moonscape of Little Tibet has long disappeared as I’m sandwiched between ranges standing on the perilous road that guides you 160 kilometres southeast towards Leh, the capital of Ladakh; India. The Chorbat La looms to the north, I spin around creating a cloud of dust, in awe of the canyon walls. My feet move towards a suspended bridge swaying carelessly over the Indus River, a hamlet carved into the ridge illuminated on the other side. The air is crisp and intoxicating, yet gentle as the temperature slowly increases as Spring approaches. My eyes wander across the cultivated terraces bursting with new growth from apricot and apple trees. A gentle timbre floats through the air as bells sway around the goat's neck as hooves tread upon the stoney paths. I'm quietly exhilarated, at the beauty and remoteness that surrounds me; as I feel for my inner line permit tucked into my pocket. I walk further into the village, to my left a door opens with a creak. There stands a woman with a wide toothless smile, her cheekbones resting high on her face. Vivid green eyes are accentuated by the kaleidoscope of flowers arranged on her head as thin plaits frame her face which is shrouded by silver chains and coins glistening in the morning light. I'm beckoned to enter, bowing my head in respect as well as not to collide with the door frame. Inside there is a kitchen full of pots arranged against the wall, it is dark and hues are blurred as smoke rises from the fire. I'm motioned to sit upon a worn Kilim which fills the room. The woman's weathered hands hold a cup as she ladles liquid into it from the pot that rests upon embers. Buttery goodness passes my lips, heart warming nourishing tea; the soul of India. The moment is interrupted as the door swings open, chattering abounds as sisters, brothers, mothers and fathers enter the room. I become the object of interest, in my well worn kurti, jeans and hiking boots. I suddenly feel underdressed, drab, self-conscious and foreign. I'm surrounded by people adorned with flowers, silver, coloured ribbons and shells. Voices rise and fall as a young girl runs off in her plastic sandals, no sooner has she left she returns. This time with an older woman in tow. The woman is led through the door towards me, she is engulfed within a longhaired goat skin pinned around her sternum. White turnips appear somewhat magically from the elder, as she quickly breaks off the tips and the bulb is rinsed with a handful of icy water. The house is bursting with inquisitiveness and curiosity, just like me. The turnip is cut and placed onto a plate as the elder sets a biscuit in the centre; she offers me this to accompany my tea. My mind spins, am I still adjusting to the mere 2800m elevation in the land of high passes? I change my grip around the cup in an attempt to familiarise myself. Far from my family and home, the openness and hospitality that is extended to a stranger from the Brokpa people's is overwhelming; only kilometres away from the line of control between India and Pakistan. My other hand picks up a piece of turnip and relishes the coolness of the vegetable as I find the room rapidly heating up with warmth, delight and wholeness. I know that Ladaki isn’t spoken here, however I utter thank you; “Jullay”. Smiles erupt and laughter pursues. I offer the biscuit to the elder, she touches her heart then replies in Brokskat language with pride, as she accepts the biscuit with a beam. She also has a warm cup of pink tea in her hands. No matter what state, district or class the warmth of tea unites. What seems like hours pass and people slowly filter from the house. Eventually, I bow and stand to leave. I step outside, my eyes adjust to the light as I thrillingly step deeper into the village. Another door is opened and the generosity begins again. A cup of tea, a day of humility that turns into an afternoon in Dha-Hanu Valley.