The Chenab seemed as restless as I was. I decided to crawl out of bed as quietly as I could and settle both our thoughts. Wondering how peacefully asleep both my parents were and a tad envious, I was going to fix myself a nun chai to enjoy the first light coming in. Just so I had something to brag about witnessing firsthand and by myself, when they woke up.
A night on a Shikara on the Chenab was everyone’s romantic fantasy. Certainly not one an adolescent straight out of school wants to experience with her parents. And then, this river seemed a bit agitated too. Something just wasn’t right.
A few months ago, I’d have had my sister around to set things straight. The elder ones are annoyingly good at it. But may be today, once fixed, the nun chai will take a shot at the fixing.
Dishing out a copper samovar, endemic to Kashmir, I put a cup of water to boil.
Brewing what was probably two tablespoons of green tea leaves until they were frothy,
I sprinkled in a third of a teaspoon of baking soda.
When I had whisked it for a few seconds, I added in another cup of water and the powder of what may have been two crushed cardamom seeds.
It brewed till it turned a radiant Red.
The heat adjusted to a medium, I poured in two cups of milk.
As I whisked it gently and vigorously in turn, I saw my nun chai turn a lovely dark pink.
Pink – the colour of an imminent dawn.
Pink – my favourite colour.
Adding a trace of half a teaspoon of salt, I could see things turning better already!
My pretty beverage found pride of place in the ancient copper pitcher meant for it and I headed out onto the patio to behold the colour in my teacup smeared all over the sky.
I thought I’d write to her while I waited, sipping on steaming nun chai – an inimitable contrast and therefore, companion to the chilly almost-morning.
As morning painted itself before me, I wanted to stretch out and pull away a Chinar leaf stuck stubbornly to its tree trunk. I let it be. Things should be left as they are sometimes. That’s what she would’ve said. I’d write on a paper instead.
But what should my letter say? That we had been all over Kashmir over the past few weeks; that the exams went off okay; that nun chai is a joy to sip amid a freezing Kashmiri summer? Would that be fascinating enough for a newly married-and-migrated-to-the-States-sister? Would it make her miss home and run back to us, to me, just for a hug and a bit?
The Chenab was smoothening out now. I needed to as well.
When the sky lit up a tad more, I decided that all my letter needed to say was,
“I can feel you sitting here beside me. I didn’t want to keep the beauty of this moment to myself.
How about I fix you with a nun chai when I see you next?”
The distant Chinar trees, on the horizon, swayed “Yes!”.
