Laying off the rice

Kerala Meals – masses of rice with a few spicy extras on the side… and let’s not forget the crunchy pappodum which is crumbled and mixed with the rice…

I have finally expanded my India wardrobe.  I know, it may sound strange as I will be going home in a few days, but the clothes I acquired in England before setting off are tired after multiple washes in my top-loader and the ones I bought here are desperately frayed and hanging by a thread – literally speaking!  Once a decision was made on my return to India in June – and I have agreed to a further six and a half months of punishment –  I felt the time was right to invest in two brand new, bright churidars, which are altogether a bit more colourful than the drab and boring shades that were available in the sales in October in England.  After several mishaps with having sleeves put in tunic tops when I first arrived, I have now made my peace with a local tailor who sews a whole outfit of trousers, tunic and shawl for a mere £2.50.

As my daughter has already pointed out, I may find England on the expensive side on my return as after a while you start to think in rupees.  Last Saturday I visited the tourist magnet of Kovalam and when a rickshaw driver attempted to charge me 600 rupees (£6) for taking me back home, I walked away in disgust…  In the end I had to settle for 400 rupees (£4) and even that was paying over the odds, but I did not fancy the two hour bus journey home at night which would only have set me back 50p. Remind me again of a taxi fare from Slough to Heathrow or from Winchcombe to Cheltenham…  If I sound stingy, this is because my monthly salary here amounts to just £100, which is about double of the other school teachers’ pay packet, so I should not complain.

Today, with only another four sleeps to go, I decided to dig out my going home attire to check that I can still squeeze into my size 10 jeans.  They fitted snugly in October when I left the UK on an unseasonably hot afternoon.  It was so sunny actually that I did not think it necessary to bring a coat or jacket with me, an act I may well regret on Thursday morning when I brave the March chill on board the National Express coach to my daughter’s home near the South coast.  Well, wearing most of my clothes will certainly help to reduce the weight in my suitcase!

After initially gaining an inch or so around the waistline – due to eating an Indian-style diet of rice, rice and more rice – and struggling to contain myself within the limits of my Western clothes, I took matters in hand.  I laid off the cold rice at lunch time (no hardship there) and restricted myself to healthy fruit and vegetables with the occasional ‘treat’ of a peanut butter sandwich .  And boy did it pay off!  Even my size 10 jeans will require me to wear a belt to guard my modesty…  So bring on the chocolate and red meat, and puddings with lashings of cream after every meal, and yes, a glass of something to wash it all down with will certainly be appreciated!!  Water becomes very tedious after a while.

So what do I look forward to most…   Apart from seeing my children, it must be sleeping in my own bed burrowed deeply under a pile of blankets, feeling cool air on my skin at night without the whirring of a fan…  Maybe a humble ham salad sandwich and a packet of crisps or just a bowl of warming soup with garlic bread…  And proper green vegetables such as brocolli, French beans and Brussels sprouts.  And mangoes and crunchy apples; I am happy to give bananas and papayas a miss for a while.  Meeting up with friends on long walks and catching up on all the gossip.  Going to the cinema and out for a glass a wine.  And yes, I have four months of Neighbours to catch up on, but I cannot honestly say I missed that…

Getting closer to the Gods.

India is in the grips of a spate of Hindu festivities, as every February and March.  With feet hardly recovered from the ‘Shivaratri’ pilgrimages and cheek and body piercing marks still livid, Hindus flocked to yet another celebration.  This time the main event centred around many men seeking blessings from the Gods for their babes in arms, all suspended in the air as ‘Garudan Thookkam’ or hanging eagles.

My first experience of this latest festival came last Thursday when I was invited by P., one of the teachers, to visit her local temple and stay overnight.  ‘Temple not very far’, I was assured, so I left my chapals (read sandals for English) at her front door and braved the tarmac and dirt roads again on bare feet.  Whereas this may not have been an issue for Indian feet, my Western feet started protesting almost as soon as we left, but I made it to the temple and back… And the first evening of the Thookkam festival at this temple was not dissimilar from what I had already encountered a few days before: cheek piercings and carrying of ‘carveries’; only the ‘hanging eagles’ were missing.  Those would make their appearance on the last day, with small children in tow but minus the meat hooks.  I was curious…

Preparation for the last day, the following week Tuesday, was in full swing.  Groups of men dressed in orange loin cloths were in fasting mode and lounged along the walls.  Fasting did not mean that anyone went hungry, it merely referred to abstaining from worldly pleasures such as meat, alcohol, cigarettes, and as none of them were allowed a visit home for the next few days, I assume sex was included in the list as well.  Purification of the body as well as the mind before they would be taking the flight of the eagle.  The evening concluded to the sound of colourful crackers, or fireworks as we know them.

So this Tuesday after school, I made my way to the temple with another teacher to attend the final moments of the festival.  We kept chapals on this time, as we had someone who would be looking after our footwear.  The colourfully garlanded street near the temple was filled with vibrant umbrellas and market stalls were vendors were plugging gaudy toys, plastic kitchen ware, jewellery and  sticky, sweet and spicy snacks.  In the temple I fought my way through the throng of devotees who were all gathered near a huge wooden wagon bedecked with bright orange and yellow flowers and palm and banana leaves.  At the front of the cart, the fasting men were being prepared to start their flight of the eagle and they were being trussed with cloth and sheets to very long poles protruding from the cart.  Once the men were securely fastened and their hands dusted with chalk to make them less slippery,  small, naked children were placed in their arms, ready for them to be hoisted to dizzying heights with only the tied sheets and bare hands to keep their offspring safe.  And at the back of the cart, muscular men hauled the ropes which forced up the poles to turn the men into ‘hanging eagles’ to the roar of the audience and families who watched the spectacle.  An extended line of eager youngsters and burly men took charge of a long rope and dragged the wagon around the temple.  Luckily, this did not take long and I am sure family members will have heaved a sigh of relief when their children made it safely back into their arms.  A different kind of baptism for sure and one which requires a lot of guts and no fear of heights.

I have no idea when the festival came to a close, but I was woken at six in the morning by the urgency in P’s voice.  ‘Madam, quick.  Crackers…’  By the time I was properly roused and dressed in an appropriate manner in case her husband appeared, daylight was piercing the morning and I only glimpsed the last two blasts of firework through the banana trees.  Whereas I trundled back off to bed until proper waking up time, P. had already been up for a while tending to the daily laundry by hand and now making a start with breakfast and lunch…   And husband, well, he was still sound asleep; I needn’t have worried about covering up to be decent, his day only begins at about 7.  But he did cook a very nice chicken curry the night before.

Taking piercings to a whole new level.

11 year old student from my school…The Elephant Festival in Chenkal, Kerala:

The Elephant Festival in Chenkal, Kerala, where Hindu devotees have their cheeks pierced, are suspended above the ground on hooks, and walk over hot coals – it’s just another ordinary day in India.

Last  week Hindus in India celebrated Maha Shivratri, a festival to honour the God Shiva, which inevitably necessitated another National Holiday.  So the school closed at lunchtime on Monday in anticipation of the flocks of locals and tourists swooping down on Chenkal  to witness the grand parade with elephants, as everyone told me eagerly.  An opportunity not to be missed!! And indeed, I spotted the first elephant in the morning – or was it the huge elephant droppings on the road that alerted me?  After coming across a multitude of those in Africa in September, I would say I am almost an expert in recognizing elephant poo…    Anyway, I was going to be in for something spectacular!

After joining some of the school’s teachers for temple food at lunch time – Kerala lunch with masses of rice – , I was already given a little preview of what would be in store.  Seven elephants with mahouts in attendance were lazily eating palm leaves; young men were preened and prepared in colourful costumes and men clad in orange were finalizing their drumming skills.  The air buzzed with excitement in the early afternoon although the parade was not due to start until much later in the evening when the unforgiving sun had lost most of its ferocity. So I spent most of the afternoon in the house of a teacher, sipping away at tea and water and being fed fruit, biscuits and all matter edible until I was fit to burst.  And this was before supper… In their generosity and hospitality, Indians do not understand the word ‘no’ and it takes some persuasion to convince them that you have really had enough to eat…

Where tradition meets modern technology.

Prepped and preened hours before the festival.

Waiting patiently for the action to begin

Getting ready to play the tiger…

Waiting for the parade to start.

As soon as the afternoon heat started to fade, we set off on our walk to the river from where the parade was due to leave a few hours later.  On the way we watched locals cleanse the area near the front of their houses and display offerings of fruit and flowers for the Gods that would pass whilst members of the upper Brahmin caste drew Kolam patterns on the ground, all to welcome the Goddess of prosperity, Lekshmi, into their houses.

Well, I tried not to include him in the photograph of the offerings, but he was having none of it…

We did not quite make it to the river in time to witness the ritual bathing of the God Shiva and the many pilgrims draped in orange loincloths who joined in the washing process.  It took us a while to navigate through the throng of on-lookers who had gathered to witness the priests preparing Hindu faithful for their sacrifice to the God Shiva in the search for better luck and a good future life.  And I – as well as every white tourist present – could feel their sacrifice in my stomach, even though I was assured that the ones ready to be hung up by meat hooks were only convulsing through the blessings of the Gods…  And I definitely would like to know what those who smiled for the camera were taking, because I may need it for my next visit to the dentist!

The God Shiva, heading the parade after being bathed in the river.

Posing for a picture….

Not a care in the world…

Ready, steady…

Go…

But the parade after dark was indeed spectacular with colourfully adorned elephants, fire throwers and men still dangling up high, suspended in the air…  As for those walking with the rods through their mouth or carrying a carvery, they were so ‘blessed by the Gods’, only the support from other people kept them from keeling over…

Still going strong several hours later….

This is some ‘blessing’ as it takes four men to stop this young boy from toppling over.

Not every Hindu joins in with the body piercing and most will show their devotion on that night in other ways.  So it was that I accompanied Principal M’am and her husband, Academic Director, on a 100 km twelve temple pilgrimage into Tamil Nadu.  Unlike many Hindus who cover the distance walking or running barefoot within a twenty-four hour period, we opted to go by car – I think I might have given it a miss otherwise.  There was, however, a slight flaw in the plan.  Leaving at 9.00 in the evening together with what seemed like the whole population of Kerala meant that car parking spaces were rather elusive and a two-wheeler (or motorbike to you and me) would have been the more sensible option…  As the wearing of shoes is forbidden in temples and we could not be certain that our shoes would still be at the entrance by the time we finished at the temple, we joined the many bare feet on the tarmac and left our chapals in the safety of the car.  This worked well for the first few temples, but the distances between the car and the temples certainly appeared to increase greatly as the night wore on.  And what may have felt like small molehills under foot at first, developed into gigantic porcupines to walk on by the end of the night.  Even the smoothest road surfaces seemed to grow razor sharp pins to pierce your feet.  Well, I did not escape the ‘body piercing’ after all…   We eventually completed our trek at 7 am in the morning and spent the rest of the day with Principal M’am’s family in Tamil Nadu.  It was after all a National Holiday, so need to rush back…

Take your pick… maybe they will be yours after all or maybe not.

Of Pride and Punishment

A matter of national pride

Daily pledge to India, a proud country

India is a proud country and pride is instilled from a young age, as in many countries…  Each and every day, children affirm their allegiance to their country and promise to treat their elders, teachers and parents with respect.  And as this pledge is declared in English, a language not their own, I assume that certainly the younger children have managed to adeptly memorise the content without actually understanding a word of it…  Needless to say that respect for teachers is indeed achieved in school, but only with the help of the ubiquitous cane…

And at the end of the day, all comes to a halt when everyone, including visitors and me, stand bold upright to sing the National Anthem.   To be entirely accurate, I just limit my participation to standing motionless, as I have not yet managed to learn any Indian languages with sufficient fluency to sing a song.  At the moment my limited repertoire of Malayalam vocabulary focuses on the priorities of life: food, so I can buy a banana, milk, water, eggs, cumin seeds and asafoetida. Not exactly words that will feature in any National Anthem…   But at least everyone here knows the lyrics to their National Anthem.  Recently when someone asked me to sing the British National Anthem, I got promptly stuck after ‘God save our gracious Queen…’ .  Having living in England for over thirty years and feeling more British than Belgian, I can hardly blame my non-native credentials for this lack of patriotism.  But then again, how many British people know the words to their National Anthem anyway?  I just Googled it, it has 5 different verses!!!  I thought it only consisted of 5 lines…

A touch of magic.

Photograph taken with permission – Taming the waiting children on Sport’s Day

I am not advocating the return of the cane, but there is something really powerful in the swish of this magic stick in the Indian classroom.  I do not have one, but most teachers go to the classrooms armed with this prop.  And when I innocently, and with some curiosity for its touch in my hand, picked it up in a classroom a while ago,  it felt like a Harry Potter moment.  Just with the swoosh of my wand, a bubbly, chattering and noisy class transformed into graveyard silence where the mere whisper of the wind would sound a gale: Magic!!!!!  Well maybe the poor kids thought I might use it and they have not yet learnt that in England the cane is a relic belonging to the past.  However I was rather surprised at the reason teachers gave for taking the cane into the classroom. ‘It is for my protection’, one of them argued, although she was struggling to pinpoint the exact dangers she would be facing if she were to enter the lion’s den without her weapon…  But a healthy (or unhealthy) respect for the rod means that children are more likely to show their better behaviour in the classroom and school. Even big groups of bored children can be kept sitting in silence for hours on end when adults deem to have more important things to occupy themselves with than providing education for their charges…

A case of double standards

I never speak in Malayalam in the school campus… Mmm. One rule for the children and another for the teachers!

The school, like many in the developing world, is ambitious for its students and finds much merit in teaching them English as their language of communication.  Although India’s national language is Hindi, most people revert to English when they do not share the same first language and English has become the main language of education, especially in higher education and at degree level.  To promote the children’s and teachers ‘ fluency and proficiency, the school has implemented a rule that only English should be spoken on the school premises.  And hopefully correct grammar will materialise incidentally….  Easier said than done as everyone has a native language in common and tends to use it at every possible opportunity, including the teachers… So I was a little bemused to come across some notebooks from children who clearly had broken the rules and were made to write many pages of ‘I never speak in Malayalam in the school campus’.  A case of double standards indeed, as teachers are constantly jabbering away in their native tongue including during their ‘English lessons’ with me. Maybe I should get the teachers themselves to write pages and pages of ‘I must never speak Malayalam in the school campus’…  Although the cane is not a form of punishment I am comfortable with, writing lines certainly is…

Beware of Valentine’s Day

Clearly not everyone has taken to Valentine’s Day in India and definitely, the Hindu Mahasabha (a right wing conservative group) has declared war on the Day of Love.  Interesting that the very country that ‘invented’ love and purported great openness about the subject in the past should have such a problem with it now…  Or is it because the Western wind has blown V-Day, as it is called in the Washington Post online,  into India’s direction…? The group has vowed to make short shrift with any lovebirds who on this day feel the desire to declare their undying love, either in person or online, by swiftly forcing them to agree to marriage. Social media will be scrutinized for any miscreants who will have no option but to accept nuptials as the inevitable consequence of their bold deed.  On the upside, wedding sari shops will experience a boom and their profits will rocket; wedding venues will rake in the rupees…  Could it be that the leaders of the Hindu Mahasabha have a stake in this industry???  In the meantime, the shops in Trivandrum this morning were still selling Valentine’s Day gifts and the film channels on TV have not exactly given up on showing every soppy romantic film made in the last 20 years…

It has not escaped my notice that I may be missing out on an opportunity here: all I need to save myself from a future bursting with loneliness is someone posting me a ‘love’ message on Facebook in the vicinity of the Hindu faithful of the very conservative kind…  Does What’sApp count as well??? Maybe I should quickly join Twitter.  But then again, I now know there is no such thing as undying love and fairytale weddings…  And Indian men, well, I could write pages on the subject, but not much of it would be flattering…  Best leave it at that…  So, if anyone was to send me a message today, I am unlikely to reply; just to be on the safe side…  But any other day of the year…

Losing a quarter of a century…

Age: take away 25 years…. or should I say add 25…

With one fell swoop, a quick stroke on a keyboard and I was rejuvenated at the tune of a quarter of a century.  No costly face lifts, nor expensive age defying creams needed.  No Ayurvedic massages or time travel involved.   All it took was a trip to the nearest hospital on a quest to find the one and only X-ray machine in town.

The troubles of teeth followed me to India and came to a head about three weeks ago.   It is not that I neglect visits to the dentist in the UK, I am one of their regulars; but perhaps I focus more on the outer issues and ignore what may be brewing underneath and is only revealed on expensive X-rays.  So, I paid the price and my little sojourn to Varkala a few weeks ago was only made enjoyable in the company of painkillers.   On my return the next day I asked around and was given insider information on a reputable dentist in town.  Sorting out priorities, I cancelled my after school lesson with the teachers and headed off to the dentist.

First in line that afternoon, I was whisked in as soon as the dentist returned from lunch.  A quick cursory look in the mouth and minimal enquiries about  any discomfort resulted in the conclusion that some bridging work would resolve the matter…  No X-ray needed…  When in pain, it is not always possible to make sensible decisions and whereas I should have insisted on an X-ray there and then, the dentist seemed perfectly reasonable in his justification.  Also, when weighing up the financial impact on my purse of having major dental work done in India, compared with the UK, I decided if all failed, I would only have lost a little amount of money and I could have things sorted out properly in the UK.  So I agreed, and instead of being given some time to consider my options, the dentist wasted no time and set to work.  In case I changed my mind and he would lose out on a fat cheque?? After three months in Kerala, I was becoming cynical.  Whilst the drill was grinding away,  I tried to suppress the niggling doubt and thought that maybe a consultation with a trusted dentist in Cape Town before embarking on the Indian dental experiment might have been a good idea …  Ah, but what pleasure in living a little dangerously and recklessly…  Keeping further pain at bay with painkillers and antibiotics, the bridge arrived in a matter of days and within a week I had a new set of teeth permanently fixed and I was expecting this to be the end of it….

It was not to be, and once the effects of the antibiotics had worn off, it was clear that not all was well in the paradise of my mouth.  So, this Thursday another visit to the dentist was in order and this time I insisted that any further intervention would have to be considered in the light of an X-ray.  Although the dentist has two consultation rooms, his equipment does not stretch to having an X-ray machine. But no worries as opposite the hospital at the other side of the town, there are some laboratories where X-rays are taken.  With a note from the dentist and  just the vaguest notion of where the hospital was – I had come across it once on my way to the train station – I set off on my walk.  I duly reached the hospital – a sort of purplish building with lots of notice boards giving information in Malayalam and no English.  However, the number of people milling around and the multitude of auto rickshaws at the front were a promising sign and it was the correct junction; and indeed, on entering the reception area I found  a long list of names of doctors.  Surely, someone there would be able to tell me where to go for an X-ray…

I approached the auto rickshaw drivers first, with no success, as one of them answered in perfect English that ‘he did not speak English’ and that maybe ‘the security guard would be able to help.’  Now, that was a lot of English for someone who does not understand or speak the language.  But I was not in any mood to argue and appealed to the security guard, who clearly spoke no English at all but was very keen to help.  He promptly took me to the reception desk in the hospital where my details were logged – I tried to explain that I needed an X-ray in a place across the road, but this all fell on deaf ears, and I had no option but to go with the flow.   In the absence of any English my name got altered, I became a spring chicken again after wiping a full 25 years of my time on this planet (I obviously still look like a 30 year old, or do Indian people age much quicker???) and my worth was reduced to 600 rupees (not sure if this was meant to be my income per day, week, month???), and  as for an address, I seem to be residing on the streets of N.  But the computer print-out granted me access to a doctor in the hospital!

Whereas I was fully expecting to join the back of the queue – or the queue for the women as there were two neatly formed queues: one for the men and one for women –  and wait my turn, I was immediately manhandled and pushed to the front of the line by all and sundry with beaming smiles and very encouraging Malayalam words from all,  but a little unsettling for me as I had no idea where I was going to end up.  I was thrust through a closed door and ended up queue-jumping into the office of a doctor who spoke English.  After some discussion, she explained that I was in the wrong place for an X-ray (as if I did not know this already….), but she duly clarified the matter to the security guard who was monitoring proceedings through the open window.  Privacy takes on a whole different meaning here…

So, I made my way out of the  hospital and the security guard took me to the gate where he motioned into the direction of  the other side of the road.  Whilst crossing the road I studied the myriad signs above the shops for one that would suggest some medical connection and as I spotted the one that sported a promising red cross, a very enthusiastic looking, grinning woman was beckoning me to follow her.  Clearly the news of my impending visit to the X-ray machine had travelled very quickly indeed and the novelty of having a white person at their premises was greeted with great gusto by the staff.  To overcome the language barrier, she took me by the hand and as a child I was led along narrow corridors into the bowels of the building where I joined a crowd of other people waiting for X-rays.  And I did not have to wait long; being the white face in the room, no one seemed to object when I was immediately shown into the X-ray room.  A mere 15 minutes later, my mission was complete and I left, X-ray in hand at the cost of a mere £1 (100 rupees).

Unfortunately, my visits to the dentist have not yet reached a conclusion  Whereas yesterday I was prepared for the inevitable loss of my wisdom tooth, the dentist had other plans.  In a last ditch attempt to salvage a tooth with limited future, he is giving root canal treatment a go free of charge with only a 50% chance of success and nothing to lose….  Am I  being used as a guinea pig???  Maybe I was a bit hasty with my earlier cynical comment about the Indian attitude of taking advantage of a white face.  But at the same time, I have now opened channels of communication via Facebook with the dental expert in the family in Cape Town, and hope that after the agony I was in last night, this treatment was not a gamble too far…  Maybe the quicker one-off pain of having the tooth extracted would have been the more sensible one!!  Time will tell….

A little indulgence…

It is a matter of priorities, and I know, it is a sad state of affairs when these priorities revolve around coffee and tea, after my children of course.  But there it is…

Shortly before I set off on my travels, my daughter asked me what I would miss most and although I cannot remember the exact answer, but suspect it may have been coffee, she felt offended that I had not put my children first on the list..  I am lucky at the moment and have good internet (provided there is electricity of course) so that Skype and Facetime conversations flow mostly without hiccups.  They cover the barrier of the distance so well that one day when I suddenly, amidst a conversation,  exploded about ‘two lizards being at it on the ceiling’ – I am sure this one is not covered in the Kama Sutra -, my daughter laughed and remarked she had completely forgotten I was actually talking to her from India…  My children are very much part of my life here.

So, Saturday morning the inevitable happened and my dwindling supply of Douwe Egberts coffee finally ran out.  My Darjeeling tea brought from England has not lasted this long and the replacement I bought a few weeks ago, after some searching, consisted mainly of black tea with only 10% Darjeeling.  It pays to read the small print…  And the local supermarket indeed stocks ‘powder coffee’ but this contains so much chicory, it should be forbidden to call itself coffee!!!

However, the internet and blogging has a strange effect and connects you to people you have never met but soon become fixtures in the landscape of our life.  So it is that Elisabeth from Bhopal has taken pity on me and as a fellow Belgian is partial to a cup of proper coffee and having strong links to India understands the temptation of proper Darjeeling tea.  She  is giving me a helping hand in my quest to sort out my priorities and find good coffee and Darjeeling tea in India.  She is kindly sending me a parcel.

In the meantime, I had my monthly trek to Trivandrum by air-conditioned car (bliss…) on Saturday  to replenish my cupboards with Western essentials such as toilet paper, peanut butter, proper yoghurt and exotic fruits including papaya and melons…  However  this time, there was the added mission of getting hold of unadulterated ground coffee.  I was put on a possible track by Elisabeth, who has more knowledge of Indian culture than me and has her sources.  The coffee chain, Café Coffee Day, sells packets of 100% Arabica coffee, so if I could find one of the outlets, there was hope and indeed, a Google search suggested I had two or three options in town and failing that, I could actually order coffee on the internet, but this would mean putting my faith in the Indian postal and other delivery services.  Unfortunately a visit to both establishments in town only revealed that there is no demand for proper coffee in Kerala.  I might like to try the Indian Coffee House, a customer in Café Coffee Day kindly hinted, as they grind coffee in your presence.  Off we went, brakes screeching,  hurtling into the oncoming traffic in the opposite direction to find that the Indian Coffee House only sold packets of coffee mixed with chicory…  I could feel a bout of depression bubble to the surface.

But my driver decided his Indian pride could not let down a Western ‘tourist’ – having collected me from a 5* hotel, he had no idea I was merely a poor mortal with few financial assets to boast about – and was not about to give up.  Whereas I was more than ready to give up on a lost cause and return home, the driver got on his phone and made a few phone calls and within minutes had located a possible supplier of proper coffee.  Another U-turn and speeding up the road took us to a small shop opposite the shopping mall where I bought most of life’s essentials.  And hooray, we found it!  A tiny shop radiating the seductive smell of freshly ground coffee.  I could choose my beans, which were carefully ground before being put into a little bag…  And to put the icing on the cake, there it was in front of me on the shelf: Darjeeling leaf tea.

So to celebrate the fact that life’s priorities had been tended to, I had the perfect lunch: a cup of coffee, followed by a cup of Darjeeling tea and the most delectable Indian sweets…