There's a tea stall at the end of our road, just a cart with a tin roof and an old
man running it. I walk up and he's already pouring. Less sugar, extra strong, and 1 Osmania biscuit on the side.
I haven't said my order out loud in maybe 3 years. He just knows, and he has about 200
regulars. Never seen him write anything down. I can't remember what I had for lunch yesterday. We don't talk much.
He asks about the cricket score, I ask about his knee, that's about it. Once I didn't show
up for 2 weeks because I was down with dengue. When I came back he asked where I'd
been. Then he refused to take money for that cup. Said welcome back, and went back to his
kettle. I think about that more than I should, to be fair. His son helps out on weekends now.
Nice boy, but he gets my tea wrong every time. Too sweet, or he forgets the biscuit. The
old man watches him and sighs, then fixes it himself. I asked him once how he remembers everyone.
He said he doesn't remember the orders, he remembers the faces. The order just comes with the face. Made
sense when he said it, still doesn't make sense to me. We might move to Kondapur next year for work.
Everyone at home is excited about the new flat. I keep thinking about the stupid stuff. Who's
going to know my tea there? Nobody, for a long time. Is there someone like this near
you? The person you'd miss more than the house itself. Going to go get my cup now.
He'll have it ready and waiting.