The Teacup

 

The Teacup Hema Shah 927 words.

Wrapped in tissue paper, each cup and saucer sitting neatly in its own slot in the box were the 63 pieces of my mother-in-laws fine china tea service. Little pink flowers and green leaves on a pale yellow background.  It was now my issue to deal with as we combed through her belongings looking for treasures to keep, and things to give away. This particular set had been my mother-in-law’s prize possession.

And then I remembered another pattern – fine bone china, pink roses on a white background, a hint of gold on the handle. A dozen cups, saucers, cake plates and a side plate, matching teapot, milk jug and sugar container. Mrs Cunningham, wife of the General Manager of Humphries Tea had presided over that set at the Officers Club in Assam.

Every Sunday, the plant managers and the families from the 23 tea estates would drive over to the Officers Club, dressed in their Sunday best. The wives would join Mrs Cunningham at a large table covered with platters of food. Cucumber and water cress sandwiches with the edges trimmed, atleast 3 different types of scones and buns and cakes, sometimes samosas, sometimes pakoras.

I sat with my brothers and the other little children at a separate table, similar laden with food. Instead of tea, we had milk shakes and coca colas. The fine tea cups were reserved for the grown-ups, especially the women – the men mostly drank something from the bar. We were young, innocent and stupid.

At 6pm, the lights would be dimmed, and a movie would be projected upon a makeshift screen. It was generally a movie based somewhere in Europe – the men always wore suits, and the women wore pretty dresses, just like Mrs C’s. Mrs C seemed like such a lovely and fair person. She was everything my 8-year-old self wanted to be. Pretty and important.

When I was 9 years old, I was sent away to a boarding school in Dehradun. It was a very small girls only school. I remember how comforted I felt, everytime I happened upon the teachers on their tea break. They were drinking out of the same white fine china cups with the roses. Sometimes we would get to join them. They taught us how to hold the tea cup , the handle held between the thumb and three fingers, little pinkie standing up in the air. “That is the only way to hold a tea cup”, I can still hear Sr Ansel’s voice in my year.

As I peered into the box, my throat and neck felt tight. The muscles in my shoulder ached. Bile rose in my throat as I remembered what had happened that day when I had taken my 2-year-old son at the Officers Club.

I was standing on the large veranda of the clubhouse, rocking my infant child to sleep, when I heard a very loud crash. Rushing in to the dining hall, I saw the remains of 3 or 4 broken cups scattered around the ankles of an older server, Ramu dada. Ramu dada had been a server at the Officers Club since before I was born. He had always been very kind to my brothers and me. In fact he had been kind to all the children that came to the club. A very sad and dejected Ramu dada was staring at the cups in disbelief. “I don’t know what happened, “ he told me. A couple of workers ran out from the kitchen and helped him up. There was a little blood on his left ankle.

Mrs C sailed into the dining area “Look at what you’ve done now, you silly old fool. Do you know how expensive this tea service was. How are we going to replace the broken pieces. I’m going to have to take out the cost from your paycheck. I cannot believe you did something so stupid!!! You silly fool. Why don’t you just sit at home like other old men!”

I felt tears burn my eyes. Ramu dada was a kind gentle soul. He had never raised his voice. He didn’t need to be berated or yelled at. It was only a tea service. And at 76 he deserved to be resting in his cottage, not being berated by this white woman, even if she was his employer.

Eventually, the haranguing stopped. Mr C had come out to see what the commotion was all about. Someone offered Mrs C a glass of sherry. Mr C asked someone take his wife upstairs, and had someone else go look for the doctor. He asked one of Mrs C’s friends to take over the rest of the tea ceremony.

Ramu Dada was helped away by a couple of young orderlies, his wounds leaving a light trail of brown on the beautiful Persian rug.

The image of the cup on my screen suddenly brought back the entire scene. “Why are you crying mummy?” my 3 year old wanted to know. And I felt the tears run down my face. Of course I was sad for Mrs C and Mr C and their loss of a few pieces of china. , But I was heartbroken for Ramu Dada. And I was heartbroken for myself.

Mrs C had long been my role model. And on that fatal day, she had shown that her beauty and nobility was just skin deep. In berating Ramu Dada  she had shown me just how shallow and mean she was. I was going to need a new ro