In my house, every conversation started with one question — “Do you prefer tea or coffee?” I asked anyone and everyone who came over: guests, friends, and electricians. The only person I didn’t have to ask was my grandmother. I knew she would trade water for tea if she could. Every evening at 5 p.m., I would go to the kitchen and put those leaves to boil until the water turned golden brown, with three spoons of sugar (diabetes can wait). At the same time, I’d make coffee for myself — strong and bitter, much different from what my grandmother preferred. When she held that cup and took the first sip, she would act as if I had made some Michelin-star recipe, praising and drinking every last drop of it. I’ll be honest, as much as I love watching my family devour something I make, I am not made to stand in the kitchen, because after she drank one cup, she would ask me for another. And this cycle of her asking me to make tea and me losing my temper for the hundredth time would never end. Back then, making tea was just something I did for her. I never realised it was quietly becoming a ritual that tied us together.
Now in college, the dynamics are very different. I tried having coffee in the mess, but it always tasted too bland. So, I started making it in my room, and it tasted something like loneliness in a pretty mug. Drinking coffee used to be a sort of personality trait of mine. Feeling cold? Hot coffee. Hanging out with friends? Cold coffee. On a diet? Black coffee. It was the Bonnie to my Clyde, the fuel to my chaos, with just the right dose of caffeine.
Lately, it has been a way for me to pull all-nighters and nothing else. At first, I thought I’d lost my inner Gordon Ramsay — but that couldn’t be true. After all, my friends love the coffee I make. It felt so strange that the same coffee beans, same milk, and sugar could make me happy on some days and burn my tongue on others. It makes me wonder, is it actually about coffee?
I think it’s much deeper than that. Every time I asked someone if they wanted tea or coffee, I saw the hint of a smile — whether it was a guest who would discuss political scandals with my dad or an electrician who drank quietly while trying to figure out how to fix the AC. Now, are they smiling because they’re addicted and really want that hit of caffeine? Umm, I don’t think so. Offering a beverage is not just about the drink; it is about showing the other person that you care about them, letting them know that you have ten minutes to spare, and having a chat. I didn’t realise how much these tiny tea breaks meant until much later.
One month after my grandmother passed away, I was in the kitchen, lost in my own world of complex physics and numerical calculations, when I realised that I had made two cups of tea. The reality hit me harder than a caffeine withdrawal. My first instinct was to pour it down the drain and pretend I never made it, but it just felt wrong. I can’t take out my unresolved issues on those harmless cups. Not to brag, but the thing is, I am a loyal coffee lover to the point that I had never had a single sip of tea. Until that day. I took both the cups to her empty room and kept one on her side table. I took the first sip and let the taste linger on my tongue. That’s when I realised that there was no way she actually liked this. It was terrible. I don’t know if that’s how tea is supposed to taste or if I am just bad at making it, but somehow I drank the entire cup.
I looked at the one sitting on her side table and began to wonder. Did she drink tea every day because she liked it or because I made it? I knew I would never have the answer, so before I could start overthinking and spiralling, I gulped down the other cup.
My teenage stupidity had led me to crash out from time to time, but I wish I could make her tea again and watch those wrinkled, innocent eyes light up. Maybe for her to drink tea, she needed her quirky coffee-loving granddaughter. And maybe for me, I just needed someone like her to share a cup. Maybe the question was never really ‘Tea or Coffee?’ at all; it was about who you’re drinking it with.