Appusamy’s Tea Stall: Where Steam Meets Poetry and Dharma Brews
- Sriranga VN
- Jul 30, 2025
- 2 min read
🍵Appusamy's Tea Stall – "Verses and Vapour"
The morning sun had barely cracked the edges of Gramam, when the unmistakable clink of steel tumblers began echoing near the banyan bend.
Appusamy's tea stall — a crooked tiled shack with fading posters of old Tamil actors and a board that read in chalk:
“Sombu Tea: Today’s Blend – With a Dash of Dharma”
Locals said you could smell Appusamy’s tea before you saw the smoke — it was brewed in a brass sombu, not a pan, and tasted like wisdom, ginger, and a little mischief.
Inside, Appusamy himself was busy polishing his beloved cycle — an old Hercules that gleamed like temple brass. He talked to it as he wiped:
“You and me, Ranee... we’ve seen Tanjore rains, Madurai lanes, and heartbreaks alike.”
Yes, he had named his cycle Ranee, after his first poem.
Once upon a time, Appusamy had been a librarian in Tanjore — a quiet life of books and dust and poetry scribbled in margins. But retirement brought him to this Gramam, and soon his tea became the village’s favourite brew... and his stall, the favourite parliament.
Dogs lounged under the bench, happy and grateful. A skinny cat dozed on the counter. Crows cawed overhead, waiting for crumbs. Cows came outside the stall, when they felt like having their muzzle pampered plus some jaggery cake to chow.
“Feed the stomach, and they’ll come.
Feed the soul, and they’ll stay,”
Appusamy would say, tossing vada bits to his four-legged customers.
Just then, a group of farmers shuffled in.
“Appusaamy, two teas. Strong. And make it fast, I’ve got a field to shout at.”
He poured, steaming and slow.
“Strong tea is like strong words. Good for ten minutes, but ruins your day if overdone,”
he mumbled, placing tumblers gently.
The gossip began.
“Ayyappa says Dr. Chari cured him with just a stare.”
“Nonsense! He gave him a pill, a herb, a mantra, and a lecture!”
Appusamy’s eyes twinkled.
“A stare from Dr. Chari is not ordinary, saar. It’s diagnostic. It reads karma, blood pressure, and bhakti in one go.”
He turned and pointed at a hand-painted signboard near the counter:
“Dr. S.P. Chari — Physician, Philosopher, Magician. Tea’s Free if You Say His Name with Bhakti.”
Everyone laughed.
Appusamy sat down on his stool, lifted his own tumbler, and scribbled a line on a betel leaf with chalk:
“Steam rises, truth hides, time brews slowly in brass.”
One of the boys peeked.
“What’s that, Appusaamy?”
“Today’s poem. Or maybe tomorrow’s. Depends on how many cows nod in approval.”
As the breeze picked up and temple bells rang in the distance, Appusamy gazed at the road.
Dr. Chari’s old purring car "Dharma"would pass soon, and he’d bow — not to a doctor, but to a man who made science feel like song.
“Chari Ayya,” he muttered softly, “is God in chappals.” "An alchemist of life", he reverentially muttered...
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