The Tea Seller Who Never Drank His Own Tea | A Ponmanipudi Story

The Debt in the Black Diary

Murugan had learnt to trust three things in life: his weighing scale, his memory, and his black diary....

In order of importance, he trusted the weighing scale least.

“Murugan, put it down in the book,” Ramaswamy said that morning, taking a packet of biscuits without paying.

“Of course.”

“I shall clear.. no issues....no worries....”

“No worries..... my diary, it has never once asked for money.”

Ramaswamy grimaced as Murugan smiled and wrote down the amount.

The diary was small, black, and held together with a strip of tape. Other times, it was bound by a thick rubber band, as his moods choose.

The black diary's corners had worn with age.... Inside were the names of half the village, the amounts they owed, and, if space permitted, Murugan's private opinions about the debtors.

Ramaswamy .... ₹240. Claims money is coming. So does the monsoon.

Kamala...102 rs, will be paid...good credit.

Govindaswamy.....550 rs....bad debt...dead loss.

Subbiah .... ₹85. Wife says he has paid. Wife is more reliable than Subbiah.

Srikanta ... ₹117. Avoid discussion. Dangerous man.....chronic case.

Srikanta had read that last entry himself and considered it a compliment.

Murugan recorded every debt. He collected some, forgave a few, and carried the rest from one month to the next.

He never once threw the diary away. Once, Murugan had misplaced it for twenty minutes. He closed the tea shop and made his three assistants help him search.

“You would think your wife had run away,” Srikanta said.

“Worse. My wife knows where she is.”

The diary went everywhere with him, either in his sling bag or sometimes in his inner jubba pocket. At night, he took the diary home. In the morning, it returned to the tea stall before the milkman did.

There was one thing about Murugan that puzzled newcomers.....a true mystery...

He owned the Murugan's tea stall. He made excellent tea, of different varieties including Moringa tea and Coconut tea...... People came from neighbouring villages for it. Some even came from nearby towns to taste his exotic tea.... and usually went back asking for the recipe. But with Murugan politely refusing.

Murugan never drank a cup prepared by himself. That was the mystery.....

“Stomach problem,” he told customers.

“Doctor's orders,” he told Srikanta.

“Too much tea is bad for health,” he told his wife.

His wife had stared at him....not convinced..

“You've been making tea for twenty-five years.”

“Exactly. I know what goes into it.”

Nobody believed Murugan about the his "Tea mystery" and no one dated asked him the second time.

Murugan preferred it that way. And let things go on ......

Janaki came on a Tuesday.....

She stood outside the shop for a while, pondering, before entering. Murugan was arguing with a supplier about the price of sugar. When he turned, the argument died halfway through his mouth.....He opened and closed his mouth a few times and no voice came out....

Janaki was older, of course. So was Murugan. There were silver strands in her hair, and she carried a handbag that looked pretty heavy....Tired lines, lined her face...

But Murugan knew her walk.

“Murugan,” she said.

“Jaaanaki.....Jeiku”

The supplier looked from one to the other. Murugan remembered him suddenly.

“Tomorrow,” he told the man.

“You said tomorrow, yesterday.”

“And I was right. Today is tomorrow.”

The supplier left muttering and swearing under his breath.

Janaki sat on the wooden bench.

“Coffee,” she said.

Murugan raised an eyebrow. “You used to hate coffee.”

“I used to hate many things.”

Murugan made it himself. His assistant could have managed, but Murugan measured the powder, heated the milk and poured the coffee between two tumblers until the froth rose.

When he placed it before her, Janaki looked at his fingers.

“You still burn yourself.”

“Hot things are hot.”

“Some things never change.”

He smiled a slow smile....

They spoke of Janaki's daughter in Coimbatore, the property matter that had brought her to Ponmanipudi, and the bus she needed to catch. Janaki's husband had died three years earlier. Murugan told her his son was working in Bengaluru.

“And your wife?”

“At home.”

“Good?”

He looked at her....and looked away....

“What sort of question is that?”

“An ordinary one.”

“She is well.”

Janaki nodded. She didn't ask whether he was happy. Murugan was grateful to her for that.

A customer called for tea. Murugan turned to prepare it.

Janaki watched him pour the boiling mixture through the strainer. As Murugan gave the tea to the customer, who immediately slurped it in delight....

“You still don't drink tea?” Janaki asked in low tone...

“No.”

“Not even your own?”

“I make it for other people.”

“That wasn't what I asked.”

Murugan wiped the counter.....

Janaki waited. She had always been better at waiting than Murugan was.

“Do you remember the last tea you made for me?” she asked.

Murugan's hand suddenly trembled and shook.....and his face took a far-off look....

It had been the previous evening, they were supposed to leave for Madras.

Their bags were packed....all ready. The bus left at seven. Janaki had spent half the night worrying about what to carry, while Murugan had spent half the night pretending not to be frightened.

They had little money, no proper plan, and the sort of confidence that only young love-struck couple could muster.....

That evening, Murugan made the tea with his own hands....

He measured the powder carefully, watched the milk rise, lowered the flame and strained it twice. He had never taken so much trouble over anything in his life. And he added a whiff of a love-kiss secretly....

Janaki watched him from the doorway.

“Are you opening a tea shop or getting married?”

“Both, perhaps.”

She had laughed.

He had handed her the glass.

Janaki took a sip, then another...

“Good,” she had said and had puckered her lovely lips and blown a kiss...

That was all....long time ago..

Janaki had held the glass in both hands and looked at Murugan over its rim.

Murugan had wanted to tell her that he loved her. Instead, he watched her drink the tea, he had made and felt for the first time, that perhaps he had managed to say something sweet to "Jeiku"

Then his father had collapsed, the next day morning.....

Murugan stayed. There was no question of leaving a sick father alone, and no time to explain anything properly. He told Janaki he would come as soon as he could.

But, by the time, in a few days, Murugan went looking for Janaki, she had gone.

Later, Murugan heard that his "Jeiku" had married and moved away. He never learned whether she had waited at the bus stand that morning, or for how long.

He could have asked someone. He could have written to her....

He did neither.

Life filled the space that Janaki had left. There was work, a marriage arranged by family, a son, household expenses, a shop that grew busier every year.

Murugan's wife was not a bad woman. She had stood beside him through illness, lean months and the death of his father. They ran a household together and raised their only son.

But somewhere along the way, Murugan and his wife had become two people who knew each other's routines better than each other's hearts.

Murugan never ever told anyone about that last cup of tea....of love...

He continued making tea. He learned to judge the tea's strength by colour, the milk by smell, the sugar by the weight of the spoon. Customers praised him. Some called it the best tea in the district.

But Murugan never drank a glass....

He told himself there was no point. He was surrounded by tea all day. He knew exactly how it tasted.

But he remembered that morning, when Janaki appeared suddenly in his tea shop.... the care he had taken, and his heart's feelings.... and Janaki's hands around the glass. The small, foolish hope that their life together had already begun.

Murugan could make tea for a hundred strangers....

He could not make another cup for himself....

And he could never taste his own tea......

“You never drank tea after that?” Janaki asked.

“I taste it.”

“That's not the same.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Murugan looked at Janaki. For once, he did not speak properly.....

“Because I made that one long ago for you....my Jeiku”

Janaki lowered her eyes to the coffee.

“You never told me.”

“I know.”

“You should have.”

“I know that too.”

Janaki gave a small, tired laugh.....lost.....

“We were young, Muruga... We thought there would always be another morning.”

He looked towards the stove.

“I still make it the same way.”

Janaki said nothing.....staring into the past...

Outside, Srikanta was arguing with a cyclist. Someone wanted less sugar. A child had dropped a glass, and Murugan's assistant was sweeping up the pieces.

The world had carried on. It was good at that....life goes on as usual.....

Janaki finished her coffee.

“I should go.”

Murugan wanted to ask Janaki whether she had been happy. Whether she had ever thought of him. Whether she had waited at the bus stand that morning, and whether she had cried when he didn't come.

Also, Murugan wanted to tell Janaki that he had thought of her on ordinary mornings, in crowded buses, while counting money, while watching the rain.... Not every day. That would have been a lie. ...but often. And never he had stopped wondering....and...

Instead, he said, “Your coffee is paid for.”

She smiled.

“Of course it is.”

At the entrance, Janaki turned.

“Muruga?”

“Yes?”

“The tea was good.”

Then she left....

Murugan stood behind the counter until his assistant called him twice....

That evening, Murugan closed the shop early.

At home, his wife was telling him about a leaking tap. He listened, nodded, and promised to call the plumber. She asked whether he had eaten. He said he would eat later.

Murugan's wife looked at him for a moment.

“Something happened?”

“No. Just tired.”

She returned to the kitchen. Murugan watched his wife go, feeling an affection that was real, and an emptiness that was real too. He had never known how to explain that one feeling of past and the present....

After dinner, Murugan opened his black diary.

He turned past Ramaswamy, Subbiah and Srikanta. Past debts carried for years. Past names of people who had moved away, died, or simply stopped coming to the shop.

On a clean line, he wrote....

Janaki....Nothing owed.

Murugan stared at it for a while.

Then, beneath it, he added....

"One cup of tea."

He did not write any amount.

The next morning, Srikanta arrived and placed seventeen rupees on the counter.

“Settling my account,” he announced.

Murugan opened the diary.

“Miracles do happen.”

“Write that down too.”

“I shall. Under doubtful claims.”

Srikanta laughed and asked for tea.

Murugan made it.... strong, hot, just enough sugar. He placed the glass before him.

Srikanta took a sip and closed his eyes.

“Ah! This is why I keep coming back.”

Murugan looked at the glass in his hand..

For a moment, he thought of making one for himself.

Then another customer came in...

He turned to the stove.

That night, before going home, Murugan opened the black diary once more.

He found Janaki's name. Beneath it, he drew a small line, not quite a cancellation, not quite an addition.....

Then he shut the book.

The debt would stay there....

Some accounts, Murugan had learned, were easier to carry than to settle.

Welcome to Ponmanipudi... where nothing is as it seems.

About Ponmanipudi

Ponmanipudi is an original village created by Sriranga V.N. Here, ordinary lives become extraordinary stories, and the everyday moments of village life reveal the humour, tenderness, contradictions and quiet mysteries of being human.