It was just her cup of tea (my first attempt at fiction)

She boarded the old steam powered train in Siliguri and settled in to her seat by the window, the once plush green velvet cushion now frayed and resembling a poorly constructed bale of wheat. She knew what lay ahead and prepared for the long nine hour journey, secreting her weathered satchel behind the small of her back. The climb began in earnestness near Sukna, the old steam locomotive laboring over the steep gradient and around the treachorous traverses.

May, she knew, was the very best month to be visiting Darjeeling again. The air would be clear and the chilling, biting cold would have subsided by now. The rich soil and hilly terrain of the tiny Narbada Majhua Tea Estate would be bustling with activity, the pickers selecting only the finest two leaves and buds from each of the young bushes so that the Muscatel flavor of the best tea in the world would become more pronounced with the spring flush.

She allowed herself a small snack of Aloo Dum, delighting in the sharp sensation of the chili peppers on her lips, quickly followed by that smooth suggestion of perfectly boiled new potatoes. Sleep followed.

The bleak sound of tapping on the outside of her window, woke her from her slumber. She had known Phulmani Ramesh for most of the young girl’s 19 years on the tea plantation, first as a toddler, following her mother in the tea fields, and then nurturing her formative years by teaching her how a real lady conducted herself. Phulmani was now a beautiful young woman, who quickly scooped up her belongings and brightly escorted her to the waiting taxi.

It would be a short drive to Narbada Majhua, the road passing over Tiger Hill, with its stunning view of the Himalaya range. They played their usual game of “name that mountain” – Lhotse, Makalu, Everest, Khangchendzonga, Kabru, Janu – as they rounded that last corner to arrive at the main house. The best cup of tea in the world would be waiting. The perfect brew was one level teaspoon of pure Darjeeling tea in her favorite Wedgewood cup, with the spring water, seconds after a furious boil, poured over the fragrant little leaves and buds. Exactly four minutes of glorious flavor melding later, the tiniest bit of milk and sugar added, and she was sipping heaven.