The tea-sessions at my grandmother’s home in Ajmer (Rajasthan), would commence long before I’d even be awake. Brimming with the festive vibe that brought the whole extended family together each year, the mornings would start on a familiar note. The muffled noises from the enclosed verandah (jangla) would filter through the netted door, knocking on my ears. And like a bolt, I’d be up, knowing that the tea-session was in progress. The grown ups were already outside; reading newspaper, sipping tea, crunching biscuits, and talking over each other. Half-asleep, and still in my nightwear, I’d creep out, and sit on the stone slab jutting from the iron-grilled wall, awaiting my cup of tea.

My grandmother, having taken her bath and said a long ‘hello’ to her many gods, would be sitting in her creaseless cotton saree. Between sips of her sugar-free tea, she’d discuss the day’s meal plan with my aunt in her distinctive hoarse, trailing voice. My father, still in his white kurta-pyjamas, would be burried behind a newspaper. Like clockwork, his hand would reach towards the cup, even as he inhaled the national affairs. In the kitchen, attached to the jangla, I’d see my aunt making a fresh batch of tea while conversing with everyone outside in her high-pitched tone. My mom would be gazing at the proceedings, while silently sipping her tea. The crumbs of Marie biscuits on the plate suggested that the first batch of the tea-session was in its last legs.

My grandmother would then say to me “Go get more biscuits fro the almirah.”

Treading back to her room, I’d face the giant wooden almirah, visibly happy to have gotten a chance to peer inside her secret stash of snack items. A slight opening of the door would unleash such a heavenly aroma of baked goods; kept invitingly in transparent air-tight jars, that the outside world melted away for the 8-year-old me. Guarded as closely as a Hogwarts secret door, the almirah had a long metal key, whose sole custodian was my grandmother. And after an overtly pronounced absence from the scene, I’d emerge with more marie biscuits from the red and white plastic air-tight jar, for a tea-session that was now gathering steam.

Having claimed my seat again, a cup of tea and a half-eaten biscuit in hand, I’d veer off to the open vista that lay beyond the iron-grill – An uncle’s empty plot of land, overgrown with weeds and vegetation, a garage in the far right, and a walkway that led to another uncle’s home. A cow would be standing on a small stretch of road, beyond the plot, munching on dry chapatis from last night, kept specially for her. More cousins would pour outside, awaiting the promised land – a good cup of tea. More seating would be arranged. More cups of tea would be handed. More conversation threads would open up.

The national affairs would give way to the daily affairs. My uncle, having done his hour-long worship, would emerge with a wide smile, ready for his tea. Visibly excited for the annual Diwali party, he’d calculate the alcohol needed for the night. My father would make plans to visit the local butcher for the night’s main attraction – mutton curry. A cousin would exclaim how she has nothing to wear for the party, causing my uncle’s face to turn a slight shade of purple. Another uncle would drop by, for a second cup of tea, having had his first one at his own home. Someone would refuse to be the first one to take a bath (usually me). My grandmother would yell some work to anyone who’d listen, and make her presence felt again. My mom, recharged from the caffeine, would tell me to take a bath, again. My brother would sleep through all this clacker, comfortable in his bed.

The Marie biscuits would turn to crumbs, again. And the magic almirah would shut for the day.

The tea-session would last till the marie biscuits lasted. Dusting off the crumbs, everyone would get busy with the day’s chores. And I’d wait for the re-opening of the red and white jar, that led to – more of the same, but different from the previous day – memories.