The early-morning clink of a teaspoon against a teacup

I sometimes make myself a cup of tea early in the morning, those rare times when the household is still asleep (my daughter tends to be an earlier riser than me), mostly on weekends. And there I am, standing in my kitchen, stirring the milk and the saccharine into the hot, tea-soaked water, when I hear the noise. "Clink, clink... clink." It is the teaspoon. Bumping against the side of the teacup. And suddenly, always, I am overwhelmed by memories.

That was the noise I used to hear when I was a young girl, sleeping warm, under blankets, in the wintery city of Milano, in Northern Italy. The person making the tea was my father, MD. In his Pijamas and an old-fashioned, striped wollen British-style housecoat, with fur-lined leather slippers on his skinny feet, he would be carefully making tea for his five girls: his wife and four daughters, all still in bed and waiting to be awoken.

It was a morning-tea tradition that was brought over to the cold industrial Milano from a sweltering and colourful Bombay. Just a few years earlier, he himself, his wife and all his daughters would be awoken with a milky and sweet cup of tea by the Ayas (maids) who worked in our house. In those days we used to have three Ayas waiting on us, in addition to a driver and two cooks.

But in Milano, where my Indian family immigrated to in the late 60s, when I was seven, there were no Ayas and no cooks. And my father took on the job of bringing his beloved family their morning tea.

He would come into our bedroom crowing like a cock: "Cokooroo Cokoroo Cokoroo Cokooro" and put the warm cups into our hands, once we had sleepily propped up our pillows. Two sisters and I shared a room. Then he would go and wake up my mother, giving her an extra five minutes of peace before she would have to get up and face a morning of breakfasts (toasts, butter and a glass of milk) and sandwiches (cream cheese and olives, butter and jam, butter and salmon), before sending us off to school.

We girls would groggily sip the brew, and then doze off again, balancing the cup between our hand and our thigh, protected from the warm brew, if it ever spilled (very rarely), by the layers of blankets. Then we'd get out of bed and face the day ahead.

My father made us tea every morning. Until we left our home to study abroad. And even then, when he came to visit, if he stayed with me, he'd make me tea and bring it to my bed. When I lived alone and then married, I learned to make my own cup of morning tea, even if I did drop a hint about the tea-making tradition to my novice husband, MM. The hint fell on hollow ears, mostly, although I do get an occasional cup of coffee in bed sometimes on weekends. By the way, I never brought tea to my kids' beds even once in all these years.

My father continued to make the morning tea for my mother for many years to come. Until the housecoat sagged on his once upright shoulders and his fingers became knobbly with age. Until one day he forgot how to boil the water. Then how to walk to the kitchen. My mother MR started making the morning tea for him.

Then he died, nearly five years ago. Ever since, my mother has been sipping her morning tea alone.


Photo: A cup of tea