Elaichi (The Cardamom Seed) (La Semilla de Cadamomo)

One afternoon, I decided to perform one of the greatest acts of love I knew - preparar un chai (té) para ti - prepare a chai for you.

(I introduced you to chai, but in your mind, you knew that you knew chai better than I.

You were a connoisseur at everything, of course.

You, the passionate chai wala and I - la gringa who didn’t know much about tea. I mean, chai. That’s what it’s called, right?)

I put the water and tea leaves in a pot to boil.

In a home I didn’t feel at home, the act of putting a pot of water to boil and pouring in a handful of tea leaves (after years of making tea, you

just know how much to pour in; your hand knows) gave me a sense of comfort - that in an unknown place, with people who I felt far removed from, who wanted nothing to do with me, I could still make chai.

You monitored every step I took- from how much water I added to the amount of tea leaves and milk I would pour, ensuring I make no mistakes along the way. The chai had not yet come to a boil.

I grabbed the packet of elaichi from the cabinet, before the tea decided to bubble with fury.

(I introduced you to elaichi when we went to the supermarket in the new city you decided to move to, and I assured you it would add a unique flavor to our chai when we make it. You asked me if I was sure, and I said I was. You acquiesced. I knew I would find it in the aisle right next to the sonf and anise.)

Standing by the stove, you watched my every move with reckoning eyes.

In that moment, I wondered why you still had to watch me. I was just opening a bag of elaichi.

I wasn’t doing anything that required such concern. 

I - nervous, and clearly, inexperienced in your eyes,

clumsily opened the bag, and as I opened my hand to

pour some out,

one elaichi pod

fell to the floor.

A harmless act, or so I thought.

I picked up the pod that was near your feet with two fingers. 

I stood back up,

but 

my childish soul remained cowering from

embarrassment.

I noted that your brows furrowed from disdain.

“You shook your head in disappointment.

I could tell that your jaws clenched so hard because your

cheekbones were showing.

Your tightly pursed lips suddenly opened up, and your

disposition towards me 

pierced through your words: 

“¿Por qué no puedes hacerlo correctamente?”

“No pasa nada.” I replied. “Hay muchísimos más”

But you mumble something under your breath, as if it were the only cardamom pod we had;

and well, if it were the only one,

it could have been opened for what was inside — the

seeds inside were what mattered. 

However, the elaichi between my fingers, 

which at that moment, 

I hadn’t realized,

was more than just a wasted pod.

It symbolized your disappointment.  

It carried seeds of resentment —

seeds that would grow into our demise,

with leaves that carried dried up veins 

from expired affection and worn out intrigue.

It carried the weight of a feeling that my utility 

was no longer useful.

You already hit your threshold with me, 

as I was now a hindrance in your mind —

the shadow that prevented you from your development,

even though, I am the one who provided the soil;

the seed so you could grow roots, which allowed you to

reach that threshold you now seem to feel;

the water and light that guided you to where you are now. 

Nonetheless, the elaichi still sitting between my fingers,

proved to be as bitter as our future,

never mixing with the sweet, warm, aromatic chai that

should have been —

as dark as my inability to see what lay ahead for us.

My irresponsible, clumsy act 

was enough for you to justify what you were

clandestinely engaged in —

what you told me was in my head; 

what you scolded me for —  what you threw away for.

Perhaps, my irresponsible mishap was your cue 

to make your one sided decision. 

Perhaps, I should have recognized that anger issues don’t resolve themselves through love and kindness; that our memorable first chai date

that summer, should have never happened.

I walked away from the stove and went into the bedroom

to read a book; to step away from the situation.

You finished making the chai.

You made two mugs - one for you and one for me.

You brought mine to me a little

after you had already had some of yours, after you finished

conversing with your cousin who you were living with at

the time. I was reading a book when you entered the room; I had nothing else I could possibly do.

You had no desire to sit with me and talk and have chai together - in retrospect I understand why.

Hence, we never ended up having (what would have been) our last chai together.

Perhaps, I should have known, that yes, although

your reaction of the fallen elaichi was a symbol of your new-found hatred

towards me,

it was also a metaphor for the idea that

elaichi, no – chai, never really belonged to you;

it wasn’t yours to have;

to taste;

to experience;

to drink.

Now,

you make tea in someone else’s home.

It’s Friday night.

You just got home from a long night at work,

and you feel like preparing some chai

for yourself and your new wife.

Wife.

You hear her laughing in the living room.

She’s watching a movie,

but you feel she should have gotten up to greet you -

because the door is heavy

and it’s obvious when you close it that you’re home.

You walk into the living room with your boots

still on, and say, “Hello, darling.”

It sounds awkward, considering

English isn’t your first language (The glued /ar/ and /l/

sound too forced).

English doesn’t suit you - but you’re playing along

because you need to maintain a good relationship with

her. Y también, por que ella es una gringa, and you like

impressing los gringos màs que cualquier otros tipos.

She stuffs her mouth with popcorn, her eyes still glued to

the screen.

“Hi, babe.”

You stand there by the living room entrance, staring at

the back of her curly, dark brown hair.

Two characters belt out in laughter on the tv screen - and

so does she.

You maintain your composure. You guys worked through your problems.

You learned to mask your anger issues - and so she

forgave you and married you - your cunning plan worked.

Perhaps at her age, just having a man who can fix things

and

pacify her at night is enough.

What more could she need from a man at her age of 47

anyway?

He pays her bills, too, so she decides there’s nothing else

around;

why not do a good deed — help him get his green card in

exchange for him renovating her

entire house, and cleaning the cobwebs in her basement?

(Noone’s been down there in a while.)

You calmly tell her, “I am making tea. Do you want to

come to the kitchen and talk with me?”

(That’s your amateur English way of saying “I had a long

day, and need chai

and I want to tell you about my day and you tell me about yours.”

But even if you had acquired fluency in the language,

your words wouldn’t matter, because the meaning behind

your words are transient and weightless.

But right now, you’re stuck, so you’re trying to make it work.

She’s watching “The Wrong Missy,” and yells towards

the kitchen without taking her eyes off the screen.

“I’m tired, babe! Maybe another night.”

You say nothing, even though the friction inside you feels

like it will cause an earthquake inside of your mind.

She didn’t understand your question.

Perhaps, its because she wasn’t paying attention.

Nonetheless, those two factors combined made your

blood boil - one more than the other.

“You want a beer?” she yells. She already forgot you are

standing right behind her.

You ignore her, but she doesn’t realize.

You walk back into the kitchen with your work boots still on.

She’s at the part where Missy is in the bathroom

harassing Tim as he tries escaping from the window.

She’s dying from laughter.

You hate her laugh - but you remind yourself that patience is key.

You meticulously open the bag of tea leaves.

Stir the ingredients in a pot with perfect motion.

360°, at such a consistent rate that anyone would think 

there’s mathematical profundity behind your 

genius - to be a chai wala like you.

For a moment, you smile, because you remember what an

established guru you are.

You appreciate your own self. Your craft at making chai.

You don’t need an audience.

You are the audience.

You gracefully pull out the bag of elaichi

and gently tear the plastic on the top, creating a perfect

180° slit with your fingers.

You carefully place the exact amount in your large hand -

two cardamom pods. Nothing falls on the kitchen floor.

(You studied the art of chai on Youtube, so you know two

is good enough if you just split them open in half.)

The now split open pods fall into the pot, as if you had

given them permission to do so,

as if they know their duty, 

as if they are grateful that it was you that handled them,

and not me. 

The aroma of the masala in the chai permeates

throughout the living room.

You make two cups -  one for you and one for her.

She still has a bowl of popcorn on her lap and a half-

finished bottle of Blue Moon in her left hand. 

She’s on her third one.

You come back into the living room for a moment.

Your chai is brewing.

You sit next to her in an attempt to engage with her.

You sit down and fold your hands and pretend to watch

the movie, too.

When you sit down, the couch loses balance.

She takes her legs off the coffee table and adjusts herself

up where her back is leaning on the arm of the couch and

her feet are facing your body.

She forcefully smiles at you for a second,

picks up her drink again and takes a long sip.

She then places the bottle on coaster her best friend gave her and turns to the TV again. She continues picking at the bowl of popcorn . 

The coaster had a tacky design with a silhouette of an engagement

and wedding ring behind a pink, sparkly background.

You hate it,

but she loves it because it carries so many memories for

her. 

Everything in the house does, because it was where she

grew up. 

She’s takes another sip from the bottle, 

and suddenly spits her sip out from laughter. 

You immediately get up and go back to checking on your chai.

You’re relieved it’s done and turn the stove off.

You gently stir your chai again, and smile as you look at

what a beautiful color it turns out to be.

You know you can rely on you chai to cook as you expect

it to.

You pour some of the golden brown beverage into one

mug for you and another for her.

The aromatic steam from the chai warms your nose and

cheeks,

and you feel better again.

You slowly walk into the living room with both mugs in hand.

She’s on her fourth beer.

You place the mugs down on the coffee table,

and take the two coasters you bought from Costco and

place the mugs on top. 

You take a napkin and begrudgingly clean up the few

drops of beer she spat 

on the surface of the table.

She laughs again

and throws a few more pieces of popcorn into her mouth.

She has her right foot against the edge coffee table now,

and her left leg resting on the surface.

You look towards her side.

There’s popcorn all over the floor.

There’s one piece on her lap.

A shell on the bottom of her shirt,

and a few pieces to her left, where you sit.

You sit down on the couch a few inches away from her and the mess.

She’s laughing uncontrollably.

You don’t understand the jokes. 

You couldn’t even if you tried.

A group of drunk characters is laughing uncontrollably

on the screen now,

because Missy says something unexpected.

She laughs, too.

Everyone is laughing.

Your eyes get big and your brows raise up in disbelief.

You pick up your mug and place it near your chin as if

you’re about to drink it, but it’s still too hot right now,

but you keep it there for comfort, because it’s the

only thing that calms you from this unnerving feeling.

You start blowing on your chai, trying to cool the

scorching hot drink inside your mug, but it doesn’t cool

down.

It’s uncertain whether you’re angry because you aren’t a

master of English and can’t quite yet laugh at the joke

or because she doesn’t really care for the mug you’ve

placed in front of her. Or both. (Your need for control is

palpable to anyone who really takes to the time

to learn your intricacies.)

She should have known you were making tea and been

more attentive and appreciative of you and your kindness, you postulate in your mind.

But deep down, she’s irritated by you, and wonders why

she was foolish enough to marry you.

She’s told you on three previous occasions

that she doesn’t like tea

and deep down she hates it that you can’t just accept it.

In that moment is when you should have realized

that the world doesn’t revolve around you. 

You say something to her under your breath,

but she doesn’t hear you,

so

she pauses the movie and gently puts her drink down and

wipes her upper lip with her index finger.

She asks you, “What’s up?” without even trying to force

a smile.

You put on your superficial smile 

and tell her that you wanted her to try your new recipe

and that you are eager for her to learn and make tea with her,

because its special to you.

(You haven’t felt like a master at home

in a long time,

and your yearning for her to be your student;

your admirer.)

You want her to see you.

you want her be the childlike novice who watches you

pour tea leaves into water in amazement.

You want her to be in awe at how perfectly you break apart the cardamom pods with one finger.

You want her to learn - and maybe, if she listens well enough, she can even prepare a pot,

although, she will never be as good as you, of course.

You are the master.

But what you don’t know is,

in order for there to be a master,

there must be a beginner - a novice. 

A novice is only a novice if

said individual actively

participates in the conscious dynamic, or actively agrees to the concept of

master and student; if said individual desires to engage in or learn about something due to need or interest

(i.e: she must be a willing beginner who desires to learn while simultaneously acknowledging of your knowledge in relation 

to the knowledge she does not posses; the knowledge she desires to or is required to learn or acquire).

Otherwise, the concept of master, novice, or even amateur do not exist. 

Language is based on reality 

and you created a reality that only exists 

in a realm that is your mind 

You are no longer a master. 

You’re just

someone

who makes tea.

The only member in the audience

is you.

And now,

as I write this,

she has already fallen asleep,

but the movie is still running,

her mouth is open

she has her 5th bottle of Blue Moon in hand,

and you are cleaning up popcorn kernels

off

the floor

and

the

sofa.

And the characters in the movie are laughing.