Elaichi (The Cardamom Seed)

One afternoon, I decided to take one of the greatest acts of love - 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 to boil and pouring in a handful of tea leaves (after years of making tea, you just know how much to throw 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 (cardomom pods/seeds) 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 cardamom.

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, on the streets of Broadway, 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 conversing with your cousin who you were living with at the time. We never ended up having (what would be) our last chai together.

Perhaps, I should have known, that yes, although

the fallen elaichi was a symbol of your new-found hatred towards me,

it was also a metaphor for the idea that

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 tea

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” in and the “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.

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 carry on.

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 cardamom seeds

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 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. 

It has 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.