It came in a dark brown, almost black bamboo wrapping that was a work of art in itself, and for that reason alone it stayed unpacked for over a year. A long slim cylinder of bamboo sheath in which, my intrepid trekker husband told me, was an exquisite tribal tea that had been smoked over the fire for god knows how many moons. The top was crossed over and tied with a thin sliver of bamboo ribbon, carefully tied into a bow. It was a ceremonial gift, from the village elder to an honoured guest.
Tea? From the rainforests of North East India? I was curious. Whatever was inside was rock hard, you could have knocked me over with it. Oh, you just need to shave off how ever much you need, I was told indulgently. I put it aside, rather fascinated with the whole thing, not too curious to experiment.
And then one languid Sunday afternoon, I discovered we were out of coffee. It was the perfect moment for the rainforest tea. Gently, with much curiosity, I opened up the bamboo sheath, and scraped off a small amount into the water I had put to boil.
Within minutes, the water turned a deep orange-red gold, and a thick woody aroma filled the air. On the point of pouring the milk in, I changed my mind. It would be a shame to mask the flavour. Lemon? I wondered, then decided to leave that too, for another time.
It tasted of the rainforest. Intense, rich, with depths and notes I wouldn’t have imagined in a tea. Notes created by an assortment of forest herbs, gathered at just the right time and blended together in just the right proportions, and then hung over the fire for months to let steam and smoke do their job… Each family apparently had their signature blends, and this was surely from a connoisseur…
The TV seemed a sacrilege, and I turned it off. I needed silence, and solitude, to savour this. And space… Quietly I picked up my cup, and went outside to the green of the garden.
It held my own private stock of rainforest moments.
