Mr. Reddy, an aged man, thin and tall, had a small tea shop, near the senior citizen park, on a quiet street, in a small town. His smiling eyes could be seen from behind the spectacles. His fresh wrinkles on skin, and grey hair with a hint of dark brown in between spoke of his age.
His shop was not too far from his home where he lived with his wife, Siya, a lady with long tresses, and a sweet smile, who used to stitch clothes for the neighbours on request. She was known for the magic in her hands and perfection in her work even in her late sixties, ever since they got married, some forty years ago. Sometimes, she used to accompany him to the tea shop where he played old melodies on gramophone kept on a table in the extreme right corner, to hide the chipped plaster wall. The ceiling was low due to another floor that he built because of the rush in his shop.
Occasionally, he used to switch on the FM radio kept nearby.
His tea and bun-maska was famous throughout the town. With his friendly nature he was respected and loved by people of all ages. Everybody loved to talk to him. He had seen many laughter and heard many cries. He knew the stories of every individual who visited his shop, and was always found talking to the customers.
Everyone carried a story within. Some shared with ease, while others had a difficult time sharing their stories.
Some people called his tea miraculous. Simply a sip of it was relaxing. Afterall, he served it lovingly with a smile and plenty of understanding. He had a motto, "Have your cup of tea. It doesn't matter how your mood is when you enter the shop, but when you leave, leave with a smile."
He had always believed in the saying that you should always leave people better than when you met them.
"Ajit, give this tea to sir."
Ajit, a young boy, who helped him at his shop, used to place a small glass of tea alongwith cookies and Bun-Maska, in front of the customer.
"Special tea for you!" He used to speak in his enthusiastic tone while making tea for others.
Seasons kept changing, from autumn, to winter, to summer, to rains, and the cycle used to start all over again. Most of the people had same stories of losses and gains, of regrets and pains. He patiently listened to them.
It was a winter morning. That day he opened his shop a little late. His wife had gone to another town to meet a relative, who was unwell. Ajit had gone out for some work.
While he was pulling up the shutter, he looked on his side, and saw a young boy, who looked in his twenties, dressed in a red jacket, and black jeans, with a little long hair, taking photographs, and talking to the people. His gestures made it clear that he was visiting that area for the first time, and was looking for someone, or something.
He heaved a sigh. Drowning in some deep thought he went inside. After dusting a little, he lit the lamp and prayed for a while.
Just then a few customers came in, and occupied the seats on the wooden benches, and got involved in a conversation, as he started making tea for them.
A few more customers arrived in, a man sat with a newspaper on a chair placed near a small staircase. A few moved up the stairs and took their seats. In a few minutes, the shop was full of customers. The place became lively with conversations.
The tea leaves were swirling in the boiling water, along with peppercorns, clove, ginger and cinnamon, just like some thoughts that creeped up this morning. He added milk to it, boiled it, and served.
“What happened?” “You are not talking today, and why were you late?” The customers kept on asking but he kept quiet, smiled, and went back to making tea. He didn’t speak a word. Maybe, it happens with everyone. Well, not all days are the same.
Just then he heard a voice. “Uncle, one masala tea, with a hint of lemon grass please.” Taking corner seat of a bench, that boy started checking his DSLR.
He looked back, and saw the same boy, who got him thinking. With questioning eyes, he approached the young boy. "I never saw you before. What's your name? I saw you taking pictures."
"Everyone is a photographer these days."
Saying this he smiled, and said,
"I am Rishi."
"Uncle, I have heard about the special tea that you make. My grandfather, Mr. Rama Rao, used to come here often after his walk with his friends.”
A few days ago, he passed away. In the park, he had made many friends. One day, he didn’t go to the park, because of his sickness, his friends visited us in the evening at our home to know his whereabouts.”
“There was some strange feeling that added uniqueness to that evening. I heard all of them talking and laughing. They shared their sadness too.” Saying this, Rishi's eyes got wet, as tears welled up, and blocked his voice.
“There is sorrow that lingers in old parks.” The old man said looking around with a wistful look.
The boy looked around, and fixed his gaze on Mr. Reddy’s face.” I think you are right. Old parks carry a garden within. A garden that bears the fruits of wisdom, that’s hidden underneath the weeds, which they often find it difficult to let go. Stubborn, they become. My grandfather was like that.”
“The experiences they carry, have the potential to plant a new garden, and make them all new just like this newly constructed senior citizen park where the old park existed. Thank you, uncle.” Saying this, sipping the last drop of tea, he made the payment, and smiled. Sometimes, you don’t need words to express yourself.
"Visit again." Mr. Reddy gently put his hand on Rishi's shoulder, and smiled.
![Write Tribe](http://<div align="center"><a href="http://writetribe.com" title="Write Tribe"><img src="http://i853.photobucket.com/albums/ab92/CorinneCR/6743bc0c-f84c-4b75-b2aa-82bafb353f8e_zps485e2995.jpg" alt="Write Tribe" style="border:none;" /></a></div>)
