A Cup of Tea

“You call yourself the Guru’s Sikh”, I thundered at my nani (maternal grandmother), “yet, you harbor such feelings!” “Do as you are told. Don’t argue!” she protested feebly with embarrassment, and let out a gentle dubka. I ignored her mumblings, grabbed a glass from the kitchen shelf, and ran up the wedge shaped stairs. “Don’t let the teapot touch her glass”, she repeated after me.
Akko was the neighborhood sweeper. Armed with a jharoo and a tin can (to collect feces), she cleaned the rooftop latrines in our village. All her life she had toiled in this menial and thankless work. The blistering heat in June didn’t slow her steady work ethic. She looked older than her age. Akko walked with a limp and side sway. The mehndi colored and unkempt hair gave her a disheveled yet amusing appearance. A few gold studded yellow and decaying teeth remained precariously in her ever-grinning mouth. The cheerful and friendly smile complimented her wrinkled face. Torn and mended dresses clothed her. She wore her salwar high.

In spite of the hard life, pauper appearance and emaciated physique, there was dignity about her. She personified the true Punjabi spirit of the bygone era sung in our folklore. Akko’s heart was as large as the Punjab.

She would routinely come and clean our latrines. My grandma gave her a few rupees for the service. Akko declined the paltry payment - a small fortune to her. “He is my guest too”, she beamed with a twinkle in her faded eye, and “One doesn’t accept payment from guests”. As per the Punjabi tradition of hospitality, when a visitor visits a village, he is a welcomed guest of all the villagers. In this petty, selfish and cold world, I was touched by her noble and warm gesture. My eyes well up whenever I remember the snippets from the conversation.

Granny would offer her two rotis and a cup of tea. I vividly remember the routine: After finishing her work, Akko would sit on the floor and receive the rotis in folded hands with great reverence and gratitude. Sometimes, she saved one of the two rotis for dinner or shared it with her family. Then, she would fetch a glass from her bag and place it before her. My granny would pour the tea from a safe distance – taking care that the teapot never came in contact with the glass.

That day, I decided I would remind my granny of a lesson about equality our Gurus gave us. I was going to serve the tea to Akko in a glass from our kitchen. Laborers and other well to do lower castes drank from our tumblers. “Why was it a taboo for Akko to use them?” I wondered.

Akko saw me coming with the kettle and noticed the glass in the other hand. It was unexpected. Her uneasy smile seemed to convey that I was innocent and a stranger to the local customs and norms. She tapped her glass on the floor – as if to tell me that she wanted the tea in her dusty glass. Only God and her heart knew in that awkward moment why she couldn’t or wouldn’t accept our tumbler.

Ignoring my nani’s earlier advice, I knelt to pour the tea. The kettle spout and the glass tinkled for one brief moment; the glass wobbled from the splashing tea. Akko steadied it with her hands; that is when I saw that her hands and the glass were splattered and stained with feces. I recoiled in revulsion and stood up; the tea flowed from a distance into her glass. After serving Akko the tea, I placed the kettle for scrubbing.