Late morning has its own mood.
The house is awake but it lacks a certain ambition. The sunlight is bright, not soft, just extremely bright, peeking into my screen. My iced coffee sits beside me, forgotten long enough for it to form a swirl of water. I’m in a meeting, only technically. Words pass through my headphones without staying.
It’s when the door opens and squeaks slightly.
“Do you want tea?” My mother enquires nonchalantly.
I look up. Smile… or probably smirk.
“Tea? Amma, when did I ever drink tea?”
She doesn’t respond. A small nod. The door closes again, and the house returns to its earlier rhythm.
This has happened so often it barely registers anymore. A repetitive question. An answer known. Surprised by the outcome? Neither of us.
It starts faintly… something warm, almost sweet when I notice the air change. Then sharper. The fragrance of cardamon, clove and ginger engulf me. The kind that doesn’t rush you, but awaits in corners of the house.
I hear her before I see her again.
“Come sit for a bit,” she calls out.
“Just come.”
The meeting continues somewhere behind me. Someone is still talking. I’m no longer listening. At the table, she’s already there. A cup in her hands. Steam rising, then disappearing. The way it always does. We sit. Time loosens.
She talks about something ordinary. I respond. Or don’t. It doesn’t matter. Silence arrives and stays without feeling awkward. There’s a sudden joke, a burst of laughter, and even a tear drop at the corner of my eye, reminiscing an incident together one too many times.
She nudges the cup toward me.
“Have some.”
I shake my head.
She takes another sip.
A few minutes pass.
Then, almost absentmindedly — she slides the cup across again.
“Just the last bit.”
This time, I don’t say anything. I pick it up, just as absentmindedly. The cup is still cozy, not just from the tea, but also her hand wrapped around it. The tea tastes exactly how it always does. Spiced. Comforting. Familiar in a way that has nothing to do with flavour.
It’s always the same.
The only time I ever drink tea.
And the only time it tastes like this.
That’s when it becomes clear- it was never about the tea.
It was about the ritual, poured in the tea cup of love. Stored in a vessel of memories and shared through mundane stories.
Objects learn these moments. They absorb them quietly. Without asking. A cup becomes more than something you drink from. It becomes a witness. A keeper. A container for things that don’t have names.
This is what I think about when I design. When I choose. When I keep.
At Nurture India, I’m not interested in creating things that impress immediately. I care about what stays. What softens. What becomes necessary without announcing itself.
I’ve never wanted excess. Ten mugs are enough. They earn their place. They live with me. They age. They remember.
A home doesn’t need more objects.
It needs objects that know how to wait.
Like a cup of tea, poured even when no one asked for it.
Kept warm anyway.
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