Twinings

I was handed a cup of strawberry mango tea while it poured outside. Rains are a perfect excuse for a cup of tea. As I watched the Twining tea bags floating around in my cup, I thought of my grandfather. He was meticulous about his teas.

He stocked a whole 2 months’ supply of tea in a cabinet he kept only for himself. We were 5 of us living in a 1 Bedroom Hall Kitchen apartment and space was a genuine issue. But my grandfather, in my mother’s opinion, took up space for the most useless things. His typewriter, that he used once in six months. His exhaustive supply of medicines, often those he didn’t need but stocked for “emergencies”. And then there was the matter of his teabags.

Twinings was his favourite label. He’d have frowned at flavours like Strawberry Mango and Peppermint if he was around today. His favourites were rather simple — Earl Grey and Darjeeling. He’d show me how to infuse the teabag in the cup of hot tea. He’d drain the dripping teabag on the rim of the cup, place it on the saucer. He’d then lift the cup, take a sip and give a throaty cry of satisfaction. “Aaaargh!” Well, it sounded like an aaargh anyway!

He was a man of precision, my Daddy (I’ve always called him Daddy and my own father Papa). He had funny quirks like grinning to himself over goodness knows which joke, and he lovingly called me Poop (like Little Bo Peep but Poop instead), which has funny connotations now I’ve grown up.

I miss my grandfather on most days, but more so now as an adult. Isn’t it weird how you always have something special with your grandparents that you don’t with your own parents? I remember funny things about my grandfather — the way his eyes would turn small when he wore his massive power spectacles, the way he’d have his meals at 7.30, the way he’d shave. He was seen as a dictator by his children and everyone else, except me.

Little things remind me of him. I always think of him at tea time. Especially when I pick up a teabag.