Stories I hardly think about

Arya lives in a small village of two hundred, four hours north of the Nepalese capital. She goes to a local primary school where the classes are taught by a handful of locals, most of whom hold a high school degree—at brightest. She diligently studies science because her only parent, her father Surabhi has been insistent that her focus should be first on science and then the rest. Surabhi is a man of modest means and has been through many trials and tribulations; most of the days, the thick lines and wrinkles on his face speak of such. He never went to school despite having had the urge to do so, granted the poverty of his own family. It seems more than acceptable that he feels his only daughter shouldn’t have to bear the fate of his own. Some nights, he lullabies Arya to sleep with stories of white angelic beings sitting on the stars and that one day she would be able to meet them if she did well in school and excelled at science.

Five years ago, when the local government decided to connect his village to the nearby town with marginally paved roads, Surabhi jubilantly ran across the fields with his daughter fastened to his back to see the first bus the village had ever seen in it’s long neglected history. Finally, he wouldn’t have to make another arduous six hour journey to the nearest town to barter his field grown tea leaves for a small share of basics from soap to salt. His tea leaves, although to him are just a bare means to basic survival— their exceptional qualities are not unknown to the local merchant Vishnudas. In exchange for provisioning a handful of commodities to Surabhi, Vishnudas exports the tea in a substantial scale of small pouches directly to a renowned tea vendor in the capital earning him profits by sizable margins. The tea vendor in the capital prepares the premium readymade tea packages with organic homegrown labels on a huge shipment leaving for a prominent tea seller client in Washington D.C. and the sip of the same tea enlightens a foggy Sunday morning of an avid tea drinker like me with it’s contagious aroma and it’s soothing passage across my palate. But alas, I never think of the countless Aryas and Surabhis— those obscure backstage protagonists, as I deliberately process my hundredth tea pic through that depressing willow filter for a few seconds of fame on my instagram.