The Tea-seller’s Daughter

She must have been eleven, maybe twelve.
Dust on her cheeks-
not the kind you wipe off
the kind that settles with time.
Standing behind the counter
every day, same place,
as if she were carved from the steam
that rises from the kettle
and never found a reason to leave.

Her fingers
knew the kettle,
stained with tea leaves-
as if the earth passed through her palms
before settling in glass.
She didn’t look up often,
but when she did,
it was like she was measuring something
you didn’t know you were carrying.

Her mother counted coins
as if they owed her something,
washing glasses
like she was scrubbing old thoughts away.
But the girl did neither.
She waited for people
silently handing them their tea.

I came there for tea and a smoke,
every afternoon,
the way people do
when they need something
that feels like a pause
but costs less than ten rupees.

She never smiled.
Not once.
But she always knew
who needed less sugar,
who preferred more milk,
who liked it strong,
who came just to hold something warm
without drinking it.

There was a boy
who always drank slowly.
She added extra sugar
without thinking.
He drank it slowly,
as if trying to remember
what sweetness felt like
before it started fading.

There was a college girl
who never looked at her tea,
just stared at books
that never turned a page.
She ordered,
then disappeared into stillness.
Her tea always grew cold.
It was as if she was waiting
for the pressure to ease
before she breathed again
like a memory folded into steam.

There was an old man
who never spoke,
but came like clockwork,
twice a day, choosing the busiest hours,
holding his glass
like it was the only warmth
he could claim without asking,
just to sit
among the noise.
He looked around
like someone trying
to stay visible.

She noticed things.
Without writing them down.
Without asking.
Making sure they all got what they wanted
as if her hands did it without knowing
as if she were just a medium,
the act already pre-defined.

One day,
when it was just me,
her,
and a kettle hissing in the heat,
I asked her
if she wanted to go to school.
She looked up-
only for a second-
gave me a half-smile,
placed the glass in front of me,
and turned back to stir the next cup.

Then I turned to her mother,
and asked
if I could pay for her studies.
So she wouldn’t have to keep doing this.
So maybe she could sit in a classroom
instead of this pavement
measuring tea leaves and years.

Her mother looked at me
with the fear of someone
who couldn't afford
to lose even one pair of hands.
She didn’t say much-
just snapped:
“Why do you care? Just drink your tea and leave.”
There wasn’t space in her voice
for anything soft.
Not when the day’s wages
still had to be earned.

I sipped in silence,
my palm still burning
till I finished the tea that day.
Left the coins,
flicked the ash off my shirt.
Walked back to the office.

But the half-smile of the tea-seller's daughter-
still burns me,
all these years later.

Reviews

[ETERNITY]

My Gosh! The impact these words have to the reader...sudden and without softeners.
You are amazing! The details you have paid precise attention to in memory.
Thanks for posting.
I guess we all deal with life in our own way. You, indeed, are gifted with your presentation here.
BettyG

[Broken.buddy]

thank you for your kind words as always

[Emunah June.]

The pure longing of another life when you are enmeshed in this one. A horrid feeling. But, what isnt horrid is your use of prose. It was an exceptional scene well-crafted that carried the reader on a journey that had more to talk about than just tea.

[Vol]

BB,
It is difficult to respond to so much at once... Every image, every detail, every insight requires quiet time to appreciate. The speaker as important as the subject in your telling... We the readers appreciate that you leave us to imagine the rest...
Vol

[DIVYA]

It was a beautiful feeling, reading this. That girl lost an opportunity but somewhere some other such child could get lucky - if only there are enough such good Samaritans around. Like they say, its the thought that counts and yours was worth its weight in gold.

Aside from the main theme of caring and empathy running through this poem, I also loved the various sketches or profiles of people from different places, in life. People watching is my hobby and its delightful to read your observations. People are so interesting to observe!

Lastly, the simplicity of the narration. That resonated with me so well. The best stories are told very simply, clearly.

So happy to discover your writing. Truly enjoyed! I'll be looking to read more.

[Ayesha Faiz]

This is quietly powerful and emotionally rich. The way you paint the girl—“carved from the steam”—is hauntingly beautiful. Every small detail, from how she remembers each person’s tea to how she never smiles, speaks volumes without ever raising its voice. The mother’s fear, the speaker’s helpless compassion, the unspoken stories in every cup—all of it builds such a tender, aching portrait of life on the margins. That final half-smile stays with the reader too—like steam that never quite disappears. Just beautiful.

[Broken.buddy]

thank you for noticing the elements i tried to come up with in describing, when I saw the girl for the first time, there was lot of smoke from the coal stove and from behind the smoke, she walked towards the counter and thats how I remember her, someone coming out of the smoke

[Neha agrawal]

This poem doesn’t just tell a story, it pauses time. The way you captured the girl's stillness, her unspoken understanding of each customer, it felt like watching someone live a thousand small lives through cups of tea. That line about her being carved from the steam, just stunning. It reminded me of people I’ve passed by, noticed briefly, and then couldn’t forget for years. Thank you for sharing such a beautiful piece.

[Broken.buddy]

thank you for sharing your memories and I am glad you could relate to something in your life as well through this

[Arundass TP]

Nicely written poem. Enjoyed reading

[Broken.buddy]

thank you very much