Vignettes
Tea talk
PALLAVI AIYAR
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The teahouse is an institution in Chengdu, a space of refuge from the long summer days, a place to unwind with friends.
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It was in teahouses that fresh-faced couples fell in love at first sight through the rising steam of a fresh cup of jasmine tea; where angry young men brewed revolution; and those mellowed with age, took a nap.
A way of life: New friends at the teahouse.
The rustle of newspapers, the clatter of cups, the hiss of steaming water and the crackle of melon seeds being split open: the sounds ripple like wind dancing on the drooping branches of willow trees. I lean against the cool high back of the bamboo c
hair, enveloped by the same luscious lethargy that appears to grip everyone who enters this Chengdu teahouse. Tucked away inside the leafy environs of the Qingyang Gong or Green Goat temple, the teahouse is a refuge from the long and sultry summer days that keep the capital of Sichuan province in a near-constant sweat.
As the afternoon progresses, the teahouse gradually fills up. In one corner a group of toothless old men sit, slurping noisily on their cups. One of them tells a joke. I strain to listen but his tongue is thick in his mouth and the words are slurred. His friends seem to have no problem understanding however and they burst into throaty chuckles through wide, gummy smiles. Diagonally across them, two middle-aged women lean towards each other, talking in low tones, their eyes sparkling with the pleasure of gossip. Everywhere people clutch at bamboo fans, waving them slowly to create some movement of the otherwise sticky air.
Public spaces
Tea being served the traditional way.
The Chengdu teahouse is an institution so deeply entwined with the city’s way of life that it is matched only by the institution of drinking tea itself. There was a time when virtually every street in the city boasted its own teahouse. These were public spaces where people gathered for leisurely afternoons spent playing cards and mahjong. It was in teahouses that fresh-faced couples fell in love at first sight through the rising steam of a fresh cup of jasmine tea; where angry young men brewed revolution; and those mellowed with age, took a nap.
I had been surprised to discover recently that although tea drinking and cultivation were introduced to India from China by the British, the Chinese legend of how tea first took root in the Middle Kingdom, credited an Indian for the invention.
In the sixth century the Buddhist monk Bodhidharma came to China from India and began a nine-year-long meditation session in a cave by the famed Shaolin temple, or so the story went. One day the monk momentarily lost his concentration and fell asleep. This lapse enraged him so much that he tore off his eyelids in self-disgust and threw them on the ground. Two tea bushes were said to spring up at the very spot where the discarded eyelids fell. Bodhidharma then plucked a few of the leaves from the bushes and dropped them into boiling water to discover that after drinking water thus enhanced, he found himself to be more alert. Tea-drinking was introduced to China.
Back at the Green Goat temple teahouse, I am shaken out of a reverie by the gesticulations of a gaggle of grey-haired women who motion me to come over. “Hey, you foreigner,” says one of them, “come and join us. The crooks at this place over-charge foreigners five Yuan for a cup of tea that should cost three. We’ll get it for you at the right price.”
I walk across to my new-found friends and join them for a three Yuan ($0.4) cup of green tea. The table is cluttered with flasks of boiling water, interspersed by little mounds of peanut and melon seed shells.
In the midst of friends
Photos: Pallavi Aiyar
A game of mahjong in progress.
The women, the majority of whom are in their early sixties, tell me they have been friends and neighbours for several decades. They are all retired and usually spend four or five hours a day in this teahouse. “It’s much more fun than being stuck alone at home,” says Mrs. Zhou, a chirpy 62-year-old.
Given the vertiginous pace of change in most parts of China, I am struck by the timelessness of this afternoon. It feels as if both past and future are telescoped into this moment alone. I ask the women if much has changed in Chengdu teahouses over the years.
“Change?” muses Mrs. Shu, a retired coal mine union leader. “Well, the tea used to be one Yuan a cup and then two. Now it’s three.”
“I’ve been coming here since 1947,” a reedy voice interrupts the conversation. I turn to look at Old Lady Zhang who, at 88, is the oldest member of the group. Her face is wrinkled but her smile is smooth. “I came here as a child and now I am growing old here,” she says. Then her voice drops and she adds, “They closed the teashop during the Cultural Revolution. Those were the only years I wasn’t sitting right here every weekend.”
Teahouses everywhere across China had been closed during the tumultuous decade of the Cultural Revolution, having been labelled a bourgeois institution by a government keenly aware of the political function these public spaces played. They were gradually re-opened during the 1980s, but many feel that they never quite recovered their original flavour.
Looking back
Old Lady Zhang.
The women at the Green Goat teahouse start reminiscing. “Remember the long-spout kettles the waiters used to pour water into the cups from?” asks Mrs. Zhou. “Of course! Such skill it would take. One waiter would stand in the centre of several tables and be able to serve every one seated nearby without even moving,” replies Old Lady Zhang, hobbling up to her feet to demonstrate.
“Whoosh! The water would flash in an arc,” she says tracing the imaginary route of the water leaving the long-necked kettle and landing into an awaiting cup. “There was none of this,” she gestures at the flasks of hot water lying on the table.”
I learn that over the last decade China’s relentless construction boom has also busted its way into Chengdu, reducing many historic teahouses to rubble. “The ones in the parks and temples like this one are still around, but the teahouses on street corners have mostly been demolished,” says Mrs. Shu.
“Not that it makes so much difference now,” she continues. “Young people don’t like teahouses in any case. For them it’s all about Starbucks.”
I look at my watch. I really should get going I think. But outside it’s hot, while inside the teahouse it’s cool and fragrant. What’s the hurry, I ask myself… There are melon seeds waiting to be cracked and a fresh cup of tea to be shared with friends. The rest can wait.
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