The Last Cup of Tea

The house hadn’t changed.

The cracked veranda tiles still sighed under his feet, just as they did when he used to chase after the neighborhood kids. The faded wind chime still hung by the front door, though it no longer sang. Dust lay gently on the windows, as if time itself had exhaled and settled in.

Aariz turned the key in the rusted lock. The door opened slowly, creaking like an old memory resurfacing.

It had been four months since his mother passed away.

He hadn’t come back since the funeral. Couldn’t. Everything in this home reeked of her – her scent, her scolding, her soft humming in the kitchen when she made her famous cardamom chai. Coming back felt like walking into a memory he wasn’t ready to relive. But the lawyer had called. The property needed to be emptied. Sold.

It was time.

He stepped inside, half expecting to hear her call out his name the way she always did: “Aariz beta, chai thandi ho jayegi!” But the only voice that greeted him was silence — heavy, solemn, and absolute.

The living room was untouched. Her shawl still hung on the back of the armchair. Her reading glasses were resting on the open pages of a half-finished Urdu novel. A pair of her slippers peeked out from under the coffee table.

Aariz sat down on the couch, closed his eyes, and for a brief moment, pretended she was in the kitchen — that at any second, the whistle of the kettle would sound, and she’d come in carrying a tray of tea and biscuits, smiling through her tired eyes.

But there was no kettle.

No tea.

Just silence.

He wandered into the kitchen. The same rusted stove. The same spice rack she refused to replace. A little chalkboard still hung by the fridge, with her last written note:
“Aariz will come next week. Must buy his favorite cake.”

His chest tightened. He remembered the last phone call — two days before she passed.

"Are you eating properly?"
"Yes, Ammi."
"When are you visiting again?"
"Soon, just finishing up work."
"Don’t wait too long, beta. Mothers don’t live forever."

She had laughed when she said that.

He didn’t.

She died of a silent heart attack two mornings later. Alone. In this house. With no one to hold her hand.

He had arrived too late.


The tears came uninvited, hot and bitter, as Aariz stood by the stove and imagined her standing there in her worn-out apron, stirring tea, tasting it with her pinky, then insisting it needed "just one more elaichi."

He wiped his face and opened the cabinet. There, neatly arranged, were the teacups they always used. One of them had a tiny chip on the rim — his favorite. He pulled it out, along with her special tea tin.

He made the tea slowly, deliberately. He boiled the milk, added sugar the way she did — not too much, just enough. Crushed the cardamom pods the way she taught him. Let it steep just a little longer for the stronger flavor.

He poured it into both cups — hers and his.

Then he sat across from her empty chair.


For a while, he didn’t speak. He just sat there, the cup warming his hands, the steam rising slowly between them like an unfinished goodbye.

Then softly, almost brokenly, he whispered:
"I’m sorry, Ammi."
"I should have come back sooner."
"I thought there would be more time."

The chair didn’t respond. But the house listened.

And somehow, he felt she heard him.


When he left later that evening, he didn’t take much — just her shawl, the tea tin, and the chipped teacup. He locked the house gently, like tucking a child into bed.

As he walked away, he looked back one last time.

The wind chime moved — just slightly — and this time, it rang.


Epilogue:

Grief doesn’t ask for permission. It arrives when you’re unready, and stays longer than you want. It isn’t loud or dramatic. Sometimes, grief is just a cold cup of tea on the table — untouched, but filled with memories.