For the first time, I ventured into highly premium chai that are seasonal and specific. I didn’t have a big budget for the tea leaves.
Actually, this craze for different brew and estate specific black teas and blended brews, happened because of Teabox.
(Eyes on the Teabox company pointing – Guilty as charged!) But I don’t mind it though [😉] )
I love the blends, and chai varieties from Teabox! I never miss a single chance to keep promoting their brand and their teas.
Since, I am subscribed to their newsletter I get update about fresh tea leaves, seasonal tea leaves plucked and sorted just two days back.
Always as promised from tea gardens to customer doorstep fresh and hassle-free.
I remember once that I was planning to be out of town since because it was sudden plan, I had already purchased the tea and the blends.
I rushed to tell them that I might not be available to receive it. But they rearranged a few things and did an early before I left delivery.
I felt in my adage I turning out to be a difficult person preferring certain types of chai and unwilling to experiment with others.
I feel I am a “difficult person.” More like: had my palate become a wall? Had my solitude made me unable to appreciate anything that didn’t arrive exactly on my terms?
Then I brewed Koilamari. My first purchase of Estate specific leaves. The texture of Koilamari was crisp in my finger and as I lifted it to my nose and I could smell the tea’s specialty was waiting to seen when steeped.
And Koilamari only cared about my curiosity to have my first taste.
The First Afternoon
It was a Sunday. The kind of Sunday that announce itself as lazy one after all—no last week’s residue, no carry-over weekend’s impatience. Just an ordinary afternoon with a headache building behind my right eye, the kind that usually means I’ve been staring at my own arguments in a Word document for too long.
I opened the Teabox packet. Single estate. Koilamari. Divine to the touch, I had ordered it weeks ago, before the Varanasi disappointment, and it had been sitting there like a quiet guest waiting for its turn.
No ceremony. No anticipation. I simply boiled water, I wanted to drink this black tea without any accompaniment. Just Koilamari and nothing else.
The water took a long time to boil over. I switched off the stove, counted till 50, and then, dropped the leaves in.
What Happened Next
The leaves didn’t announce themselves dramatically. No rose petals pretending to be chai. There was no masala add vying for space to impress me.
They simply opened.
Have you watched Koilamari leaves steep? They stretch. Slowly. Like someone waking up without an alarm. Like they have nowhere else to be except right there, in that hot water, becoming exactly what they are.
I steeped for five minutes. Not because a box told me to. Because the colour looked right. Because the smell that rose from the cup was the smell of afternoon being manageable.
Then I filtered it. Added a touch of hot milk. No sugar. Sugar would have been an interruption. And bad choice for my diabetics.
The First Sip
The headache didn’t vanish immediately. That would be a lie, and I don’t write lies even when they would make a better story.
But something else happened.
I sat down with the chai. I blew on the cup and tried to cool it enough for a first sip. Not demanding that I like it. Not performing.
And I realised: Koilamari doesn’t need my approval. It isn’t trying to be my friend, my partner, my great love. It simply is. A single estate leaf that grew somewhere, was picked by someone I will never meet, travelled to my kitchen, and now—steeped for five minutes—keeps me company while I knock the sense out of a half-formed argument on my screen.
No Courtroom Needed
With Varanasi Chai, I had to hold a trial. Prosecution, defense, judge, the whole theatre. Was it the rose petals or was it the nuts or something else? The paan aftertaste? Was it me? Was it my marriage-shaped wound pretending to be a taste preference?
Exhausting.
With Koilamari, there is no case to argue. No “silent disagreement.” No impasse.
Just: sip. Type. Sip. Delete a bad sentence. Sip. Write a better one.
What Koilamari Taught Me
Not every relationship needs to be worked on.
Some relationships simply work.
The ones that work don’t ask you to explain yourself. They don’t demand effort journals, couples therapy, or long conversations about why you are the way you are. They show up. They do their small, quiet job. And they leave you intact.
My marriage required constant effort. Varanasi Chai required a courtroom. Koilamari requires nothing except hot water and five minutes.
That is not a failure of the others. That is simply a fact of alignment.
Afternoon Headache, Meet Your Match
By the third sip, the headache was loosening. Not dramatically. Just… receding. Like a tide that realised it had no business being there.
By the last sip, I had rewritten three paragraphs that had been stuck for two days.
Coincidence? Maybe.
But I don’t believe in coincidences anymore. I believe in small, accurate alignments. Wine coloured Koilamari. A Sunday afternoon. A Word document that doesn’t judge me.
The Verdict
Koilamari is not my great love story. It is not a metaphor for a healed marriage or a recovered self.
It is simply the chai I reach for in the afternoon when I don’t want a conversation, a courtroom, or a lesson.
Just a headache. Just a cup. Just the quiet company of leaves that know how to open without performing.
That is enough.
That is, honestly, more than enough.
PS: I still have half the Koilamari pack left. I am in no hurry to finish it. That, I think, is the highest compliment I can give any chai—or any relationship.
Itinerant Storyteller 