chai, matcha and a quiet rebellion

i'm dreaming about a life in the mountains while writing this

it’s sunday. i want something cold. it rained yesterday, and for a while, the air from the fan was breezy, almost crisp. but today, the heat is back, pressing against the walls, making the room feel smaller. a cold drink is the only thing keeping it from closing in on me. the ice cubes clink against the glass, and for a second, the walls expand again.

i hate summer. i want nothing to do with it. i want it gone, so far away that winter finds its way back. i never watched game of thrones, but would seeing winter come while i sit here, sweating, make me enjoy it more?

back in college, my roommate loved the summer. they would sit in the chennai heat, refusing to switch on the ac, as if 43-degree humidity was something to be embraced. we never got along. i hated the sweat, the stickiness, the way heat makes tempers shorter, words sharper.

matcha helps, literally and figuratively. i had my first sip of matcha in uji, kyoto. the matcha capital of the world. maybe that’s why i love it. i did it right. i bought bags of it to take home, and every time the heat feels unbearable, i whisk some up. does it help? not really. but it takes me back to the cool streets of tokyo, where i stood in a puffer jacket, sipping a stupid little 7/11 matcha latte, holding a fruit sando in my other hand. god, i miss those fruit sandos. i wish i had brought them back too.

my dad loves matcha too, but at the end of the day, he loves anything that’s brought straight to his bed- tea, coffee, fruit, even a plain glass of water if it means he doesn’t have to get up. he drinks it without much thought, without complaint, without preference. my mom, on the other hand, hates it. the matcha, the food in bed, the crumbs on the sheets. she still takes a sip to humor me, scrunches her nose, hands the cup back like she’s doing me a favor.

she doesn’t mind the heat. or maybe she just doesn’t notice it anymore. she moves through the house like it doesn’t exist, two cups of chai marking the rhythm of her day; one in the morning, one in the evening, always hot, always the same. she doesn’t flinch when the air gets thick, doesn’t sigh when the sweat pools at the base of her neck, doesn’t step away from the gas stove when the kitchen turns into a furnace. she just keeps going, sipping her chai, waiting for the breeze that never comes. maybe she’s used to it. maybe she’s learned that some things aren’t worth resisting.

i take a long sip of my matcha, letting the cold settle on my tongue, waiting for it to spread through me like a quiet rebellion. the ice clinks against the tumbler, shrinking, disappearing, losing the fight against the heat—but at least it tries. i think about my mom’s chai, the way she drinks it without hesitation, without question, as if the warmth is just another part of the day she has made peace with. i wonder if i’ll ever get there, if i’ll ever stop trying to outrun the heat, if i’ll ever stop needing something cold between my fingers to keep the walls from pressing in. i don’t know if i should accept it too. the thick, unshifting heat. the stillness. the way the air presses in. i don’t think i ever will. maybe that’s why i always say no to her chai, why i whisk up my own matcha instead, why i dump ten ice cubes into my tumbler and watch them melt before i’ve even taken a sip. maybe that’s my resistance.