On International Tea Day, we raise a cup to more than just a beverage. This piece is a gentle reflection on the nameless tea shops that dot the Indian landscape—places where time slows down, conversations spark or simmer in silence, and a simple cup of tea offers an extraordinary pause in our fast-moving lives.
On a slightly cool February morning, my friend and I were walking along the quiet streets of Sekharipuram in Kerala, south India. We were simply soaking in the beauty of the gramam (the village) and its deliciously charming houses. Suddenly, I had an intense craving for chai and parippu vada. And, as if by magic, we spotted a nameless tea shop just a few yards away. I felt extravagantly lucky at that moment. Everything felt like a soft kasavu sari.
What’s India without its countless nameless tea shops? A tea shop is an intimate pause in a world dominated by busyness. It is a large-hearted, inclusive universe that embraces anyone who can spare ₹5 or ₹10—maybe a little more or less—for a cup of tea.
The tea shop is the epicentre of both silence and conversation. You can walk in quietly, have your cup of tea, and leave just as quietly. There is no need to strike up a conversation with your fellow tea-drinkers. You can have your own inner universe even as you sit in the outer one. On the other hand, you can also choose to engage in conversation. It’s entirely up to you—how you wish to be present in that nameless tea shop.
Everyone is in a hurry now—in a postmodern, rapidly developing urban India. Everyone is rushing to acquire something or the other—a house, a car, a cool bike, a smartphone, an LBD, or even faded jeans. Even the humble chai/chaha/cha has undergone a sleek makeover. During the pandemic, we saw many privileged souls gloating over their bubble tea. These days, everything needs a fancy tag. Tea is no exception. Now, you can have sleeping beauty tea, anti-stress tea, rose tea, blueberry tea… the list is endless.
But in the world of nameless tea shops, nothing has really changed. The kettle may look a little battered, but it still does its job. Some things in life shouldn’t change. They should stay just as they are—like a mother singing the same lullaby her mother once sang to her child.
You’ll find these tea shops across almost every state in India, especially when travelling through the countryside. These tiny tea shops are a lifeline for many who stop by to sip a hot cup of chai as they go about their lives. They add a certain charm to the landscape and, in a way, can be described as community meeting centres.
I’ve found them everywhere I’ve travelled in India. In western Sikkim, I found my nameless tea shop while searching for rhododendron flowers. The men playing cards at the little shop started talking to me. They got excited when they found out I was a journalist—even more so when they learned I was from Gujarat. They asked me many questions about life there.
The world may have many problems, but there I was, sipping hot tea with four fellow tea-drinkers, our conversation flowing like water.
A few months ago, during my travels in Odisha, eastern India, I came across another nameless tea shop in a small village. I stopped to have a cup of chai and soak in the atmosphere. I was the only woman there, yet I felt safe. I don’t know whether women from nearby villages visit this shop, but that moment was mine.
There’s nothing fancy about the tea in these shops. If you can’t live without your jasmine tea, orange pekoe, or oolong, then this may not be your place. Here, the tea is brewed with basic tea leaves, milk, and sugar. But it tastes good—robust and alive.
In Odisha, these tea shops always have an assortment of biscuits in colourful plastic dabbas. As a child, I used to love gazing at those canisters filled with goodies, dreaming of having tea with them. But adulthood is a different game, and now I stay away from biscuits.
The tea shop is a place where people steal a few moments for themselves—without spending much. The humble chai will always remain a hot favourite across India.
The most telling image I carry in my heart from all these tea shop visits is of a man in Odisha walking away gracefully after finishing his tea. I will never forget the lines on his back—they spoke of a life spent toiling under the burning sun.
I believe there is no absolute love, no absolute death—but there is absolute hard work. On his back, many of us stand—with our urban privileges, brooding over Monday blues in air-conditioned offices.
Time at a nameless tea shop feels like a semi-colon in a relationship—not the full stop. Maybe you’re hurt or angry, but it’s not the end. There’s a way forward. Maybe it becomes clearer after you finish your tea at that humble, gentle tea stall. Not everything in life needs a name. The tea will still taste like nectar—even if the shop doesn’t have one.
Welcome to the world of pause and liquid happiness.
Deepika Sahu has been a journalist for 29 years and she has worked with some of India’s leading media houses. Right now, she is independently engaged in content creation and curation. Twitter: @menondeepika | Instagram@moodydeepika | Facebook: Deepika Sahu
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