[Creative Nonfiction] Inherited at Four

Read the winning entry for our week of March 2, 2025 prompt, A Warm Drink

Mar 22, 2025

Inherited at Four
by

Patel

She slips off her shoes at her cousin’s doorway and peers into the kitchen. Seven chairs today, three dragged in from the garden shed. If her elder brother arrives, the radiator’s edge will be hers.

The counter is set. Lemon madeira cake neatly arranged. Chocolate éclairs. Cream slices, the kind that collapse at first bite. She runs a finger along the serving plate, one that belonged to her baa (grandmother), slightly chipped from countless washes.

Last week, it was crispy potato-pea samosas followed by jalebis, sticking to fingers like sugared ink. Only on Sundays does she allow herself this indulgence.

One cousin announces a new diet while reaching for cake. Some traditions cannot be broken.

“Who’s making the chai?” The question drifts through the thick cloud of her aunt’s incense—jasmine today, or maybe sandalwood, always just a little too strong.

A weekly lottery, anticipation or dread. Her eldest aunt’s tea is weak, apologetic. Her second aunt’s is too kadak, an assault of tannins, like her unsolicited advice. One uncle can only measure for a single cup—useless on Sundays. Another drowns his in milk, turning it into dessert.

And then there’s her. She tries, she really does, but her chai always tastes more like an impression. Her baa’s, though, was perfect. No one claims her place, but they all know who comes closest.

Her mother steps forward. Decision made.

From her handbag, she retrieves small parcels of spice. The family exhales. Today, the chai will be good.

Water meets steel pot, ripples forming.

First, fennel seeds, crushed. Their aniseed fragrance perfuming the air. Then, fresh ginger, grated, its bite making noses tingle. Cardamom pods, cracked. Mint leaves, torn. Cinnamon sticks, broken. A scoop of homemade masala.

She watches the pot. Guardian of the boil. She has failed before, letting the water spill over in a hissing tantrum. Today, she stays close.

The pot roars, the spices speaking to the water.

Then, the tea. Her mother’s secret blend. Green tea, twisted with Darjeeling. It steeps, unfurls. A moment of patience.

Then, the final act. Whole milk, poured in a slow stream. Dark umber swirls into rich terracotta. One final rise, heat reduced, and the chai is complete.

Her mother strains it, leaving behind the tired spices. No sugar added. One uncle has diabetes, and one cousin will add four spoons and still insist it isn’t sweet enough.

Conversation pauses. Mismatched cups pass from hand to hand. Steam rises in unison.

For this moment, they are whole. Arguments rest. Gossip postpones. The Star Plus channel is muted, melodrama on hold.

Eyes drift to the empty chair at the head of the table, untouched since last spring. Baa’s spot, where she somehow watched over them all.

The chai tastes different now. Same recipe, same spices, but the most important cup remains unfilled. Yet, in the flavor that binds three generations, her presence lingers in ways they never planned but cannot imagine living without.

This inheritance of four o’clock, a legacy of belonging.

A Note From Our Guest Judge,
Susannah Rigg

I adore this piece. The writing is exquisite, some favourite lines were “her chai always taste more like an impression,” “Her second aunt’s is too kadak, an assault of tannins, like her unsolicited advice,” “The pot roars, the spices speaking to the water.” Every line feels like it’s doing double duty, giving us layers of information about this family and about our protagonist in relation to them, as well as the tea. The sensory details are incredible, I was right there making the tea, smelling the spices, almost tasting the chai. The last paragraphs brought tears to my eyes each time I read them.