A Lakshadweep tea shop’s hand-painted signboard reads ‘Raahath’ (meaning comfort/relaxation in Malayalam), embodying the simple yet profound role tea and tea shops play in island life.
The monsoon arrives like a grand storyteller, sweeping across the Lakshadweep archipelago with a narrative of pause and reflection. These emerald jewels scattered across the Arabian Sea, mere specks of land surrounded by infinite blue, know intimately the art of waiting. Because here, waiting is not a passive state, but a profound meditation, a breathing space between moments of intensity.
In the archipelago’s delicate ecosystem of islands, where land is a fragile negotiation with the sea, tea shops stand as sanctuaries of normalcy. They are more than mere establishments. They are the beating heart of community, the pulse that connects one moment to another, one person to another, one story to another.
The familiar interior of a Lakshadweep tea shop, where plastic chairs and simple tables set the stage for countless conversations and connections.
The months from May to September are traditionally cruel to these islands. The monsoon transforms everything. The landscape becomes a canvas of greys and deep greens, the sea transforms from a placid blue to a churning palette of steel and emerald. During these months, the islands retreat into themselves, and the tea shops become more than just places of refreshment; they become theaters of human connection, stages where life’s small dramas unfold.
The old-school setup: A traditional island tea shop’s stove and kettle that’s been serving up hot tea for decades.
Each island, whether it’s the more populated Kavaratti or the tiny, intimate Bitra, shares this universal language of tea. The ritual is both deeply personal and communal. A regular customer doesn’t just order tea, they participate in an unspoken choreography. The walk to a familiar table, the pulling back of a chair with a characteristic flourish, the expectant pause: these are not mere actions, but a form of belonging.
Tea at sea: A weathered kettle brewing tea aboard a fishing vessel, highlighting how deeply tea culture is woven into every aspect of island life.
The tea itself is a universe of choices, each reflecting a personality, a mood, a moment. The ‘kattan’ – strong and unapologetic – for those who face life head-on. The ‘without’ for the health-conscious, a subtle rebellion against indulgence. The everyday ‘chai’ that speaks of comfort and routine. The ‘kattan without’ – a brooding, almost philosophical choice that hints at complexity. The ‘strong’ for those who want to make a statement, the ‘light’ for those who tread softly.
A glass of kattan catches the evening light, ready to accompany another unhurried conversation.
One understands, in these moments, why the British were so obsessed with tea. It was never just about the beverage, but about the ritual, the pause, the conversation.
And then there are the ‘kadis’, those mischievous snacks that accompany the tea, each a small work of culinary art. Pazhampuris with their golden, crisp exteriors hiding soft, sweet banana hearts. Bondas that are little globes of comfort, crisp on the outside, molten maida within. Cutlets that speak of home cooking, rolls that hint at cosmopolitan influences, adas that carry the memory of generations, parippuvadas that are pure, crunchy indulgence.
Traditional tea shop snacks including pazhamporis, bondas and parippuvadas now share space with modern french fries and cutlets – a small sign of changing times in island tea shops.
These are not merely food items. They are memories fried to golden perfection, stories wrapped in crisp exteriors, emotions transformed into edible experiences. They block arteries, sure, but they also open hearts. They make conversations flow, arguments soften, silences more comfortable.
During the Covid lockdown a few years ago, when these tea shops fell silent, the islands held their breath. The pause was more than just a temporary cessation of activity. It was a collective holding of memory, of anticipation. When they finally reopened, it wasn’t about rushing to malls or theaters. It was about something far more fundamental: pulling back a chair, raising a hand, and bringing that comforting glass of tea to one’s lips. In that moment, normality was not just restored – it was celebrated.
A sign at an island shop reads ‘Apologies, the owner has gone for tea and will return soon’, perhaps the most Lakshadweep way of saying you’re on a break.
The tea shops of Lakshadweep are not just commercial spaces. They are repositories of collective memory, witnesses to countless conversations, silent observers of life’s continuous unfolding. They are where fishermen discuss the morning’s catch, where students debate politics, where elders share wisdom, where lovers steal glances, where friendships are forged and maintained.
When the monsoon finally recedes and the islands emerge, blinking, into sunlight, these tea shops will continue their eternal vigil. They will continue to be the metronome of island life, marking time not by clocks, but by conversations, by the rise and fall of tea steam, by the rhythmic sound of chai being poured, by the sizzle of another batch of kadis hitting the hot oil.
For in Lakshadweep, tea is not just a drink. It is a way of being. It is life itself, distilled into a moment of warmth, of connection, of pure, unfiltered human experience.