A Morning at the Indian Tea Plantation of Darjeeling

As dawn gilded the Himalayan foothills, I wandered into a terraced tea garden where the air hummed with the fresh aroma of tea leaves and the damp scent of monsoon soil. Sunlight slanted through pine trees, casting long shadows on tea pickers in colorful shawls, their fingers plucking the top two leaves and a bud with practiced speed. "This is the first flush—tastes of spring," said a picker, tucking a sprig behind her ear as she laughed.
Near a thatched hut, a tea master roasted leaves in a copper pan, their scent deepening from grassy to toasty. I leaned in, watching the leaves curl like tiny green fists. A butterfly with wings the color of tea liquor fluttered by, while a stream rushed down the hillside, carrying the sound of temple bells from a nearby village.
The master poured a cup of freshly brewed tea, its amber hue glowing in a clay cup. "Sip slowly—feel the mountain in it," he urged. The liquid warmed my throat, leaving a hint of muscatel and the coolness of mist. Outside, women balanced baskets of leaves on their heads, their steps syncing with a folk song hummed by a boy herding goats.
By mid-morning, the garden buzzed: trucks waited to carry leaves to the factory, a botanist checked for pests, and children sipped sweet tea from tin mugs. I left with tea stains on my fingers, realizing in Darjeeling, mornings steep in patience—where every leaf holds the Himalayas’ breath, and every cup is a story of the hills that touch the sky.

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