The Last Sip of Tea

In the autumn of 2014, our family gathered in the ancestral home of my grandmother’s sister, whom we called Aaji, in the quiet town of Bhaktapur. The house was an old Newari structure, with dark wooden beams and a narrow courtyard. Aaji had passed away a fortnight ago, and we were observing the final day of the mourning period, the ‘Gaya’ ceremony, which would release her soul to the afterlife. My cousin, Rohan, his younger sister, Priya, and I were in Aaji’s room, a square chamber with high ceilings and a single window overlooking the courtyard. A portrait of Aaji, adorned with a marigold garland, rested on a small table, and a brass oil lamp flickered beside it. The room was arranged with a row of mattresses along the wall, and we sat on them, facing the door that led to the creaky staircase.

I was absorbed in my phone, scrolling through old photos of Aaji, when I noticed a peculiar smell, like stale tea leaves and burnt sugar. I looked up, expecting to see one of the elders with a cup of tea, but the room was empty except for the three of us. Rohan and Priya were whispering about Aaji’s famous spicy potato curry, their voices low and nostalgic. I shrugged and returned to my phone, but then I heard a faint clinking sound, as if a spoon were hitting the side of a porcelain cup. I glanced at the table where Aaji’s portrait stood, and the garland seemed slightly askew. I told myself it was just the draft from the window, but the window was closed.

As the afternoon wore on, the room grew colder, and the lamp’s flame began to waver, casting dancing shadows on the walls. I put my phone away, a strange unease settling in my stomach. Rohan and Priya had stopped talking, both staring at the door. ‘Did you hear that?’ Priya whispered. I listened, but all I could hear was the distant sound of chanting from the prayer room downstairs. Then, from the corridor beyond the door, came a slow, shuffling sound, like someone dragging their feet. We exchanged nervous glances, but no one moved. The shuffling grew closer, and then it stopped right outside the door. A moment later, the doorknob rattled, as if someone was trying to enter but couldn’t turn it.

‘Who’s there?’ Rohan called out, his voice wavering. There was no answer, but the rattling continued, more insistent. I stood up, my heart pounding, and took a step toward the door. ‘Don’t open it!’ Priya hissed, but I was already reaching for the handle. As soon as my fingers touched the cold brass, the rattling ceased, and a deep, rasping breath sounded on the other side, so close I could feel the vibration through the wood. I yanked my hand back, stumbling away. ‘It’s not human,’ I said, my voice trembling.

Just then, the lamp on the table went out, plunging the room into near darkness. The only light came from the window, but the sky outside had turned a sickly gray. The garland on the portrait began to sway, as if an unseen hand were moving it. Then, the portrait itself tipped over, crashing onto the floor. The glass shattered, and the photograph of Aaji stared up at us, her eyes seeming to follow our every move.

Elders called us down for dinner, but before we left, I noticed something on the floor where the portrait had fallen: a small, brass teacup, empty, but with a few tea leaves at the bottom. I picked it up, and the smell of stale tea and burnt sugar filled my nostrils. I realized then that Aaji always drank her tea from that specific cup, and she had a habit of leaving it on her bedside table. My grandmother later told me that Aaji had asked for that cup of tea just before she died, but she passed before she could take a sip.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing the rattling of the doorknob and the shuffling outside my room. In the early hours, I decided to go downstairs to the kitchen to make some tea. As I passed Aaji’s room, I saw the door ajar. I peered inside and saw a figure sitting on the bed, facing away from me. It was draped in a white shawl, just like the one Aaji wore. The figure raised a hand and pointed to the brass teacup that I had placed on the table earlier. A soft, raspy voice said, ‘Chiya…’ (tea). I froze, unable to move. The figure slowly turned its head, but I saw nothing in the shadow of the hood. ‘Please,’ the voice said, ‘one last sip.’

I fled back to my room, slamming the door, and didn’t emerge until morning. The next day, the priests performed the final rites, and we scattered Aaji’s ashes into the Bagmati River. As we returned home, I carried the brass teacup in my pocket. I still don’t know why, but I felt compelled to keep it. Now, whenever I drink tea, I always leave a few drops in the cup, just in case she comes back for that final sip. And sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I can still hear that shuffling, and the soft clink of a spoon against porcelain.