Careful and Precious Whispers

If you ever find yourself at Second Chance House, keep your ears and eyes open for Mrs. Chaitea Sarkaar. She’s not just a storyteller, she’s a conjurer of wonder, with a twinkle in her eye that makes you suspect she knows a secret or two the rest of us have forgotten. She can turn a garden path into a legend and a patch of moss into a universe.

One evening, as the lanterns flickered low and the garden sighed in twilight, she summoned the children with a clap of her bangled hands. “Shoes off!” she declared, her voice lilting like the beginning of a song. “The earth has laid out her carpets, and she wishes you to walk upon them.”

The children hesitated, but Mrs. Sarkaar’s voice had that curious pull—half command, half spell. Soon, giggling nervously, they padded across cool pebbles and dew-kissed grass until they reached a patch of moss. One child wrinkled their nose. “It looks slimy.”

“Slimy? Oh, you poor blind souls,” she laughed softly. “This is no ordinary patch. This is the Persian rug of the earth, woven without loom, softer than velvet steeped in dreams. Try it.”

They sank their toes into the moss, and gasps filled the air. Not only was it soft, it pulsed warmly, releasing little curls of chai-scented steam, as though an invisible kettle were brewing beneath the soil. “See?” Mrs. Sarkaar whispered. “Even the costliest rug in a palace is a poor imitation of this humble green carpet.”

And then, as always, the stories began to pour out of her. “Did you know,” she said, eyes gleaming, “that in the Great War, moss saved lives? Bandages made from it healed wounds, its secret antiseptic working quietly where men could not. Before that, mothers swaddled babes in it, nature’s cradle, softer than any cloth.” With each word, the moss released new notes…..pepper, ginger, cardamom….until the air felt like a teapot tipping its fragrance over them.

From there, she whisked them across oceans. “Ah, the Japanese!” she cried. “They adore moss: gardens, drinks, even jewelry. Imagine! Rings not with diamonds but with tiny green forests alive inside. There are even ‘moss girls,’ young women who chase moss pilgrimages instead of pop stars.” The children giggled, but the moss beneath their feet flushed a deeper green, proud of its fame.

At last, she led them to the trees of Second Chance. Their trunks were freckled with lichen, painted silver, orange, and blue, shimmering as though dipped in starlight. Mrs. Sarkaar bowed her head. “Lichen,” she whispered, “is two beings living as one—fungus and algae. No brush but time, no gallery but the world.” The trees seemed to stir, releasing a smoky tea-like aroma, leaves and bark sighing in unison.

Her voice softened. “Moss and lichen do not drink from the ground. They drink the air itself. That makes them prophets. If the air is poisoned, they wither. If it is clean, they flourish.”

Mrs. Sarkaar finally straightened, her bangles catching the last gleam of dusk. “Remember, my dears,” she said softly, “the humble things carry the oldest magic. Moss carpets, lichen paints, the small and the quiet, they whisper stories that outlast kings.”

She raised her cup of Dorje Moonlight White Tea to toast the magic of Mother Nature.

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