No. 44 · 31 October 2026
A first cup of the autumn flush
Inside: one fresh tea, three things to notice, and a wet window at dusk.
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- 6 minutes
- Every other Saturday
- 5,800
Latest letters
The pluckers on the hill after the last big rain
Inside: a hillside of wet leaves, an eleven-kilo basket and slow October light.
The woman who weighs the baskets at four
Inside: a ledger, a brass scale and thirty years of knowing everyone’s handwriting.
The tea stall by the rickshaw stand, and what it teaches about boiling
Inside: milk tea stewed hard on purpose, and why it still tastes right at that corner.
The haor in flood: by boat to a garden at the water’s edge
Inside: a wooden boat, a flooded green plain and a garden dry on its hill.
Seven minutes with a tea picked in the rains
Inside: a rain-season tea, a plain white cup and the smell of wet bark.
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Hello, I’m Shirin
I was raised in a garden bungalow where the day began with the sound of the pluckers’ baskets being counted at the weighing shed. Tea was not a drink then. It was weather, work and the smell of every house we visited.
Now I write a small packet of a letter every other Saturday. Each one tells you how long it takes to read and what is inside: a garden, a cup to brew, a person, or a flavour to look for.