Spill the Tea: Karan, Who Always Shows Up
Karan arrived with two plastic bags, the handles cutting into his fingers. He didn’t ring the bell. He never did. He knocked once and opened the door when I called out, already stepping inside like he’d been here yesterday. His hair was still damp, curling at the edges, as if he’d showered in a hurry.
“I brought Chinese,” he said.
Not cheerful. Not performative. Just information.
He walked straight to the kitchen and set the bags on the counter. One of the containers had leaked a little; sauce glistened on the plastic. He wiped it with a tissue from his pocket before I could reach for one.
“You still keep the folks in the top drawer?” he asked.
I nodded and turned on the stove. The click of the lighter. The flame settling. The familiar beginning of something we didn’t name.
Karan opened the containers. Hakka noodles. Manchurian. He ran a spoon along the sides.
“Extra gravy,” he said, satisfied.
He pulled plates from the shelf without asking. He never asked where things were. He remembered.
I poured tea leaves into the pan. Milk followed. The smell wrapped itself around the kitchen.
“You’ll let it boil too long again,” he said.
“You’ll complain anyway,” I replied.
He smiled. Just a flicker.
We moved around each other without touching. Like choreography rehearsed years ago and never questioned.
He plated the noodles carefully, making sure each portion had enough sauce. When he slid a plate toward me, his fingers hesitated for half a second on the edge. As if confirming the plate existed. Or that he did.
We sat.
The first few minutes were only eating. Fork scraping porcelain. Sauce dripping slowly back into the container. Tea cooling between our hands.
Karan didn’t check his phone. That alone told me he’d decided to stay a while.
“How’s work?” I asked.
“Same,” he said.
“Gym?”
“Avoiding.”
“Sleeping okay?”
He paused.
“Enough.”
No embellishment. No invitation to ask more.
He reached across the table and took the last piece of Manchurian from my plate. Not asking. Not rude. Familiar.
Then he folded his tissue into a perfect square and placed it beside the empty container.
I noticed.
I always did.
And somewhere between the tea cooling and the plates emptying, I knew he hadn’t come for the food.
He had come because showing up was what he did.
Even when no one asked him to.
Karan finished his tea in two gulps. He always drank tea like it was a task to complete, not something to savour. He drummed two fingers on the table. Stopped. Did it again.
“I met Riya last week,” he said.
He didn’t look up when he said it. Just watched the gravy drying along the edge of the container.
No complaint in his voice. Just a fact that had repeated itself enough times to become tradition.
I waited.
"She didn’t ask how I was, but she told me about the damp patch spreading across her ceiling, how the landlord kept promising repairs. Her voice cracked once, then steadied. She laughed at her own frustration, and I laughed too. Then she handed me the rent agreement. So… it was okay.”
Fine. His favorite word. A small, obedient word.
I remembered another night, when Riya had texted him close to midnight. Her sink was leaking, water pooling across the tiles. Karan went, of course. He tightened the pipe, wiped the floor, stayed until the dripping stopped. She thanked him quickly at the door, already half-turned back to her phone, her voice light, distracted. The next day she didn’t mention it at all. No follow‑up, no check‑in. Just silence. And yet, when the next small disaster arrived, she called again. He answered again. It struck me then. Her gestures weren’t cruel, just careless.
She lived in her own storms. Karan kept showing up in the rain, unseen, unthanked, carrying loyalty like an umbrella no one noticed until it was gone.
His phone buzzed on the table. He didn’t pick it up. Just flipped it over so the screen went dark.
“Family,” he said.
No further explanation. None needed.
His phone rang again.
“Ma,” he said, glancing at the screen.
He turned the phone face down.
It buzzed again.
This time he picked up.
“Yes, Ma.”
A pause.
“Finished?”
Another pause.
“I’ll get them.”
He ended the call and set the phone aside.
“Her medicines are over, and she needs them now,” he said.
“She won’t buy them herself.”
He reached for his tea.
“My sister lives closer,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“But Ma calls me.”
He drank his tea.
“I’ll go after this.”
He leaned back in the chair. The wood creaked under him. He didn’t adjust his posture. He sat as if he was holding something together inside himself.
“You know,” he said, almost casually, “people always call me when something breaks.”
He smiled. A slow, tired thing.
He said it the way someone states their profession. Not proudly. Not sadly. Just identity.
I didn’t interrupt.
He traced the rim of his cup again, this time slower.
“Sometimes,” he said, voice softer now, “I wonder if anyone would call me just to ask if I’m okay.”
He let the question hang. Not dramatic. Not desperate. Just released into the room like steam.
Then he shook his head once, like dismissing his own thought.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “People need me.”
He reached for the empty containers and began stacking them neatly.
“I should go,” he said.
I stood to help him carry the containers to the sink.
He didn’t stop me.
For a moment, we were just two people in a kitchen, surrounded by the smell of soy sauce and tea leaves, the evidence of care already disappearing.
And I thought — if Karan ever stopped showing up, nothing would announce his absence.
It would just be… quieter.
Karan carried the stacked containers to the sink. He rinsed them quickly, water running over plastic, over his fingers, over the last traces of gravy. He did not need to wash them. They were disposable. Still, he did.
He placed them in a neat pile on the counter.
“I’ll throw them outside,” he said.
I nodded.
He put on his shoes at the door. Laced them carefully. One loop. The other. Balanced. Equal.
“Next week?” he asked.
Asking if the role was still his.
“Yes,” I said.
He smiled. A small release of something held too long.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll bring something different.”
He stepped out.
The door closed.
The kitchen felt larger without him. The chairs stood where they had been. The cups were empty. The stove was cold.
On the counter, a single drop of gravy clung to the rim of one container. I wiped it with the same tissue he had folded earlier.
It did not fold as neatly.
Outside, Karan’s footsteps faded down the stairs. Steady. Familiar. Certain. The chair he left behind seemed to hold his shape, as if loyalty itself had weight.
Tomorrow, someone would call him. Something would need fixing. Someone would need showing up for.
And he would go. Because that was what he did. Even if no one ever asked what he wanted, or if he was okay.
Frequently Asked Questions
1. What is the story “Karan” about?
Karan is a short story from the Spill the Tea series that explores loyalty without reward. Through a quiet kitchen conversation over tea and takeaway food, it shows how someone can keep showing up for others while remaining emotionally unseen.2. Is Karan based on a real person?
No. Karan is a fictional character, but his experiences reflect a familiar reality. Many readers recognize this kind of quiet loyalty in friends, family members, or even themselves.3. What is the Spill the Tea series?
Spill the Tea is a collection of short stories set in everyday domestic spaces. Each story features an observer-narrator and a visitor who reveals an emotional truth through ordinary conversations and shared rituals.4. What themes does this story explore?
5. Do I need to read the other Spill the Tea stories first?
No. Each Spill the Tea story stands alone. However, reading other stories in the series adds depth to the shared emotional world.About the Spill the Tea series
Spill the Tea is a series of quiet stories set in ordinary rooms, over ordinary food, where visitors reveal the emotional truths they rarely say out loud. Each story stands alone, yet together they form a map of modern relationships, private loneliness, and the small rituals that hold people together. These are conversations that happen over tea, and linger long after the cups are empty.
About the author
Tushar Mangl writes about identity, relationships, and the unseen emotional currents of everyday life. His work blends observation with intimacy, exploring the spaces between what people say and what they carry silently.
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