Cha: A history untold

At a random café in Vancouver, where the weather performed its own unpredictable somersaults — teetering between the lingering echo of winter and the shy warmth of summer — I found myself craving a hot cup of cocoa or coffee to melt away the sudden chills. 

As I browsed the menu, my eyes drifting across lattes and espressos, they suddenly landed on the iconic 'masala chai'. Instantly, the South Asian in me did a little happy dance. There it was. Those two words alone carried the comforting weight of familiarity, offering a sip of home in a foreign land.

Smell has a profound effect on how our memories are often crafted. Some of my earliest childhood memories of tea are tied to the scent of tea leaves that would take over the entire house — a sweet yet strong aroma of a drink infused with darchini (cinnamon), elach (cardamom), and ada (ginger), simmering gently in milk. Cha, as it is lovingly known in Bangla, has always been the unspoken starter of difficult conversations and political discourses. 

It has served as the quiet backdrop to family gatherings and the final comfort after Iftar. Cha is known for bridging silences, softening tempers after a fight, and, most importantly, for being a ritual that has continued across generations, binding people, moments, and memories with every cup.

And yet, how much do we really know about the stories of the hands that bring these tea leaves to us?

While every sip of this beloved beverage offers warmth and comfort, its history remains as shadowed and invisibilised as the lives of those who toil in the tea plantations. For something that feels so deeply our own, its journey to becoming a Bangali staple is entangled with the legacy of the empire. The tea plant did not grow naturally in the hills of Bengal. 

The British introduced it — not out of cultural exchange, but, like everything else, out of imperial ambition: to break China's monopoly on tea and turn the subcontinent into a plantation economy built on the back of migration and indentured labour.

In the age of information, a quick Google search will tell you how tea first became popular in Europe in the 17th century, when the Dutch and Portuguese began importing it from China. However, Britain became the dominant player in the tea trade after the British East India Company (EIC) took control of imports. 

The problem was that China only accepted silver in exchange for tea, causing a major financial strain on the British economy. To counter this, Britain pushed opium into China, leading to the Opium Wars (1839–1860), where it forced China to open its markets and accept British opium in exchange for tea.

But Britain did not want to rely on China forever. Desperate to steal China's tea secrets, the British sent Robert Fortune, a Scottish botanist, to smuggle tea plants and processing knowledge out of China in the 1840s. Disguised as a Chinese merchant, Fortune stole thousands of tea plants and seeds, which were later cultivated in Assam and Darjeeling under British rule.

The Assam tea industry was born from this act of theft, but it was built on brutal exploitation. In the early 19th century, the British took control of Assam, displacing indigenous tribes and forcing local labourers into tea plantations under indentured servitude. The Assam Tea Company, founded in 1839, became one of the first large-scale tea plantations in British India, using cheap indigenous labour to maximise profit.

Similarly, Sylhet — now in modern-day Bangladesh — played a crucial role in British tea cultivation. The British saw Sylhet's fertile land as ideal for tea plantations, and by the late 19th century, they had set up massive estates. 

They forcibly brought in Adivasi and Dalit workers from Bihar, Chhattisgarh, Jharkhand, and Orissa. Many of these labourers were trapped in bonded labour, unable to leave the plantations. While the British planters lived lavish lives, workers were given barely enough food and wages to survive.

What's even more heartbreaking is that, long after the British left, the colonial plantation system they engineered continues to operate in Bangladesh. Today, workers remain trapped in cycles of low wages and corporate exploitation.

In Bangladesh, the Sylhet and Srimangal regions remain the country's largest tea-producing areas. Yet the workers — many of whom are descendants of the indentured labourers brought by the British — still live in poverty and are often viewed as outsiders in the country they were born into.

These are the very workers who bring us the resources needed to make the beloved beverage we call cha. And yet, they are the same people kept in starvation-level wages and denied basic rights. 

Despite earning a daily wage of only around Tk170 — a figure barely sufficient for survival — these workers are expected to meet harsh quotas under gruelling conditions. Many live in estate-owned, overcrowded housing, without land rights, sanitation, or access to proper healthcare and education.

Their lives are governed by a system that continues to mirror the plantation economy established by colonial rulers. They remain trapped in a cycle of poverty and marginalisation, invisible to a nation that depends so intimately on their labour.

There is a saying, "The personal is political." South Asian history is deeply rooted in colonisation and migration — forces that have deliberately isolated people across the subcontinent, linguistically, geographically, and socially. This isolation has not only fragmented communities but also dulled our collective curiosity about our own histories. This inherited perspective has long limited our understanding, reinforcing divisions and obscuring the stories of those marginalised by empire and its aftermath.

So, the next time you brew tea in the warmth and comfort of your kitchen, pause for a moment and remember the hands that made it possible. Not so far away, those very hands toil in harsh, unlivable conditions — fighting their own battles, losing touch with ancestral languages and traditions, weighed down by a relentless system that continues to value profit over people.

Sonan Tabindah is a writer, researcher, and eternal questioner of power, history and the stories we inherit.

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions and views of The Business Standard.