My earliest memories of tea have all to do with those old Victorian china cups on dainty saucers. As adults sipped their morning and evening teas, I’d be enamoured by the fresh smell. When I’d ask for a taste, I’d be repeatedly told it’s a drink for ‘grown ups’ and a glass of hot milk would be thrust towards me. But as a bonus, I’d get a Marie biscuit (found in all Bengali households) and I’d be overjoyed, forgetting all about the tea I’d actually wanted. I would happily dunk the biscuit into my hot milk and would watch for that precarious moment when it softened enough to be able to melt in the mouth, but not too much as otherwise it would fall into the depths of what I imagined was a gigantic glass.