Adrenaline Pumper

As I drool through the long rubbery Theory class, the familiar event of the day takes place. This short, dark haired person, somewhere in his late 30s carrying a steel canister places it with a sigh onto the platform outside the class. He dutily taps out some adrenaline pumper, a khakhi brown tainted fluid, with a dash of ginger in it into a paper cup. He then enters the class with a soft knock, standing at the door with immense respect. The Airheaded professor inside the class, mechanically gestures him to place it on the table behind him, without bothering to look at the newcomer. The former then comes in, making sure he doesn't make enough noise to disturb, places the paper cup on the table and leaves, saluting the prof. The prof and the students carry on with the class just as if no one had paid them a visit.

The most monotonous, mechanical human beings ever. People too bothered about life and meeting their ends to introspect at what's happening with them. Yes, the typical Indian Chaaiwaalas. Teaboys. Fancy, the name might sound, something like the Currimbhoys, someplace in Chennai, these people fear dreaming wishing more than they earn. The most integral part of the Indian community.

Tea, one of the widely consumed beverages in India and also around the world, is vital for rejuvenating a famished mind, with the nicotine in it. 

Chaaiwaalas. Teaboys. Fancy the thought of thinking if we ever did something to them. Respect them atleast for the human being
in them.