Introduction

Katrell Christie was a thirty-something artist turned roller-derby rebel who opened a tea shop in Atlanta. Barely two years later, her life would make a drastic change--and so would the lives of a group of girls half a world away.      

I chose the name of my tea shop--Dr. Bombay's Underwater Tea Party--because it sounded whimsical. India wasn't part of the equation. Not even remotely. I didn't do yoga. I had no deep yearning to see the Taj Mahal or tour Hindu temples. Indian food? I could take it or leave it.        

Yet on a whim, Katrell did go. She witnessed the throngs at the Ganges River, toured the tea fields of Darjeeling, and helped string pearls in conservative Hyderabad. But it was in a crowded Buddhist orphanage where she crossed paths with some girls who would change the course of her life.

One night we had a conversation about their futures. What did they hope to be when they grew up? They didn't have any answers. The fear that consumed them was leaving the orphanage. What would happen on the day they were asked to gather their things and leave--to walk out the door and be all alone on the street with no one to turn to and nowhere to go?

With her mind racing about their grim futures, Katrell reached the simple conclusion that she couldn't walk away. So instead she walked forward--on a mission to help them in any small way. Once back at her shop, an idea for The Learning Tea was born. By selling tea, cupcakes, scones, and other treats, Katrell raised enough funds to provide life necessities for the girls--safe housing, uniforms, medical care, tutoring, and ultimately, a college education for each of them. To date, The Learning Tea has helped eleven young girls who once faced the bleakest of futures.

Tiger Heart recounts Katrell's riveting adventures back to India, through the chaotic streets of Mumbai, to tiny villages with roadside tea huts and hot samosas, to elephant crossings and snow-capped mountain switchbacks of the Himalayas--an unexpected backdrop where she fell in love with a country that was gorgeous and heartbreaking all at once, where tragedy, humor, resilience and kindness were inextricably bound. From dodging feral monkeys, to slamming shots of whiskey to win acceptance at a local Rotary Club, to forging lasting friendships with the people who stepped up to help her cause, Tiger Heart offers a shot-gun seat on an inspiring trek across the globe, capturing the essence of India: its quirks, its traditions, and its people.

Fate may have led Katrell to a tiny spot on a map, but it was a kinship that brought her back home a half a world away. Tiger Heart is a life-affirming look at the ties that bind and the power of each of us to make a difference.    

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Excerpt

CHAPTER 1 – Tiger Heart

“I slept and dreamt that life was joy.

I awoke and saw that life was service.

I acted and behold, service was joy.”

—Rabindranath Tagore

The Indian defense minister wants to see you. Be here in twenty minutes.”

_e voice on the phone makes clear there is only one answer.

Moments later, I am up and shivering, rummaging through my luggage in the dark, tugging on my least dirty kurta, and twisting my hair into one of those fake bun makers I’d bought at Walgreens.

When one of the most powerful men in India requests your presence,you don’t ask for time to dillydally around. I’m thankful that on this trip I remembered to pack something other than my navy blue combat boots.

At the appointed hour, I’m sitting in a wicker chair perched on the side of a mountain on the terrace of the Windamere, Darjeeling’s most opulent hotel. Fuchsia bougainvillea spills over a green lattice outdoor trellis and the snowcapped Himalaya Mountains are splayed out in front of us. I can see K2 between the clouds. We are ringed by a circle of staunch, beefy men with thick moustaches. Their uniforms are crisply pressed. They are all armed with AK-47s.

I am about to have tea. Before I sit down, three immaculately dressed lawyers give me

precise instructions on how to behave.

“You have ten minutes. Don’t be foolish enough to actually order anything. You are not allowed to ask for food, even if the waiter offers. His assistant orders your tea. Do not even think about a second cup. After ten minutes, you are out of here; get up, thank him graciously, and ask to be excused.”

I am half expecting them to ask me to pee in a cup or, at the very least, give me a pat down. In front of a lattice arbor dripping with flowers, they pat me down.

Then, the last in this group of lawyers tosses in a postscript: I am, he says, allowed to ask for three wishes. “You know what you want, right?” he asks casually. His hands are clasped tightly and he gives me a head bobble and a curt smile. “Um, uh, yeah. Sure.”

It’s early. I haven’t had any caffeine. I’m hungry and I’ve had no time to prepare. I’m covered in sweat after running through town. I’d hurdled women roasting corn over hot coals on the ground and dodged dogs and roaming monkey families all while wearing a fancy kurta and some weird, crappy, lightweight rubber wedges I had purchased for a “what if ” moment like this. I had taken the stairs two at a time up the switchback path that led to this hotel on

a hill, and I’m still trying to get my head on straight.

I didn’t know I was supposed to ask for anything. I thought wewere going to get to know each other. Talk politics. Swap backstories.

Banter over what makes Georgia clay red. Compare our favorite desserts. Discuss world issues. Not wishes. But I also realized this might be the break I need.

My name is Katrell Christie and I was named after my dad’s favorite hardware store.

How I’ve come to be sipping tea in this place, half a world away from my home in Atlanta, is part of the strange patchwork of tales that make up my life.

A sampling:

• I skated in competitive Roller Derby under the alias Takillya Sunrise.

• I once made my living tromping around Italy buying art for a client.

• I spent part of my childhood growing up in government project housing.

• I opened a tea shop, even though I really prefer coffee.

• I watched my favorite uncle die of AIDS.

• I have big hair, a big butt, and big boobs.

• I clogged with Billy Bob’s peewee cloggers.

• I was held up by a pregnant gypsy in Paris.

• My mom was diagnosed with stage-four brain cancer.

• For ten-plus years, I kept a weekly dinner date with a flamboyant, fantastic, and very sarcastic gay man.

• I own more than five-hundred vintage costumes that were gifted to me.

• And, on a restless whim, I took a trip to India.

In India, what was supposed to be a spontaneous jaunt turned my life in a new direction after I crossed paths with three painfully shy teenage girls at a Buddhist orphanage in Darjeeling. When I learned they were going to be put out on the street once they turned seventeen, I reached the simple conclusion that I couldn’t walk away.

There was no grand plan. When I flew to India for the first time, I was not-so-secretly wishing I’d gone to drink margaritas at some beach in Florida instead. I did have a vague idea that I might be able to link my small Atlanta tea shop to an education project in Darjeeling, where my tea came from. But I had no clue that one day I would be responsible for a houseful of female college students. They are some of India’s forgotten girls. And it’s quite likely they could’ve been sex trafficked, earned a living carrying bricks on their backs, or become domestic servants. Some of them might’ve disappeared completely without anyone to look for them or care where they went.

Let me say this right away: There are a lot of amazing people out there who are doing far more to help than I can ever hope to. I am in awe of them. I’m also here to tell you that I have had some pretty spectacular failures along the way. Big, embarrassing screwups. And I have been disappointed by people who promise to help but only seem interested in following through when someone is watching. Other times, I have been surprised by complete wildcards who

have stepped up to the plate just because it was the right thing to do. A lot of people out there are looking for happiness. They buy books and meditate and get facelifts and occasionally drink lots of wine. What I’ve found is that sometimes you can also find true meaning and contentment by looking outward and focusing your energy on helping someone else.

For me, I’m just doing what I can. There is no real solution but to try my best every day, and hope I can make some positive change somewhere—even for one second. Having someone smile when they weren’t or knowing that those young women aren’t carrying bricks on their backs through the cold at this moment is an accomplishment and a solution in the right now. I can’t save the world, and I might not make an earthshaking difference outside of one isolated town, but I am changing the lives of these particular young women forever with the help and resources I have collected from my mentors. And you never know what challenges lie in

their future or who these young women will become. They have a wide path ahead of them, and I know they are going to do great things. Great leaders come from everyday people and all villains and heroes have a moment to decide which side they are on or who they are fighting for.

If there is one thing my life has taught me, it’s that sometimes you just have to lean into the curve and let go. Life is pretty fantastic if you let it take you where it wants you to be . . . which is how I have come to be sitting on a hotel terrace with one of the mostpowerful men in India. It’s one of those “only in India” stories.

The night before I “crashed” a meeting of the Darjeeling Rotary Club. Back in Atlanta, my diverse club includes people from Liberia, Pakistan, and Egypt, as well as civil rights leaders who once marched alongside Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. But as I walked into this club, I noticed right away that diversity wasn’t their strong suit. This group was composed of all men, not a woman in the house. They were lined up stiffly at a long banquet table, like a Harry Potter luncheon.

The meeting was held in a dimly lit hotel basement. Dark wood covered the walls and ceiling, and a few dusty Tibetan tapestries hung haphazardly from the wood paneling. I settled in. Some late arriving members rushed in and did a stumbling, head-swiveling, neck-breaking double take. The record scratched as they stared at the white, blond-haired woman who’d invaded their man cave.

Two shot glasses were slammed down in front of each of us,

filled to the rim with Johnny Walker Black. The men watched me

curiously. They leaned down against the table and hoisted the first shot, in what was obviously a premeeting ritual. I smiled, gamely threw back my own, and stifled a stomach-churning grimace.

The men followed with a gulp of water as a chaser. But I wasn’t going near suspect water. Breathing deeply through my nose and trying to keep my face composed, I let the whiskey burn its way down to my gut. Shot two. Same drill. It hurt, but I had passed the test. With some looks of astonishment and admiration, they kindly adopted me into their circle.

I told them all about my project in their hometown, the Learning Tea, and they were eager to help. As I doled out business cards at the end of the meeting, one of the Rotarians, wrapped up in a Nepali wool scarf, mentioned in passing that the Indian defense minister was in town.

“He is a very powerful and influential man in India. Would you like to meet him?”

“Sure, why not?” I replied. I quickly sorted this into the already full “unlikely to ever happen” category and forgot about it—until my phone rang very early the next morning.

Which brings me back to the Windamere, where tea is about to be served.

By the time I reach the great man, I feel like I’m being shot out of a cannon. He has a soft, kind face and is wearing a beautiful, perfectly tailored, long, gold kurta. He is sitting in a wingback

wicker chair next to a short wicker table and another wicker chair, where one of his aides indicates I should sit. Two of his aides are sitting in smaller chairs behind him and behind them, surrounding us in a semicircle, are the soldiers. We are facing each other, and to our left is a green metal railing where the earth drops off a cliff to a valley of barely visible small villages below. The view is stunning, with misty clouds slowly rolling in like dragon’s breath

through the Himalayas.

The defense minister is balancing a porcelain cup and saucer of tea on one knee and greets me with a soft smile. I sit down and start talking. And talking. I tell him about me and my project and my girls. I am like a live auctioneer, going and going at warp speed. I’m selling it with everything I have. I keep eye contact going to see if he breaks with disinterest. He listens calmly. And when I run out of breath, he contemplates the sky.

That’s the thing about Indians. They are completely okay with dead air. They will pause and consider something for an excruciatingly long moment before talking. This is extremely unnerving for Americans. We are hell-bent on filling every nook and cranny of silence.

I bounce my knee with nervousness and hold my breath in expectation of his coming words. I am leaning forward, biting my lip, waiting for his next move. When he finally speaks, it’s a Yodalike poetic riddle. The answer comes before the question.

“Darjeeling,” he says. Then he gazes at the sky. His aides, obviously used to this, also stare off into space. Then, just as I think he has nodded off, he asks, “The clouds and the sky. Are there words?”

We begin to talk. When the waiter stops by and asks if I would like more tea, I shake my head fervently and immediately decline, remembering the very specific orders of my minder. The defense minister considers me for a moment and determines, with a smile, that, yes, I will have a second cup of tea. I feel the aides glance at each other in my peripheral, and I can tell by the way they twitch that this doesn’t happen often.

We talk about politics and the puzzle that is India, and then he pauses. I notice he has remarkably gentle eyes. His kind, slow hand gestures remind me of tai chi. I can hear birds chirping through the wind. A small spider inches his way across the stone patio floor. It

seems like hours tick by.

Then he asks what my wish is. The big question. I’d scrambled tocome up with my list as I paced back and forth behind the flowering trellis before the meeting.

I hear myself rattle off my three finalists: space in an unused government building that we might be able to use as a Learning Tea center, seats in the nursing school for the girls, and access to any scholarships they might be eligible for.

One bushy eyebrow inches skyward.

“How much,” he asks, “does it cost to educate one girl for a year?”

I do some quick math in my head.

When I cough up a figure, without hesitation he writes a check from his personal account.

As I prepare to leave, he hands me a small piece of paper folded into an even smaller square.

“This is my home address in Delhi,” he says. “If you are there, please visit me.” view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. What has happened to the girls of Darjeeling since Katrell Christie developed The Learning Tea.

2. Does the name "Dr. Bombay's Underwater Tea Party" have anything to do with Katrell Christie's work in India?

3. How does Katrell straddle the urban existence of Atlanta and the land of the snow-capped Himalya's half a word away?

Weblinks

»	The Learning Tea web site
»	Publisher's Book Info

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