As dawn unfurled over the mist-cloaked hills of Nuwara Eliya, I stepped into a tea estate where the air tingled with the grassy scent of Ceylon tea leaves and the earthy tang of wet soil. Sunlight filtered through drooping tea bushes, casting silver droplets from their emerald leaves—each bead a prism that shattered the morning light. A plucker in a vibrant sarong moved between rows, her nimble fingers pinching the tender top two leaves and a bud, dropping them into a woven basket slung over her shoulder. "This is the first flush," she said, smiling, "tastes like the rain." Near the processing shed, workers fed fresh leaves into a rolling machine, their laughter mixing with the rhythmic thud of the machinery. I cupped a handful of tea leaves, still warm from the sun, and inhaled their grassy-sweet aroma. A water buffalo ambled past, its horns draped with jasmine, while a myna bird hopped along a bamboo railing, chirping at the passing breeze. Somewhere in the distan...