Let us dispense with the pleasantries. India has discovered a new extractive industry, one that involves not the despoiling of the earth for rare earth minerals or the gouging of coal seams, but the harvesting of something far more exotic: butterfly pea flower tea. Yes, the same vibrant blue infusion that has for centuries been the preserve of Ayurvedic healers and Instagram influencers now forms the basis of a nascent drinks economy. And naturally, the British trade mandarins are sniffing around, briefcases at the ready, hoping to etch a few clauses into a post-Brexit free trade agreement that might give UK corporations a slice of this ‘blue gold’ action.
Let us be clear. This is not a story about tea. This is a story about the relentless commodification of every last corner of the global palate, driven by a West that has exhausted its own culinary imagination and now turns, like a bloated Roman senator reaching for the emetic, to the ‘authentic’ and ‘artisanal’ produce of the once-colonised world. The butterfly pea flower, clitoria ternatea to the botanically inclined, has been used in Southeast Asia and the Indian subcontinent for generations as a natural dye, a mild sedative, and a charmingly colour-changing addition to rice dishes. Now it is being reimagined as a health drink, a cocktail ingredient, a ‘functional beverage’ with antioxidants and nootropics to soothe the anxious minds of the metropolitan bourgeoisie.
One cannot help but see the parallels to the Victorian era, when empire and commerce were lubricated by stimulants. Then it was tea from China and Assam, opium from Bengal, quinine from Peru. Now it is butterfly pea flower from India and Thailand, marketed as ‘blue matcha’ (a grotesque misnomer, since it has nothing to do with matcha) and infused into sparkling waters, craft beers, and gin. The British, ever eager to revive the mercantile spirit despite being reduced to a junior partner in global trade, see an opportunity. A trade deal with India that might lower tariffs on processed butterfly pea products, allowing London mixologists to charge £14 for a ‘Ganges Sapphire’ cocktail with a straight face.
But what does this tell us about the state of our civilisation? It tells us that we have exhausted novelty. We no longer invent new flavours; we merely rediscover old ones for the first time, to mangle J.B.S. Haldane. The West’s palate is so jaded that it must ransack the pharmacopoeias of other cultures for anything that might produce a frisson of difference. The butterfly pea flower’s colour change from blue to purple when acidic lemon is added is not a wonder of nature: it is a parlor trick for adults who have forgotten how to be astonished. We are a decadent empire, seeking new stimulants to stave off the ennui of decline.
And yet, there is a cynical logic to this. The British government, desperate for post-Brexit trading partners, sees India as a vast market of 1.4 billion potential consumers of premium UK goods, while India sees the UK as a gateway to Europe, or at least a large pocket of high-spending diaspora. The ‘blue gold’ narrative is a convenient hook, a splashy headline to distract from the grinding negotiations over visas, intellectual property, and agricultural subsidies. The real prize is not the butterfly pea flower but the broader access to services and investment. The tea is a metaphor, and metaphors are cheap.
What remains to be seen is whether this new industry will benefit the small farmers of Karnataka and Odisha who have grown these flowers for generations, or whether it will be captured by large corporations that will patent processing methods and lock the growers into debt cycles. The history of colonial agriculture suggests the latter. The British East India Company did not bring prosperity to Bengal’s indigo farmers; it brought exploitation and the Blue Rebellion. Will the ‘blue gold’ of the 21st century be any different?
For now, the venture capitalists and trade delegations are buzzing. The butterfly pea flower is the new kale, the new acai, the new turmeric. The cycle spins on. And we, the jaded consumers of the West, will sip our cerulean lattes and feel briefly virtuous, having momentarily forgotten that the true colour of empire has always been red.
