Tiny Tea Tales: Carpe-tea-em
"In my family making chai is almost a love language. And now, it’s come to mark mine."
I have grown up seeing my parents have chai first thing in the morning - it marks the start of their busy day and moves them into action. I, too, have started having chai first thing in the morning - it’s made by mum, delivered to my room by mum, and placed carefully by her on my bedside table even before I’ve had the chance to sit up and rub my eyes open. Now, I should clarify that some days my chai is not in fact chai - it is a tall glass of hot Bournvita - a staple in every Indian home with a child, adult ones too. And it is only by virtue of the fact that it shares its preparation hours with the chai my parents drink every morning that this tall glass feels as much chai-like as chai itself. But I digress. What I want to draw your attention to, dear reader, is that over the years, I have grown to look forward to this rather mundane mother-son routine quite fondly: her silently walking into my room, placing the cup of chai on my bedside table, waking me up as much with the sound and smell of a cup of fresh chai as she does with her warm presence and soft voice. I admit I refuse to wake up before this little act has had a chance to play out. I also admit that on mornings when it is busier than usual, I’ll squall at her, from my bedroom, as she moves around vigorously in the kitchen, demanding that cup of chai. While it may seem so, it is not that I am dependent on that cup to wake up and get out of my bed or else my day will get ruined. I have stayed away from home for a good deal of time and have woken up, walked to a kitchen and made myself that chai - half willing and half asleep - but it’s just how this little morning moment that started during the pandemic when I moved back home has now come to mark a daily mother-son ritual, a ritual bound to a cup of chai.
I should come clear that the chai made by my mom is about alright - not as great as my dad’s, who makes his chai with the relaxed leniency of a man on a long holiday in the countryside with nothing but time to spare. Mom’s chai is always rushed - made in minutes, hurriedly and by reaching and grabbing at things. Is this cup without love and care? Sometimes. And some days I say this to her just to pinch her the wrong way. But in all fairness, dear reader, compared to my dad, her chai tastes sorely lacking. Dad’s chai, by comparison, screams consideration and measured efforts. He’ll go the length to customize the chai per season, per mood, per sickness situation in the household - tossing in ginger and clove and whatnot to tip the tea with extra goodness. My sister’s on the other hand is - and I don't say this lightly - abysmal. Even if her life depended on it, she would only barely be able to toss a tea bag into hot water and dunk it senseless until it assumes the deep end of darkness itself. My dear sister, if you ever read this, know that I still love your pasta, so please don’t stop making that for me. 🙏
But, dear reader, I only share this to show between these three chais that get made, shared, compared, condoned, and then consumed, routinely and unfailingly, what is common is how each reflects the truth of its creator. The cup made by mom - the backbone of the family - contains strength. Dad’s cup hits like a shot of dopamine - the man is all presence. And my sister’s is like her presence in my life - generous but equally scarce and leaves you wanting for more. Each cup, you see, is anchored to a quality that defines its maker. And it is this that makes each cup worth anything.
But coming back to the pandemic-born, mother-son ritual from earlier, there came a moment during those home-bound days when this everyday morning ritual got a brief extension. Mom usually comes home from her boutique around 4 in the evening for a quick chai break, and now that I was around, I could join her for a cup. Mostly because I could use the break myself. Partly because that meant I did not have to make chai for myself. And then one day, mom turned to me and said how having me home and seeing me join her little break just picked up her mood. How about that!
Today, while the morning ritual remains as is for most parts, the afternoon tea is once again limited to the weekends - I have had to go in to work - but the time we sit and have tea together is still sacred. It is probably the only time we get to talk about our days, the world and everything in between. A ritual now morphed and mended to fit our new post-pandemic reality, but a ritual still.
Yes, I call our chai time a ritual. It feels like a ritual. I guess because the way the chai time plays out has all the markings of a ritual - there’s the expectation, the waiting for each other to show up, a shared artefact around which we gather, the ritualized preparation itself, and a category of conversations that only happens in this setting that is created by and around chai. Unlike a routine, this moment rarely lacks richness. It’s filled - emotionally and activity-wise. And just like how going through a ritual makes you feel fulfilled, there’s a sense of completion here as well. A sense of doing things well and doing it right. A sense of special. A sense of sacred. Claimed and reclaimed, day after day.
In our house, my dear reader, the joy of chai is really realized in the ritual, not the cup. It is the coming together, the sitting down for a relaxed afternoon hour on a weekend when just for a bit, chai’s only job is to bring its drinkers together and will them into a little moment.
No wonder I have come to love making it for the people I love.
It’s a warm embrace
when longing for a hiatus,
It’s the least-hated routine
when life gets monotonous
Such is the effect of chai,
only the lovers would know why.
- Dhawal Kumar, 28, New Delhi
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‘Tiny Tea Tales’ is a column featuring stories submitted by tea lovers.
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