How I warmed up to Chai, a Memoir
What was your childhood drink? I’ve seen people here in India fight over whether Horlicks, Bournvita or Milo was better. But my drink had always been coffee. Coffee was the fuel that everyone in my extended family tree ran on. I believe perfectly-made filter coffee effectively held together our dysfunctional families, as much as it did brahminical superiority.
But I didn’t realise coffee’s huge part in my life until I moved out of home for college. The unforgiving headaches when I missed drinking the day’s second cup made me realise that this addiction, coupled with my loathing for instant coffee, were going to make my life difficult. So I consciously made an effort to get over the addiction by restricting the potion’s intake. And yes, the poor taste of the canteen coffee may have played a stronger role in this process than my self-control.
And that’s how I first turned to Chai.
Everything about Chai — from its step-child position in South India; how it always tasted so sad (because no one here knew how to make it); to the overt Hindi-ness of its commonly used name — had repulsed me before. In my head: tea was had in roadside stalls with questionable hygiene and lousy company while filter coffee, made with the highest quality ingredients in an intricate method, was had at the comfort of your home. Years later, I would come to acknowledge that this was all rooted in a disgusting amount of privilege and prejudice.
A year into my first job, I was battling severe anxiety, struggling with self-worth and was barely holding on to the job which I’d once been so happy to get. During this time, I found solace in talking to a dear colleague who was sensitive, loving, and extremely supportive. As something that created an opportunity for these little chats, the Okay tasting Chai sold below our office building became a favourite. It cost Rs. 7, and I loved to get a salt biscuit for the remaining change, as my friend would get her Murukku, a salty crispy snack.
This tea-time was a break from my stress, an anticipation of an interesting conversation, and my adventure — a sort of daredevilry I undertook even as an incomplete story awaited me upstairs. And I secretly loved coming back to my fond desk neighbour’s habitual dramatic disapproval for my obsession with such milky Chai.
When I quit my job and moved to Mumbai for my Masters degree, I had to share a small flat with strangers. Though I spent most of my waking hours (which was a lot) in college, the nice and funny people I lived with made me feel warm when I came home. We were a strange bunch with odd sleep cycles, terrible food habits, and varied interests in life. The one commonality: they all made Chai. Whenever one was going to make Chai, they’d ask the others if they wanted some. Never having had more than a tiny paper-cup full of it, my standard answer was “just a little bit”.
The otherwise aloof bunch would then huddle together with their glasses and biscuits and talk about the most ridiculous things and laugh out loud. In this second Act, I knew Chai as a much darker brown beverage infused with ginger, which made me feel warm and cared for.
The next year, I moved into the college hostel, as did most of my friends. Long hours spent at the library required taking elaborate breaks at the tapri (roadside tea stall the past me had strongly despised) near the college gate. These sessions involved not just some almost-bitter heavily gingered Chai, but also lots of camaraderie, gossip, bickering, excessive drama and some shenanigans. We’ve done everything from celebrating birthdays, consoling a friend, making life-announcements, career-counseling to just staring at the traffic on Eastern Expressway that stretched in front of us.
In the last few months of college, as deadlines and pressures burned us out just as much as the summer did, my anxiety was at an all time high, and my mood was lower than ever. I’d grown distant from a few close friends and found every passing day more difficult to handle than the last. On one of those mornings, when I had no will to wake up and just could not get out of bed, a friend called me.
“Wake up. Let’s go have Chai at the tapri.”
Now, I was never obsessed with Chai as she was, and wouldn’t have ever considered taking a 10 minute walk in the sweltering heat to get some of that piping hot drink. But those magical words gave me the strength to pick myself up.
It showed that I mattered, that there was someone who was looking out for me, and that there were reasons to wake up and do something, regardless of how daunting it sounds. So, for nearly every day for a few months, I undertook this pilgrimage with her, and a friend or two.
And even as I poured the hot beverage inside me while sweating uncontrollably, I savoured the moments and conversations, I grounded myself, and felt a rush of gratitude — all the things that therapists had tried getting me to do, but failed.
When I ended up at the same workplace as one of the Chai worshippers from college, I started craving for, and obsessing over it too. The two of us once spent almost an hour desperately trying to boil the concoction in an electric stove during a low-voltage situation.
Today, I make tea for myself at home even when I have a coffee filter, some impeccable coffee powder and mom, my favourite barista. While grinding the ginger, measuring the sugar and wondering whether it’s quite done yet, I remember all those people and the memories that I attach to tea.
It never quite tastes as good as the cups I shared with those people. Yet, I treasure it. Because unlike coffee, the taste for which was thrust upon me, tea is something I picked up the liking for. It’s not just a reminder of the wonderful friendships, but also a symbol of my personal growth.
