The word is called tea in English. Chai in urdu. Shay in Arabic. Cay in Turkish. But, for me, it’s a complete language.
I don’t drink chai for the taste. Of course, the taste matters. I like my chai in a perfectly balanced ratio of survival and pleasure, but I like the company it offers. Something my hands ache to hold early in the mornings when I stare at the questioning world and in the evenings, when I return to safety.
I grew up avoiding chai. I only drank it when I had a sore throat. I viewed it as an ‘adult drink’. Why should I drink a beverage that tastes like bitter decisions? Why should I prefer it over my apple juice of happiness?
The first time I drank chai voluntarily was when I had to stay up to study for a college exam. That day, I promoted chai from an adult beverage to a magic beverage. I stayed up for several hours, focusing on my studies. Not once mocked by sleep. After that day, I was always seen with a cup of chai near my books.
In university before my 9 a.m. class, I’d down a cup of strong chai and only then walk to my class. 9 a.m. lectures without chai are simply unacceptable.
I even started making chai. The process felt like having a conversation. On most days, it didn’t feel forced.
First, you wash the kettle. Remove all of yesterday’s sorrows. Give it a nice scrub. The kettle should forget your name.
Then you fill it up with water. Enough to give it hope. Nameless, but still hope.
You reach for the stove. The flame is high and ready for yet another arson. You have to tame it down. This is supposed to be gentle, believe it or not.
Put the kettle on the stove and place the lid with a little clatter. It’s important that the lid clatter. Don’t let it clink or click.
Then you wait. The difficult part. Don’t let it know that you’re restless. It might take longer if you do.
Once the water boils with anger, you add the tea leaves.
Here, you’re a free man. This drink is forgiving like that. Add as much as you want.
I add 1 teaspoon. I’m scared of my free will.
Then you put the lid back on. Don’t forget the clattering.
You have to wait again. This is agony.
Shortly, you should smell the unmistakable aroma of chai. The kettle remembers your name. It also remembers your sorrows.
I have noticed that one can go through any event in life. They can turn their life upside down, but there is always one constant. Chai.
I attended a funeral once. Among others, I saw sadness. Taking up the entire space in the house. I noticed some people in the kitchen. Curious, I went inside. They were consoling one another. Sniffling and wiping tears. I glanced at the stove, and there it was. Chai brewing in a big pot for everyone. When I looked closely, it was patting sadness on the back, consoling it. The distinct aroma couldn’t be missed.
Similarly, when my friends would gather around, the first thing everyone wanted was chai. You can not have a conversation if you don’t have 6 cups of chai. The steam rises above slowly. Gathering all the secrets. Later I won’t have 6 friends. Later, I’ll be sitting alone with no friends and missed opportunities. But with one constant, my chai. It quietly judges me but says nothing.
One day, there was a family coming to meet my parents. They wanted to marry their son to me. Naturally, I was nervous and scared. Marriage has always been scary to me. My mother made chai for everyone. We discussed their son and me. Future and whatnot. I held my cup tightly in my hands the entire time. Like a child holding onto her mother.
After I got married, time and distance changed a lot of things in my life. My kettle also changed. I had a new one. She was shy and we weren’t friends yet. My routine wasn’t the same anymore. I became a new woman.
My mother called me one day. I told her I missed her. She said she missed me, too. Then I heard a familiar clatter. Not a clink or a click. The kettle also missed me. I miss her too.
My husband doesn’t drink chai. Only when he has a sore throat. Chai has a weird way of recognising you. It only comes to you when it thinks you are ready for it.
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