A late-night stroll through campus warrants a warm… well, something. A warm bowl of tangy tomato soup with buttery soft croutons feels like a meal for the soul, with each sip feeling like the perfect balance between comfort and healthy (I mean, tomato’s healthy, right?).
Or a mug of piping hot chocolate – picking it up from Nescafe and slowly sipping the chocolate, trying not to burn your tongue with excitement. Or even if you make it in the room for yourself, the feeling of curling up with some hot chocolate and a book is just as nice.
But nothing, and I mean, NOTHING, can beat a kulhad of chai.
Walking across campus to Rasananda for a kulhad chai formed the entirety of my first winter on campus. It gives you both, the energy you get after having tomato soup as well as the wholesome sweetness of a hot chocolate. That slight taste of the kulhad infuses the tea with its earthiness in a way that can’t be matched. Some of my best friends on campus have been made exactly like this – sitting on the freezing chairs of the dhaba in the freezing air sipping a cup of kulhad chai with a girl I barely knew an hour ago. A girl who, in just a few hours of knowing her, has filled me with the same warmth that I craved from the chai in the chilly winter.
There’s something so beautiful about a cup of chai in Indian culture – it transcends all boundaries. No matter whether you’re having a cup of chai from the uncle on the cycle who’s there every morning or the café right across, it’s still the same cup of morning chai. The clinking of cups and the rhythmic pouring of chai from one vessel to another becomes a communal symphony, echoing communal spirit. It’s in these shared moments that relationships are fortified, and conversations flow seamlessly, creating memories that linger like the fragrance of freshly brewed tea.
My first memory of the kulhad chai is one I’ll never forget. It was right after mid-semester week and had just begun getting cooler. I had an overdue essay to submit and wasn’t used to the hectic college life – balancing friends, academics, and my health. I broke down one night, and on my way to the mess (only chocolate could cure me), I ran into a friend – someone I knew from class, but not too well. Realizing that I was clearly mid-breakdown, they suggested that we walk to Rasananda, and get a kulhad chai. And that was when I learned the magic of a kulhad, even without the chai – breaking it, is the most cathartic feeling ever. And so that night, we stood opposite Rasananda and smashed our kulhads against the wall, releasing all our frustration.
That’s the thing about chai – it’s not just about the drink in itself, you know. Last winter, it used to be about the Rasananda uncle who saw me and asked with a smile, “Kulhad chai, beta?”. It’s about cupping the kulhad in your hand and holding the warmth as close to you as possible; it’s about the smell of chai that slowly wafts up to your nose and makes taking that first sip – irresistible – even though your tongue is still burnt from the previous night.
It’s when I drink chai alone that it brings me more warmth than ever in the form of memories of my mother. My mother, who might be the biggest foodie in the world, still wouldn’t choose anything over a cup of tea. My mother, who can go on any diet as long it still gives her three cups of tea a day. My mother, who drinks her chai watery and lukewarm – if you warm it up, she’ll just wait for it to reach room temperature again. Chai will never fail to remind me of my mother, and the sight of her sipping on it, sitting on the sofa, every time I got home from school.
This is an ode to chai. But if I’m being really honest, I don’t really like chai. In fact, I have very rarely ever craved the taste of tea. But it brings with it memories of my mother and some of the best friends I’ve ever made. And for that, it deserves an ode.