The idea of writing about chai first occurred to me when my father and I were walking through the streets of Bangalore. We saw a man hurrying along with a freshly washed set of cups in his hands, trying to push through the crowd. And I pointed out that just from the glasses he was holding, we could tell which shop or stall he was headed towards. Those narrow stackable glasses, the kind widely used for cutting chai, carried a grammar we had internalised without deliberation. My father and I, a bit giddy with excitement, marvelled at how, despite being far away from familiar terrain, chai and anything associated with it could evoke a sense of familiarity and soften the city’s chaos. 

Familiarity is a fascinating way of belonging. Every time we venture into or are thrown into an unfamiliar surrounding or situation, we try to find something to latch onto, to ground our reality. It could be a smell, a turn of phrase, or, as I’ve learned, a beverage. Chai, I’ve realised, is that cultural asset for people across the subcontinent. From its etymology, the Chinese chá travelling through Persian into Hindi/Urdu, to its texture, its colour, its smell, and its feel, chai evokes a sense of the known. While I have noticed increased anxiety about........

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