The Drama of Chai

An epiphany for the throat.

- Khushi Jain

The entire process is mute. It’s not your conventional soap opera. Water is sloshed into a pot as flames of blue and orange come to life with a click. Steadily, bubbles start forming in the clear liquid. A train of containers starts lining up on the counter. Each carriage is differently sized. The cinnamon is in a 4-inch plastic can with its label intact. The cardamom is in one of the many small containers with a silver cap. Milk sits in a pot, dotted with condensation, straight out of the refrigerator. The last two jars are facsimiles, one with the sweet crystals of sugar and the other, with the dark brown granules of tea leaves. They all await their turn. Milk goes first. Sugar. Pinches of cinnamon and cardamom. And now the drama starts to stir. The tea leaves seem to bloom the moment they hit the sweltering mixture. And with them, a spring of the senses begins.

Swirls of ghostly steam ascend towards the already yellowing tiles above the stove as the strainer trembles over the cup and the chai leaves its pot.