Indian chai

Talking tea on the train with Pisces Valerez

‘Chai garam. Chai garam.’

1997, Assam. India. A boy’s voice echoes from the Assam Bengal Railway platform, calling to the trains sleepy passengers. Roused from a miserable attempt at sleep, I watch weary travellers take a single rupee from pocket and purses and thrust it through the bars of the compartments open window. Seconds later they are holding a terracotta cups, brimming with steaming liquid. Like parched wanderers in the desert, they bring it to the lips. Instant bliss. Adored by some, reviled by others, chai - the type of tea drunk by the masses as well as the maharajahs - is one of the constants of the Indian subcontinent.

Some of my posh European friends, when they think of tea picture an elegant porcelain pot with exquisitely aromatic Assam or Darjeeling leaves steeping inside. Milk, sugar cubes, and slices of lemon ready to serve if called upon. A rather British sort of arrangement. My more bohemian friends always visualise something slightly more utilitarian. But the teabag has failed to penetrate very deeply in India, particularly the places I like to visit.

1998, Sussex. England. On the train from Brighton to Victoria I got chatting with a young mulatto by the name of Pisces Valerez. Having spent a chilled weekend in Brighton town Pisces was returning to London where he was studying geology at Imperial College London. He comes from a long line of engineers and was expected to join the family business after he finished his studies. He told me he was saving up to go travelling in India. Pisces had grown up listening to stories of India from his father and grandfather, who had studied at the prestigious Indian School of Mines in the city of Dhanbad in Jharkhand. He told me that one of the things they reminisce about during family get-togethers was the taste of Indian chai. As a boy growing up in the Nuyorican community of New York City’s metropolitan area Pisces has always wondered what the hell chai was. What is chai? What are its magical ingredients? Ingredients which have remained in the memories of his father and grandfather for so long. What special alchemy produces it?

And so, for the next hour or so I described to Pisces the work of the chai-wallah in India.

Squatting by a brazier of glowing coals, the chai-wallah reaches for his favourite pot, a much dented, fire-blacked thing made out of the cheapest metals possible. Deftly he knocks out the remains of the last batch of chai, wipes out the pot with a dirty rag, and sets it carefully on the brazier. He adds several cups of water (I tell Pisces it’s best not to ask its source) and two ladles of buffalo milk.

As the milky mixture begins to heat, the maestro reaches for a large red tin of Brook Bond Red Label, the best CTC tea money can buy. ‘Whats CTC? Never heard of that’. I tell Pisces that CTC is the name given to what’s left of the tea after the finest leaves have been sold for export. The letters stand for Crush-Tear-Cool process that these remains are subjected to. Into the pot go several generous pinches.

Now, I tell him with relish, is a critical step. Out comes another tin, this one full of coarse honey-coloured crystals of partially refined sugar. In goes a spoonful. And another. And another. And another. You lose count. The mind boggles. With effortless grace, the maestro reaches for a bidi, a small cigarette, hand-rolled in a leaf of tobacco or the cheaper saal. Now it’s time to wait and have a smoke. There is no hurrying this last, all-important part: the cooking.

Many minutes pass. At last the bidi has burned down, and the chai is ready to be served. A serious-looking young boy wearing stained pajamas steps forward: the maestro’s assistant. He deferentially hands his master a mismatched cup and saucer, both chipped. With practiced showmanship, the wallah flourishes a strainer and pours the tea. Following the example of your fellow patrons, you pour the piping hot chai into the saucer and a take a careful sip. As the liquid hit’s the spot I guarantee Pisces that a feeling of sublime well-being will spread through his Latino body and soul. He gives me toothy smile, claps his hands together and promises to send me a postcard after his first taste of chai.

In the old days, before bottled water became common in India, chai was one of the few ‘safe’ things to drink, and it still is today. I said to Pisces that one of the many surprises in store for him in India is just how refreshing a steaming clay pot of chai can be, even on the most sweltering of Indian days and nights.

I told him that in the middle of the afternoon, when he’s been out roaming the dusty streets for hours in search of the perfect Kashmiri shawl or the quintessential sandalwood box, a cup of chai will always revive his body and spirit in an almost mystical way. ‘Probably the reason why your father and grandfather still talk about chai in the way they do’ I said. I added that whenever I’m in India I always try to find time to sit on a simple wooden bench beneath the shade of a giant banyan tree. Take a sip of hot chai, relax, and watch India go by. He promises me that’s what he’ll do too.

Pisces and I exchange emails and numbers as we approach London Victoria. We promise again to stay in touch. As we go our separate ways I wonder what Pisces will make of India. The experiences that await him. How he will react to the many facets of the many mosaics that make up India’s ancient culture. I wondered if I’ll ever see Pisces again. Listen to him talk about the things he did, the friendships he forged, the things he witnessed. And the chai he drank.