A man unloads a bicycle rickshaw stacked with homemade paper. As he moves the paper into one of the many stationary shops, a bead of sweat drips from his chin. Skillfully he weaves through the stream of people on the sidewalk. My companions and I stay close together as we pass by, trying to enjoy the bustle of Chawri Bazaar, which stands in the shadow of Old Delhi’s Jama Masjid.
I disrupt the flow of people when I stop. Squatting on the side of the road is a woman in a well-worn sari. Her skin is tanned and her face slightly lined with age. She has full cheeks and dark brown eyes. The pullao of her sari loosely covers the top of her head. In front of her sit a burner, a pot, and teacups. I have never seen a chaiwalli—a female chai vendor.
“Does anyone want chai?” I ask.
The chaiwalli’s eyebrows knit together as I, an Anglezi, approach her. “Namskar didi-ji. May we please have four cups of chai?” I ask her in Hindi. A smile breaks across her face and her eyes gleam.
She ignites the burner, and places the pot, rimmed brown from use, over it. Absent-mindedly she adds several ingredients to the pot while talking to a young boy. Once boiled and strained, she hands each of us a tapered glass full of the milky brown substance.
At the first taste of the steaming contents of my glass, I savor the flavors of cardamom, ginger, and cinnamon. In that moment, I want to get to know this woman who lives a life so different from mine, who speaks no English, but who, on the side of a busy street, can make a cup of chai that will make me crave it when I am not in Delhi and have me returning frequently when I am.
On Christmas Day, I visit the chai stand for the fourth time in as many days. Sonya, the chaiwalli, is pleased to see me, but her expression is puzzled. “Akali?”
“Yes, I am alone. My friends have gone back to America.”
“Where are you staying? Do you have food?” She asked me, with the same concern she would ask one of her daughters. I reassure her that I am staying in a safe hotel, and that I have food. Satisfied, she starts to make some chai. She slows down, so that I can learn how to make chai the way she does. The constant flow of people passing by is interrupted as people stop to see why an Anglezi and a chaiwalli are on familiar terms. We pay them no attention.
After numerous cups of chai over many months, I am sad that this is my last visit before heading home. I reach down to touch Sonya’s feet, a gesture of profound respect. She grasps my shoulders and pulls me up. Her expression matches the way I feel. With one final hug, she sighs and says “my daughter.”
Events in this post took place between Aug 2006 and January 2007
