![]() “A good cup of chai needs a slow fire,” I was told, something I follow to this day. Then adding the milk and watching it lighten the chai and simmer, steeping the flavours. Watching the tea leaves spinning with the ginger. I felt so accomplished, measuring water, grating ginger, and scooping sugar and tea leaves to add to the boiling water. Finally, when I was in grade five, she reluctantly allowed me to make it under her supervision and soon I was making it alone. “What if you spill the boiling water and get burned,” my grandmother would fret. I yearned to make chai but wasn’t allowed. The creamy, rich beverage warmed my heart and spirit and at that precise moment, I became a chai lover. I took it and breathed the aroma in deeply. Mother refused, but grandfather smiled and poured some into a cup. Basking in the appreciation and pats on my back, I asked if I could have chai. ![]() I had scored good marks on a maths test and ran home that August afternoon to share the news with my mother and grandparents as they were having their chai. ![]() The first time I tasted real chai, I was in grade three. “Children should not drink tea,” she would say. I don’t want to ask to taste it because I know if I do, she will dilute it with more milk. Small, sweet plain biscuits are a must with chai and have been a hot favourite for generations I have no interest in tasting it but am proud, boasting to my friends: “I know how to make chai.” By the end of the day, I have memorised the process forever. She strains it in cups, puts them on a tray, and carries it to the dining table. After a few minutes, she removes it from the heat and covers it. Stirring, she adds milk and lets it simmer over a low flame, still stirring. Then she adds the tea leaves, turning the contents of the pot brown. I sulk but I know that, being a doctor, she has to get to the hospital on time. “Child, I have to hurry I don’t have time for your questions,” she says. “Why do we add this?” I ask, watching the shreds fall into the bubbling water. She adds sugar, then takes a flat steel grater, balances it on the edge of the pot and grates in adrak (ginger). She pushes me away from the gas stove but I am indignant and refuse to hop down, although I do move away a bit. My five-year-old self wants to watch my mother making chai. I remember jumping up to sit on the kitchen counter one afternoon.
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