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Chai is a Four-Letter Word
An ode to the camel-coloured elixir.
Note: This essay was first published on July 2, 2015. It was my first ever freelance piece, commissioned by an editor at Queen Mob’s Tea House, a delightfully odd little blog that published its last post in April of this year. Without this essay I would not have been able to begin a freelance writing career. It got my name out there, allowed me to befriend other writers on Twitter, and generally inspired me to think less about the soul-sucking Hollywood job I had, and more about my observations and how best to convey them in a piece of writing. Here is the essay, reproduced in full.
I.
It’s 5 AM. I know this because my mother has roused me, previously ensconced between my grandmother and aunt, from my beloved slumber. I’m squinting, eyes heavy, my 7-year-old frame slipping into the cool embrace of the dining table chair.
From my reluctant seat I can see my grandfather, lumbering over the kitchen stove. He rises before anyone else, and is now making the house’s second pot of sorely needed sustenance: chai. In my sleepy haze I can smell milk, warming slowly in a saucepan over flames dancing evenly, cheerily. The process, repeated 6–10 times a day, is a mystery I’ve never tried to solve. I can hear the gentle shook-shook of the tin — he’s adding tea leaves now. The milk must’ve frothed…
