Spilling Too Much Tea

It’s after many years that drinking a milky chai has again become part of my evening routine. These mid-December evenings are made for it. It’s a pick-me-up with the jitteriness of a coffee. It’s got a smoother texture than tea without (oat) milk. It’s got that “dessert feel” when the pantry is out of cookies. It has the satisfaction of salted nuts. 

“Chai” is just tea. When desis hear chai, we picture (and taste) black tea, water, and milk. And sugar, if that’s how you take it. 

But then white people - ahem *clears throat* I mean, westerners - decided that chai is tea with various spices in it. So I guess we go with it. The distinction “masala” chai does help, I admit. 

Everything about making this masala chai is poetic. The sun dips below the horizon, along with my sugar level. I measure out of the cup I’ll be drinking out of: a half oat milk and half water mixture waterfalls into the pot in slow motion. A cardamom pod dropping dreamily into this creamy lake. The precision of the boiling point, the swift lowering of heat. I then measure the chai with a table spoon and sprinkle it into the concoction. When it’s just the right shade of caramel brown, it’s ready to be poured. The silky sound of the hot liquid colliding into the abyss of the cup, promising infinite comfort and indulgence. The sieve catches the tea leaves, as well as pieces of cinnamon, clove, and the cardamom pod that had been dancing in this process from the very beginning. 

I am used to brightening my mornings with coffee, but the sweetening of my evenings with tea is not a constant part of my ritual. It changes with location, season, and company. It started when I was 11 years old, dipping Prince Chocolate biscuits into a cup of chai with my mother, and watching Indian songs on TV. The habit came and went. 

But this particular tea is more than just the warm evenings it provides. The symbolism lies in how I’m able to enjoy it. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to.

Let’s rewind three years back: I am sitting on my ex-boyfriends bed. He’s just returned from the UK and is unpacking. Of course, I was expecting presents. One by one, he fished out these beautiful tea tins out of his bag. They came in various metallic shades. “FORTNUM & MASON,” embossed along the top of each tin. Fortnum and Mason. They sound like very important people.  

“I’m not trying to make a statement,” he assured me, “I just thought they were nice,” 

What does he mean by that? Let us rewind another year back:

I was at his apartment. We’d just moved him in, and we were having our lovely Sunday brunch. I took on tea duty and accidentally messed up the tea to hot water ratio. Yikes. I thought I could get away with it, but the tea was way too dark. 

Bro sat mad at me throughout the entire breakfast. I offered to dilute it up, add honey, lemon and mint to half of it, and save it in the fridge for ice tea. He refused. I wanted to ask him why it’s a bad idea, but I was scared of pissing him off more. I must have apologized twelve times while we were eating. “Imagine,” he explained, “That red stuff (salça) from Turkey, the one that you love so much. Imagine if someone used a huge chunk of it.” 

I bit my tongue from telling him that it HAD happened. That I’d brought two different kinds for Rachel. She’d told her boyfriend to throw away the soup in the fridge. He misunderstood and got rid of two fresh jars. It had hurt to hear.  I come from a household and culture that doesn’t do waste, especially not when it comes to food. But it was a mistake and getting mad and pouty about it was not going to change a single thing.

But I didn’t want to dismiss his feelings like I had mine. “You know,” he continued, “How many times do I get to go home? I can’t just get it from anywhere.” 

I nodded, “I know, I know. I’m sorry, Darling. Truly, I didn’t know, I miscalculated…”

Fast forward to a year later. I was sitting on his bed with these important teas manufactured by important men. Fortnum and Mason. He’d brought a few tins and I got to pick three: Earl Grey, Afternoon Blend, and Chai. 

The most difficult breakups are the ones involving children and property. This one was one or two levels below. I won’t go into its details in this blog post, but let’s just say there was some real damage recovery to be done. For a future I was mourning as well as self-esteem I had to rebuild from the first brick. 

“Can you please keep these?” I asked my best friend, “And I’ll get them back from you when I’m ready. If I’m ever ready?”

I’m not a heartless Gemini, I’m not the type to throw gifts from old lovers. But my Scorpio sentiments couldn’t tolerate their presence in my vision.

“Don’t be dramatic, Bitch,” he said, “And yes, I can keep them.” He’s the only middle-eastern person I know who doesn’t like tea. But I wouldn’t have minded if he helped himself. 

Fast forward to two months ago: They’re shooting a movie in my house, so I’m staying chez Bestie. The week is over, and I’m packing to go back to my place. My gaze lands on his shelf. 

“Oh!” I find myself looking at the tins. And not feeling a thing. “Hey! I can take these back now!”

I thank him for holding on to them, along with Ottolenghi’s recipe book. 

Now I can enjoy important English tea in any way I want. I can touch this tea without becoming sad, or shameful, or grieving. And I can make it as strong or weak as I want and no one gets mad at me! And I get to live in this harmony without yearning for a past that wasn’t as beautiful as I’d wanted to be. 

Cheers!