On a rainy day, or a Friday afternoon, or a Sunday morning after a long Saturday night,
I make my way to my kitchen.
I take out the special saucepan and the special cups,
reserved for this very special drink.

As the water begins to sizzle in the pan,
I take out the spices of my childhood.
Grind the cardamom, grate the ginger,
Losing myself in this rhythm, as if in a trance.

The water bubbles, the ginger cracks.
And it’s time for the most special ingredient of all.
Chai, black ground tea leaves.
Their strong smell overpowering my senses, their color turning the water a homely red.

I add some milk, the pan is now tan.
And now, I wait, watching the transformation of this concoction,
till it slowly darkens to that beautiful golden brown,
frothing, beckoning to me to get it off the stove.

I pour it out, with the same childlike fascination, each time.
Chai – this marvel of water, acid, and heat.
And as I take my first sip, enjoying the chai of my labor,
There is nothing else that matters in that moment.