You know what I realized?
Blogging has become difficult for me simply because I don’t know what to
discuss. I mean, I know what I can write
about such topics as social injustices of the world or even politics (which
lately has a close tie in with injustices) or even something that’s pissing me
off (typically speaking that’s always connected to the Orange-Menace aka the US
POTUS *barf*) but I start to type it all out and then somewhere along the way I
think of the thousands of blogs being published that probably are the exact
same and I quite abruptly lose my mojo.
What’s the point in saying the same thing nearly everyone else is and
probably doing it better than myself?
Instead of that happening, I’ve just avoided the whole blog thing only
logging back on occasion to gaze wistfully at it thinking, “but I have so much
potential”. Then I had a sort of breakthrough. Let me explain how that happened.
Three days ago dawned bright and cold. On FB I spied a private message sent to me by
my girl “A” bemoaning her foray into chai making and how precisely abysmal it
was. Asking her how something so simple
could have gone that wrong, she listed the ingredients that had been used. My innards cringed. Even as she swore she wasn’t ‘basic’ and
wailing out her everlasting love of chai, my head didn’t stop spinning as to
how anyone (namely the chick who posted the recipe) could take something so
damn easy and complicate the hell out of it.
Almost horrified, I tapped out a quick message saying I would definitely
give her an easy recipe on how to accomplish said brew without a mess of
additional ingredients and it would be authentic to boot. Her enthusiasm was palpable as we jumped onto
the phone and started to chat/catch-up.
After the good deed for the day was done, I recalled a story
connected with chai and repeated it to her.
Upon completion I heard no snores, which I took as a good thing and
quickly realized that instead she had actually enjoyed this memory. It was then when I thought, “I should really
write this shiz down in my blog”. In the
past it had always been these random memories that I enjoyed the most in
sharing. Why not then this one?
Chai (the literal meaning of the word is ‘tea’ so when you
say Chai tea, your ass is just being redundant so stop it, right now. What these marketing wizards should encourage
you to say is ‘masala chai’ which is the mcnasty crap that Oprah has pimped out
on you…FYI it’s not even slightly legit) is a way of life for a lot of South
Asians. We begin and end (including all
minutes in-between) the day with the strong, milky, sweet brew. It’s thick and when made right coats your
tongue in a sublime manner that transports you to some Zen place and all you
need is a small cup (and no therapy) to be totally satisfied although rarely is
that enough because with chai we SA’s are insatiable. I’ve had some great cups of chai in my life
but none of it has ever compared to the brew I had in India that night so long
ago.
At about the age of 17, I went to visit my dad’s eldest
sister and her family in Berhampur, India with my mom. We had to take a 7-hour break neck bus ride
which we caught at the crack of dawn in Calcutta proper near the train
station. The bus didn’t have AC and it
was about 1000 degrees outside. During this monumental drive it was brought
home to me that Indians really did take their love for bovines quite seriously
and the whole concept of ‘break for cows’ was no joke, not humans, just
cows. And the drivers were uber patient
about it too, waiting without honking as the lowing creatures (often in
gaggles, sometimes singular) would amble in front of traffic or take a seat on
the hot asphalt as if that were their homes and we were indeed the ones
trespassing. There would be a little boy
who would hop off the bus every now and then and shoo a particularly stubborn
brown hulking mass off the street and off we would go until the next jarring
breaks would be applied. It was all
quite eventful and I was fairly sure we would die in a twisted crash with the
cow coming out untouched. The ride was thus
endless in my estimation.
Berhampur, with the Ganga (Ganges) running through it, hugs
the coast of the Bay of Bengal. It’s a
surprisingly bustling little town, my aunt (along with her husband, 5 daughters
and 2 sons) lived in a sprawling old flat that had belonged in my father’s
family for as long as he could remember.
Their home had a bunch of rooms that created a big ‘U’ shape while in
the middle was the open court yard.
There too was located the separate outdoor kitchen, the outhouse and the
bathing house. There was also a water
pump that I used liberally but that’s another story for another time.
My cousins and I would climb the steep stairs to my aunt’s
tailor shop (located on the 2nd floor) to sit in the narrow balcony and talk
about old folklore or to giggle and share insight into one another’s lives
since we had never met before and had a lot of quality gossiping to do. Sometimes, we would keep climbing and head to
the roof to sprawl out on a large wicker mat in order to snatch only slightly
cool breezes in the evenings, particularly when the load shedding would begin. Usually these moments were with the female
cousins but one night the two male cousins demanded that we forgo our trek up
to the roof and instead accompany them.
It was close to 10 pm when we set off, the party also
including Phoopi (dad’s sister) and Ammu (my mom). Slowly we meandered the lit streets of the
quiet town, weaving through narrow side alleys which seemed perfectly okay to
do though I was somewhat aware that it had the potential of being a foolish move
considering that muggings weren’t exactly unheard of even when involving such a
large party. I figured the muggers were
tired and at home themselves. But I was
young and excited so of course invincible hence I threw caution to the wind and
didn’t utter a word of warning. My
brothers (aka cousins) wouldn’t reveal where we were headed, not that I
cared. I was having far too much fun
just taking it all in including the smells of the town. The tantalizing aromas of a 1000 dinners
gently chased after us as we played a game of “identify the food”. The weak lights overhead guided our way.
Funny how so many memories of the past are blurry at best,
dim shadows or hazy pictures. The mind
can create so many fillers to replace reality so that the picture is more
fulsome. But my mind works slightly
different. I take mental snapshots, not
on purpose, and it most often accurate lasting a lifetime. These were one of those snapshots that I
recall with such clarity that I can almost feel the night heat on my skin.
 |
Not a picture I took
but you get the idea as to what the steps look like
|
It wasn’t long before we arrived at our destination and I
was brought up short. There in front of
us only about 100 feet away was the Ganga.
I had never seen it before so was completely unprepared as to how impactful
it would be, a total ‘stop breathing’ sort of experience. The water of the Ganga was a muted sound of
rushing by and gentle lapping. All
around there were hawkers out selling delicious edibles from small carts that
boasted kerosene lights or candles to illuminate the way. I smelled roasted channa, samosa’s flakey and
fried golden brown, phuchka waiting to be filled with the spicy contents and
filled with tamarind sauce. We moved
forward as a group as I gawked, taking it all in. Several steps led down to the bank but my
cousins suggested we stay near the top.
I asked them why and one explained patiently it was because otherwise
the alligators would come by and snatch us into the water. At first I thought they were joking, trying
to freak me out but there was no laughter.
Okay then.
There were others there besides us as well. Big groups, smaller ones, couples making the
most of the darkness to surreptitiously hold hands while mooning at each
other. Across the river, far away, I
could see the telltale signs of life in the form of tiny spots of light. Someone was playing music from a radio
somewhere, a group further down kept bursting into song and laughter.
Settling down my eyes were drawn to the water that snaked
its way realizing that generations of Hindu’s came right here to worship,
cleanse themselves, or spread the ashes of their loved ones. Later I would learn that those who committed
suicide or came to some unscrupulous end would be basically be dropped into the
Ganga, so it wouldn’t be totally weird to have a dead body wash onto
shore. I can say I’m glad I didn’t know
this at that moment although the alligators worried me enough. My cousins, interesting enough since they are
Muslim’s as my mother and I were, began sharing stories of the Mahabharata (an
epic narrative of the Kurukṣetra War and the fates of the Kaurava and the Pāṇḍava
princes).
I was completely enthralled, barely noticing as one of the
family members motioned to someone behind me.
Feeling a presence beside me, I looked up and there stood a boy,
probably no more than 7-years-old.
Without any sort of exaggeration, I can say that I will never forget
this kid although the finite details of his face escapes me so many decades
later. He was bare-chested sporting
dirty orange colored shorts, or what I thought was orangish in hue, and thong
leather sandals encompassing dirt covered feet.
A red, green and white linen towel was slung around his neck
limply.
 |
| The closest I could find to the cup that we had used. |
In the crook of his arm hung a
large beat up metal tea kettle half the size of his body causing me to wonder
how he managed to stay upright without tipping over to the right. The other hand was extended straight down his
side holding easily a stack of possibly 25 small tea cups sans handles, sort of
like the tea cups you probably ran into the Chinese restaurants here in the
USA. They were made of clay though,
without any finish, fitting into the palm of one’s hand for ease of
holding. These cups were nestled under
his chin so that they were perfectly balanced.
The young urchins smile was wide, gamine as he approached us. He was instructed to sit with us to provide
tea until the kettle ran dry and he agreed readily once he was assured that he
would be paid handsomely for his attention.
Each cup cost a whopping 1 rupees.
The first sip of that brew was nothing I’d ever tasted
before. Again, coming from a family of
tea drinkers and having indulged in many a pretty fantastic cups before, this
was indeed special. To this day I
confess I have yet to taste the likes of it.
I knew it wasn’t masala chai since there was no taste of cardamom, clove
or cinnamon, in fact nothing more than water, thickened milk, strong well
steeped tea and sugar. As simple as
that. After the first sip I was hooked
and three sips later I was done staring down at the dregs of tiny granules of
what I assumed was the clay which didn’t skeaze me out since I figured it just
added to the overall taste. Yes, dirt
could be the missing ingredient. Who
knew!
Looking around I was about to put the cup down carefully
when one of my other cousins simply tossed hers onto the stairs a short distance
away. With horror I watched it shatter
into pieces. Why would anyone do
that? Did these people have no sense of
recycling at all, I had wondered in astonishment.
My cousin accurately interpreted my outraged thoughts
explaining that it was what everyone did indicating with a motion of her hand
to the evidence all around us. I hadn’t
noticed. She patiently went on to tell
me that those cups cost the little boy barely anything and that the alternative
option wasn’t actually hygienic since he probably didn’t have access to an
abundance of clean water. Plus, she went
on, there were several people that benefited from this destruction such as the
sweepers that were employed to come and clean up the mess and the cup maker who
was incentivized to keep plying their trade.
In essence it was a win-win for everyone.
This made sense seeing as how the vast population of the
people, at that time, was made up of citizens who were well below the poverty
level. In a country like India, every
day folks didn’t give a rat’s ass about recycling as much as they cared about
where their next meal would come from and how.
I couldn’t fault them any of this and was able to join in the flinging
of the cups but maybe with not the total aplomb that the rest did. Even my mother seemed hesitant. At one point I asked the boy who brewed the
tea. His mother, he replied a bit
proudly.
That little boy sat with us late into the night until I
noted him dozing while still on his haunches.
How he managed to do this was impressive to say the least. I elbowed my mother gently, tipping my head
towards him and her eyes softened. The
tea had long since ran out, between all of us we had dispatched the cups along
with the brew. When we roused him,
embarrassed he had stood up and insisted on getting us more but we refused and
my mother handed him a generous amount of monetary compensation. At first he said he would have to get change
but when my mother indicated that it was all for him, he stood motionless
staring wide-eyed down at his hand where the 100-rupee note was clasped. Effusively he thanked us, picked up the empty
kettle and raced off.
When I asked Ammu later why he looked like he had been on
the verge of tears at the amount she had handed him, after all he had sat with
us for so long giving up finding other potential customers, she told me as she
wrapped her arm around my shoulder and we headed home, “it would have taken him
many more hours than the few he spent with us to earn the same amount of money
and even though it was nothing for us, for him it was a lot. It can mean that possibly he won’t have to be
worried for the next few days as to where he’ll make money and probably do half
as much work.” My heart tightened and as
we walked slowly back towards the awaiting beds, I thanked God for all the
luxuries I took for granted, hoped that the kid would grow up and out of the
present circumstances of his life (although I knew that would be difficult) and
knew I would forever remember the taste of that tea.
The only thing I regretted later would be that I never saved
one of those little cups.
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