A Cup of Chai in the Hills
I wake up in the stillness of dawn, the air crisp, with a hint of the Himalayas in the background. The soft hum of Tibetan prayers floats through the open window, carried by the morning breeze. My body refuses to move until Bhutti, my roommate, enters the room, her voice soft but insistent: “You want some tea, Emy?”
The day begins like this. Always with tea.
At the college, nestled in the foothills of Dharamsala, we live by the rhythm of chai. Mornings spill into afternoons, and afternoons into evenings, all punctuated by cups of milky, sweet tea. It’s not a choice; it’s the pulse of the place.
By 10:00, the bell rings, and students flow from classrooms, a wave of robes and laughter. The Tibetan students move quickly, wordlessly, their bowls emptying faster than they fill. There’s no lingering. They head straight for the shack behind the girls’ dorm, where the chai is stronger, darker, richer. They stand there, sipping from small glass cups, letting the warmth soak into their bones before disappearing into the day’s next task.
For the rest of us, the Americans, there’s a different pace. We’re slower, still learning the art of moving with purpose. But chai waits for no one. We hurry through our meals to catch the moment—the small cups, the shared laughter, the quiet ritual before the world turns again.
In the evenings, the students gather at a small store, a corner of the campus that feels both old and new. The smell of incense mixes with the sharp notes of chai, and Daddy Yankee’s “Gasolina” blasts from the radio as the shop owner dances, a bit of modernity in a place lost to time.
But this drink, this chai, is a gift from a not-so-distant past. Tea wasn’t always part of India’s story. It took the British to make it so, with their polished marketing, their aristocratic gatherings, their factory workers clutching cups on short breaks. Slowly, tea became India’s heartbeat, an unshakable part of daily life.
I stand beside Rita as she begins to brew. There’s a rhythm to it, a ritual in every motion. She crushes the ginger with the side of a knife, the cardamom following, each pod releasing its perfume into the air. The pot simmers, the water swirling as the ginger’s spice rises with the steam, stinging the eyes, clearing the mind. Cardamom lingers, a softer note, familiar, like a holiday from a distant place.
And then, as the first bubbles form at the bottom of the pot, the tea is added, swirling into the mixture like ink in water, completing the transformation.
We drink our chai slowly. In that moment, time stretches, the world outside pausing. It’s just us, the tea, and the mountains in the distance.
The Taste of Morning: Chai and Memory
In the quiet mornings of Brussels, before the world wakes up, Rita and I prepare chai. She’s a nanny for an American family, but our mornings belong to us. No sugar, skim milk, and British tea bags—simple and precise. As she stirs the pot, she tells me about the neighbors, their small lives filling the air like steam rising from the kettle.
The tea isn’t quite like the chai I had in India. It lacks the bite of ginger, the warmth of cinnamon, the punch of peppercorns. In India, chai is not just a drink, but a concoction of spices built on ancient traditions. Cardamom, ginger, pepper—they don’t just flavor the tea; they ground it in something old, something medicinal. But Rita’s chai is a different kind of ritual. A conversation in a cup.
It’s been weeks since I returned from India, and I feel hollow, lost in the spaces between routine. I try to make chai at home, searching for something to hold onto. The first attempt, with Lipton, falls flat. The taste is thin, a shadow of what it should be. Eventually, I find Assam tea at an Indian grocery store in Atlanta. It comes in tiny, dark pellets, almost like black sand. When the bag splits, they spill everywhere, rolling across the counter like scattered thoughts.
I don’t measure. I just toss a few spoonfuls into boiling water, watching as the pellets unravel, painting the water an intense, rich brown. The aroma is earthy, like wet grass after rain. It’s not quite right, but it’s close enough to bring back memories of those street-side chai stalls in India, where the tea brews thick, sweet, and full of life.
Chai is a common thread in India, a drink that crosses the divide between rich and poor. It tastes the same whether you’re sipping it from a glass in a dusty street stall or a delicate cup in a wealthy home. In a country of contrasts, chai brings a sense of unity, a shared moment, a pause in the day.
Back in the hills of Dharamsala, the mornings were cold. We’d huddle together, wrapping ourselves in wool shawls, chai glasses warm in our hands. Men in loose shirts, women in bright salwar kameez, an old farmer with his goat—we’d all gather at the street corner, waiting for the bus, watching the dust in the air catch the morning light. The tea was strong, syrupy with sugar, waking me up from the inside out. Bhutti, my roommate, would always add just a little more sugar to her cup, as if the sweetness could push away the morning chill.
There, in that golden light, with the taste of chai still on my lips, the world seemed to make sense, even if just for a moment.
The Alchemy of Chai: A Tale of Patience and Taste
“Not sweet enough?” I ask, incredulous. Bhutti’s laughter dances around the room like sunlight.
Lara, my American classmate, checks her watch with a frown. “The bus was supposed to arrive at 7:30, wasn’t it?” It’s now 7:35, and Ani Kelsang, the Buddhist nun, merely shrugs before ordering another round of tea for us.
As the day unfolds, every taste of sweetness clings to my teeth, mingling with the bus’s jostle through the rolling hills. We pass tea plantations and fields of golden mustard. The discomfort of the journey only fades when we finally reach the monastery guesthouse, where I gratefully brush away the taste of the day.
Whole milk, I remind myself. It’s essential.
If only I could share this chai with those I love, I muse. I wouldn’t need to describe the grimy roadside teashops, the tiny glasses of tea that barely hold more than a double shot, or the slow, languid pace of life mirrored by the wandering cows. We’d simply enjoy the essence of those moments, together.
Despite my best efforts with Assam CTC, my chai remains a disappointing pale shadow of what I remember. My frustration grows. The thought of those cows brings a sudden revelation: the milk at those roadside stalls was always fresh, straight from local farms or at least full-fat. The idea of skim milk is almost absurd in a land where getting enough nutrition is a daily struggle. I set the skim milk aside, determined.
Boil everything together until the milk begins to froth and threatens to spill over.
“No, Emy,” Bhutti says, gently gripping my wrist to stop me from turning off the stove, “you must wait, or it won’t taste right.” Her touch is firm but kind. This is the first time she has trusted me with such a task, and I’m determined to get it right.
We’re in Bhutti’s tiny village, nestled between the harsh peaks of Ladakh. Each day, I breathe the crisp mountain air and wander through lush barley and pea fields. Meanwhile, Bhutti and her family toil—plowing, irrigating, cooking, cleaning, and caring for goats and yaks.
Bhutti makes me wait until the milk rises almost to the edge of the pot. Then, with impeccable timing, she turns off the stove, letting the froth collapse in on itself. The following day, she’ll let me make the tea on my own.
Tea first, then work.
In Leh, the capital of Ladakh, we gather to make momos. The Americans eagerly reach for knives, ready for the long process of chopping cabbage, carrots, onions, and potatoes, and preparing dough. We’ve instructed the driver to return in two hours, and the pressure of time hangs over us. Our hostess, however, gestures for us to sit on the floor mats. “Tea first,” Wangmo insists, “then we work.”
Three hours later, we finally finish the momos. Someone brings a plate to the waiting cab driver, who grumbles but stays put.
Back in the US, I finally perfect my chai, achieving the right balance of tea, milk, sweetness, and spice. I serve it to my housemates. We sip together on a cold winter afternoon, laptops open and papers spread around us, savoring the taste of a journey well-traveled.
The Reference Article 非線形な物語：チャイの作り方
