Amma did not let me drink her filter coffee until I was a teenager. She tried to explain to me that caffeine was bad for children, that it would make me too jittery and disturb my sleep. On failing to convince me by giving me the facts, she realized that as always, she would have to spin a story. And thus, the coffee fairy was born- a mischievous sprite who would cause hyperactivity in children who drink coffee and trouble their mothers.
I remain more easily convinced by stories, but was eventually allowed to drink the coffee. I joined the generations of my family, who do not start their day without it. As a child, it felt like a sort of honour in itself. I remember summers spent with my grandmother in Chennai, imitating my grandfather by sitting at the table with some filter coffee and The Hindu- both being Tamilian institutions in their own right. Filter coffee was my first introduction to the kitchen, as I watched my mother, wondering how she had it all memorized. She knew which member of the family needed how much decoction, just how long to heat it up, the momentum with which it to pour it so that it would create the right amount of froth. Beginning the family’s morning became an art. A beverage became the symbol of wishing us a good day, of love.
My college education took me across the country to Haryana, proving that change is indeed the only constant- change of language, culture, food, and to my dismay, the morning beverage. For the life of me, I could not understand how life went on in the National Capital Region without filter coffee. Food and drink is a representation of a way of life, and I was missing a part of mine.
But with an existing way of life comes learning how to adapt to a new one. Most people who know me now would swear by my love for chai, the beverage that starts the day in Delhi. What they do not know is that it came to me through another mother, who began her family’s day just as mine did. The ingredients were different and so was what she had to memorize. What stayed the same was the symbol of a good day, of love.
I never expected to find solace in something as simple as a beverage. I had always loved food, but only in moments like these do you realize what it can really do for you.
Chai has an almost literary quality to it- you don’t drink it like a debate between your fatigue and the work you have to do. You don’t drink it like a dialogue where points have to be established. You drink it like words you want to absorb, like when listening to someone you love talking about something that excites them. When I reach for a cup of chai after a long day, it’s like looking into familiar eyes. Of course, in that anticipation, chai can burn your tongue, leaving a sting behind- maybe one of a filter coffee memory, of my father sneakily letting me take the forbidden sip.
My daily cups of tea have come to represent all this and more, helping me appreciate the intricacies and nuances of a culture that I thought I would not be able to understand. A pause in the rush of constant changes. I will always miss the smell of filter coffee. It is etched into my memories of home, mingled with steaming idlis and the sound of morning prayers.
I now I have a new home, with new memories waiting to be made. Chai is just the beginning, with its quiet and authoritative entry into my cross country journey. It doesn’t promise a kick of caffeine or sugary goodness, but a conversation.
Imagine Amma’s surprise when I went back home for the first time and asked for a cup of tea. Thankfully, steel tumblers work for either beverage. Best served hot.