The Meaning Of Chai.

While I was in Oregon, Grandpa asked me why I like chai so much. And I don’t know.

Maybe it is the memories associated with the drink more than anything else: preparations to go overseas; being in India with my family; early mornings in the apartment with light streaming in through the windows; singing on the street corner with hands outstretched; on break from driving to the Taj Mahal; after riding elephants in the rain; in countless houses; with whole milk, straight from the cow, and with no milk; then later, reunions in Amreeka.

Maybe I connect it with community.

Chai is relational. In India, you offer chai to any and every guest. It is the first thing you offer them when they enter your home. It is drunk with family everyday. To Indians, it is a means of showing hospitality, coming together and sharing one experience: a pot of chai. It forces you to slow down as you allow it to cool, swirling it in the cup with grace and ease, allowing the aroma and sight to overwhelm your senses. It ranges from red to light tan, can taste sweet or bitterly savory, but is always served in tiny little cups, half the size of American coffee mugs.

I can still remember distinct chai times, though I was in India over a year ago. Drinking it in the pink house, in the village with the curved stone paths, trailing between age-old houses, past water spigots, with the 100 year old woman. The villagers about had a riot trying to get us to come to each house. Then we walked along the train tracks. We saw shantytowns, small children who would peek out to see the foreigners, more piles of rubbish burning in the afternoon’s fading sun. It felt like we walked forever in the wrong direction, but we made it back to the town in short order. That was the town where we had the power outage and spent over an hour just talking in the complex that housed the evil monkeys and Jack Fruit trees.

Early morning chai was the best: 6:00am in Guwahati, Steve quietly saying good morning or simply waving hello, pointing to the kitchen where the ant hill was the size of a dinner plate. Love. We would stream into the kitchen one at a time, the guys always first, rubbing sleep from our eyes. One by one we would gather chai, our Bibles, and bowls of cereal, not talking much, but really just… savoring. Savoring the time before the horns became obnoxious, before it was too hot to do anything, before our J-Man helper arrived to interrupt our family life. Chai was our bonding agent – our glue. Even for Jordan who was lactose intolerant before the trip… but was not afterwards. Chai healed her. Well, God healed her. Chai was the avenue.

I only have chai with people I love – my India family, parents, Chris, Tuesday Night Preposition Club, Goers, and now my Grandparents. It symbolizes love, dedication, and a slowing-down of the pace of life. That is why I like chai.

The drink is good in and of itself. But the life associated with it is even better.