Chai is a Four-Letter Word
<p>It’s 5 AM. I know this because my mother has roused me, previously ensconced between my grandmother and aunt, from my beloved slumber. I’m squinting, eyes heavy, my 7-year-old frame slipping into the cool embrace of the dining table chair.</p>
<p>From my reluctant seat I can see my grandfather, lumbering over the kitchen stove. He rises before anyone else, and is now making the house’s second pot of sorely needed sustenance: chai. In my sleepy haze I can smell milk, warming slowly in a saucepan over flames dancing evenly, cheerily. The process, repeated 6–10 times a day, is a mystery I’ve never tried to solve. I can hear the gentle shook-shook of the tin — he’s adding tea leaves now. The milk must’ve frothed upward, after which my grandfather poured the camel-brown concoction into the teapot, in a single seamless though hidden movement. </p>
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