Making Chai When Your Worth as a Woman Isn’t on the Line

I recently learnt how to make tea, and I’m glad I didn’t when aunties, boyfriends’ mothers or men thought I should.

I

The first time I was introduced to my ex-boyfriend’s mother, she asked me if I could make chai. She was a homemaker, and everyday for the last 25 years, she had been making hot chai for her husband, who would come home from work at 5:00pm everyday.

That day, she asked if I could make chai for the family. I said I didn’t know how to. She was the sweetest woman – warm, friendly, caring. But as she gave me a worried smile, the look in her eyes seemed to all but say: Tum chai nahin bana sakti, toh ghar kaise sambhalogi? (If you can’t make tea, how you will manage the household?)

II

That was three years ago. I learnt to make chai at the age of 23. If she knew I just learned how to do it, she would say it was too late, like a male colleague did, when I asked my editor if I could write this story. “You didn’t know how to make chai until now?!”

Well, I didn’t. But, now I do and I’m glad I learnt it when I wanted to, in my own (rented) home and space, and not when relatives, potential mothers-in-law and men thought that I was less of a woman if I didn’t know how to. I knew that chai was nothing but a metaphor for learning how to become more marriageable and less “leftist-LSRian-feminazi”.

How many movies, TV shows and ads have you seen about a man and his family going to “see” a woman for a possible match for marriage? She comes out, dressed up, head bowed coyly with a tray in her hands and of course – chai. If the chai is good, the deal is finalised and she is deemed worthy of marriage.

III

The first time I made chai, I realised I always knew how to do it. I had seen it being made innumerable number of times, and I’d down as many cups over the years. It was all intuitive.

As the water and sprinkle of mint came to a boil, and I took out a carefully measured table spoon of tea leaves, I realised exactly why I told his mother that I didn’t know how to make chai. I was worried that if it didn’t turn out exactly the way she liked it, she would write me off as being unworthy of her son. I was young, and I didn’t have the strongest sense of self back then, so I thought it was important that I ticked all the boxes for his mother.

As the tea leaves began to brew, the smell wafted into my nose and I smiled to myself. I must have looked crazy, but you have to understand the sense of relief from judgement I was feeling.

I remembered a camping trip with my friends a few years ago; we sat around all night and talked. As steaming cups of chai were passed around, the topic of the best practises of brewing tea came up.

I confessed early on in the conversation that I didn’t know how to, and after a round of scoffs, I was demoted to a quiet corner of the tent to sip and observe.

I noticed that when a woman said she knew how to make chai, it was mundane news. But when a man said he knew how to make chai, he was admired. It seemed to be an achievement for him, and a necessary skill for her. 

I spilt some milk when I was pouring it out – and no one died! A teaspoon of sugar later, while I was stirring the chai, I remembered a colleague once told me that if you ever went to Matoshree in Mumbai to interview the Thackerays, it was always Smita Thackeray who would come down and ask the guests if they wanted chai. Not that she made it herself, but it made me wonder why people seemed to think that chai was always the woman’s department, irrespective of how powerful the woman was.

I let the tea simmer for a few seconds more and poured it into a beautiful wooden cup I had bought for the express purpose of the first cup of chai I ever make for myself.

As the chai filtered down, I remembered how as my father is getting older, his body clock wakes him up much earlier. Every morning for the last three decades, my father would wake up and drink a cup of tea first thing every morning. These days, sometimes he wakes up early, only to find that there is no one around to make him that cup of tea. His solution is to either sit around, waiting for my mom or the domestic help to make him chai, or stay in bed, turning and tossing, asking my mother to wake up and make him chai.

IV

It wasn’t perfect, but it was the most calming cup of tea I’ve ever had. I took it out to my balcony and slowly sipped on it, while making mental notes on what to do better the next time.

The next day, on my way home from office, I bought cinnamon sticks and cardamom (for Rs 30 each) and proudly kept it in my little tea box. That evening, I added a little bit of both spices, ginger, cloves and a touch of black pepper to the boiling water before adding the tea. Nothing spilled over, and no one judged me on my worth as a woman either.

It was also the perfect cup of chai. For me.