Round and around

Summertime chai

Photograph of a Dale Chihuly exhibit called ‘Persian Ceiling’ at Chihuly Garden and Glass in Seattle.

Hello, Reader.

My back-door neighbors disappear almost fully every summer. It’s a slow, patchy, green obscuration, courtesy of a tall persimmon tree next to the fence that separates our houses. Today morning, as I stand at the kitchen sink filling water in a small saucepan and look out of the window in the back, their seasonal eclipsing is almost at totality. Only an edge of their terracotta tile roof and part of the upstairs window remain. Come fall, the gaps between the branches of the tree, bending under the weight of many fruit, will widen. And, as I walk through the different levels of my house, I’ll start to catch glimpses of them again. An upside-down triangle view of their patio door and the periodic appearance of the man as he jogs in circles around his house. Or, of the lady sitting on the step with her back resting against the pale brown-pink walls, head tilted, and her eyes closed against the sun. I always feel a strange reassurance at their reappearance. We don’t know each other, but they’re part of a cycle I unconsciously track, and though I can never be sure of the shape their return will take, I still count on the little predictability it offers.

It’s 6:30 in the morning and I am making morning chai. It’s bright outside, though already not as bright as a month ago. After filling the saucepan halfway, I place it on the electric hot plate and wait for the water to boil. There is a stillness, both inside the house and outdoors, a kind of dense immobility. If I close my eyes, I can almost smell the faint perfume of yesterday’s birthday roses mixed with the creamy sweet-tart aroma of the double-baked cheesecake. My mind drifts to what I’ve concluded from this year’s orbit around the sun. It turns out life really is about arrival. Or, at least, that’s what mine seems to be about. Not arrival as a victorious completion of some grand life journey, but as a repeated occurrence. Every time I think I’m going to get to a place where I can rest in the outcome (happily ever after), I arrive instead at a new place that requires growth. I think of these two places- the one where I can rest and the other where I have to grow- and convince myself they are not the exact same location.

The hissing and bubbling of the boiling water interrupts my thoughts. I get the tea canister out and quickly add three spoons of my favorite loose leaf masala chai to the water. The water froths wildly and the trapped air inside the house is now scented with a blend of tea, cardamom, ginger, and black pepper. I grab the milk from the fridge and add it to the chai mixture. I like strong tea, so I don’t add too much.

I make the morning chai in our house. Not all the time, but mostly. I like coming downstairs first thing in the morning. Each morning I pause to marvel at the brick red of an old cloth painting that hung in my parents’ home and now hangs in mine. The color hasn’t faded in the last 40 years and the simple gold-painted wooden frame still holds a subtle shine. I like looking into the eyes in the paintings of the Goddess as I walk to the kitchen. As I wait for the water to boil, I search for the moon and track the changes in its shape even as I check how much of the neighbors’ house is visible today. Being at the window every morning, and making tea, feels like a fulcrum, a ritual that remains the same day after day even as other small and big cycles play out continuously, their outcomes unknown.

The chai mixture threatens to boil over and I quickly turn the hot plate off. I use a strainer to strain the tea leaves and pour the tea into two cups. Chai is ready.

Dear Reader, I’d love to hear what forms a fulcrum to your days.

Best,

Priya

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Here’s what teatime looks like in the winter:

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