Waiting For Chai

After making two thousand two hundred and twenty-two cups of tea, Samar Kumar had perfected the art of waiting.

Samar Kumar, the singing chai-wala of Rajwinder Nagar, was a man of many colours. He was wise beyond his years, and his wisdom occasionally manifested itself in the corner of his droopy eyes. 

The first time I met Samar, no scratch that, the first time I had a cup of Samar's kulhad masala chai (masala tea in an earthen pot) was with my mom. As I sat in the back of our tiny hatchback, I was handed that cup of tea with a mandatory towel to avoid spilling it all over the seat. I remember being angry at my mom for picking me up late from school and throwing a fit about how inconvenient it was for my extremely diligent TV schedule to miss the new episode of "Phineas and Ferb". A young boy of 17 looked at me as he poured that soulful drink into its worthy container for five rupees. He waved and smiled at me as he collected the change. My shy 7-year-old self dunked under the seat as we left his tall stall. In retrospect, I get that it was totally weird. I remember one more thing from that little stop along our way home; I did not finish my drink. 

The second time I met Samar Kumar was the 10th standard while I was leaving home for my ghastly board exams. Samar had a long queue of students patiently waiting in a single file outside his stall at 7:15am. It was unusual to see a quiet crowd with the only noise coming from the drumming of their impatient feet. However, as all of them held open their history textbooks, I felt a sense of camaraderie with strangers. Was it because it was finally time for battle, or was it because we were totally and 100% screwed? Samar seemed to think it was option number one as I heard him say to each student, "Darro mat, jeet kar aana hai bass." (Don't worry, you have to win, that's all)  I don't think he realized that the second part of his sentence wasn't compatible with the first. But I focused on my cup of tea as I heard him slowly hum the Hanuman Chalisa. I threw my half-finished cup of tea in a bin outside his not-so-tall stall and left feeling a little less anxious. 

The last time I met Samar Kumar was during my sophomore year of university. Before ordering my chai, I asked him, 

"Aapne kitne saalon se chai bana rahe hai. Kuch aur kabhi kyu nahi kiya?" 

("How many years have you been making tea? Why didn't you do anything else?") 

He replied,

"Arrey madam ji, aap isse chai banana kehti hai, hum isse logo ko sukoon ke do pal pohochana kehte hai." 

("Oh madam ji, you call it selling tea, I see it as providing a few moments of tranquillity") 

"Jab meri issi purani dukaan par aakar, voh hee kuhlad vali chai peekar thodi log der theher jaate hai, toh mujhe aise lagta hai ki mera din ban gaya." 

("When people come to my same old shop, drink the same old tea and wait for a little while; I feel like it made my day") 

As I looked at his sunken face, which contrasted with bright button brown eyes, I shifted my gaze to the drink in hand. 

Did it always have elaichi and the soft buttery scent of malai?

I wondered how many cups of perfect tea he had made since he opened his antiquated and run-down shack. I asked him, 

"Aaj tak kitni chai banayi hai aapne?" 

(How many cups of tea have you made till now?) 

"Two thousand, two hundred twenty-two Madam! " he said excitedly in a broken English accent.

 

"Arrey waah Aapko toh english aati hai aur yeh yaad kaise hai?" 

("Oh wow! You know how to speak in English! And, how do you remember this?)

"Haanji thodi bohot bacche sikhate rehte hai aur yaad toh vaise hee reh jaata hai."

("Yes, the kids teach me a little bit of it here and there and I remember things in passing.") 

I finished my kulhad vaali masala chai that day and cherished every sip of it. 

There are times we are so afraid of the future that we fill up our present with agony. 

There are times when we forget to take a look around and see the little but true acts of kindness around us. 

And, there are times that we think with our heads but forget to feel with our hearts.

And almost every time, we forget that the simple solution to all of them is to...just give everything a little bit of time!

Therefore, after taking three full minutes to finish my chai, I took a deep breath and looked at Samar, who had now aged with a bald spot in the middle of his head and a few strands of grey. I threw my first empty cup of tea in the bin outside his cozy little stall and thanked him for his time. 

And I finally realized that after making two thousand two hundred and twenty-two cups of tea, Samar Kumar had not only perfected the art of waiting but perfected the art of living a life!