Tea Time

Our guide decided we could handle something a little off the beaten track, so took us down a tiny narrow lane that, despite its emaciated width, carried several lanes of traffic: motorbikes, bicycle rickshaws, motorized tuktuks, small cars, and the odd cow wandering through the melee. Our lovely driver Raj stopped at the edge and guide Nadim, gestured for us to cross, which was easier gestured than done, but we are intrepid Canadians who have lived in London and travelled to Hanoi, so weaving through this craziness was achieved without incident.

There we were introduced to the 3rd generation of masala chai makers, there in a tiny, narrow shop-stall with barely room for someone to walk past between it and the flow of traffic honking past. Tea was ordered, and into the hot milky brown liquid were poured two handfuls of spices, then boiled until foaming over gas jets.

A theatrical pour of 4 feet in length from pan to bowl to be strained, then we were each given a small earthenware receptacle full of tea. Fingers burning, we were told how to hold our cups, before drinking the excellent tea. When asked to throw away our clay cups, we asked if we could keep them instead. Nodding they rushed to give us new replacement cups so that the ones we drank from could be thrown away. I quite wanted to keep the one I drank from, and not waste a new one, but that is apparently not done, as we were guests and to be treated to new, unadulterated cups.

Then another death-defying road crossing back to the car and home in the dusk, another memory added to the lexicon.