Devraj Singh at his chai stand in Kalkaji Extension, Delhi

My last day in Delhi. It was hot, the sky gray and oppressive, dust hovering in the dry air. We were finally going to Kalkalji Extension to see if the chai wallah across from the school where I had taught on my Fulbright fellowship three years ago was still there. Zach and I had already experienced disappearing chai wallahs – we would head back to a stand a few weeks after having a great conversation with someone only to find the spot vacant or occupied by a new vendor – and I was worried that my chai wallah, whose name I couldn’t remember, may have moved on to bigger and better things.

As we walked down the unpaved road leading to the spot, memories rushed back. Here was the chole bhature guy, selling plates of sizzling fried bread and chunky chickpeas for only ten rupees (less than 20 cents). There was the row of chicken sellers, leaning on sagging cages overstuffed with filthy birds. The samosa wallah had converted his formerly modest shack to a proper restaurant offering thalis for 25 rupees a pop. Flies hung thick in the air as we continued up the road toward a dumpster surrounded by putrefying garbage. The familiar smell, which on muggy days had wafted up to the classrooms where I wrangled 30-plus hyper kids, indicated that we were near. And then suddenly there it was – set back from the road, a tin roof supported by wooden sticks shading a small table over which my chai wallah stood stirring a pot.

Devraj Singh’s chai stand in Kalkaji Extension, Delhi

I approached him hesitantly, smiling but nervous that he would not remember me. He had been one of the major inspirations, along with the chai walli at Zach’s school, for us returning to India to collect stories from chai wallahs around the country. Dozens of times during the past year, when people had asked us how we had come up with the idea and why we wanted to write about chai wallahs, I would talk about this man. His stand was a place of refuge for me when the school environment – often tense under the ruthless reign of Principal Ma’am, whose approach to running a school terrified me and the students – got to be too much. The other American teacher and I would sneak out of the school midday for chai and egg sandwiches, much to the dismay of the Indian teachers, who ate homecooked lunches tightly packed in tiffins and would never have dared to eat such “unhygienic outside food.” But for me, those greasy, spicy sandwiches and thick milky chai were salvation, and the chai wallah was the one delivering it. We didn’t have conversations with each other – my Hindi wasn’t great, and he must have thought us odd to visit his stall so often. His regular customers were all men, mostly laborers from the surrounding industrial area. When the school year ended and I said goodbye to him, handing him a picture of me along with a Hawaii calendar that I had brought from home months before, I teared up. I felt silly knowing that to him, I was probably just another customer, but I wished I had taken the time to find out the story of the man behind the kettle who had come to mean so much to me. That’s why we had come back this time.

We ducked under the black tarp covering the chai stand and I half-smiled at the chai wallah. He met my questioning eyes over the bubbling pot on the stove and grinned in recognition. “Oh, you have come back after so long?” he said simply. “Ji ji ji!” I exclaimed, relieved that he remembered me. “Chai?” he asked. “Haanji. Two,” I said, pulling up the bench for me and Zach to sit on. Zach asked his name. “Aap ka nam kya hai?” The chai wallah looked at me expectantly and realized I didn’t know. “D.R. Singh. Devraj.” He waved over the teenage boy who had been watching our exchange and told him to make us chai and an egg sandwich.

Satyam serves chai while Devraj looks on.

The boy, who we found out was his nephew Satyam, was a new addition to the business. So was the man who had set up shop on a wooden table in the back corner of Devraj’s stand, frying pakoras and rolling out dough for samosas. But otherwise, things were the same. Loaves of white bread leaned against the old mustard oil tin shielding the stove from wind and stacks of oily bread pakoras loomed over packets of Parle G biscuits strewn over the wooden table. The chai was just as delicious as I had remembered – thick, milky, and the perfect sweetness – and the egg sandwich too.

In between sips and bites, we told Devraj about our project documenting chai wallahs around India and how he had been part of it from the start. He told us about his life, filling in the gaps I had always wondered about. His was a story of migration and hard work, like so many others we had heard. Born in a village near Allahabad, Uttar Pradesh, Devraj came to Delhi 40 years ago, leaving his family behind to find work in the capital. His first job was as a painter. “White wash,” he said. Once he had saved enough money, he opened the tea stall right outside his home. We could see the house from where we sat – a two-room cement box painted lavender, the roof made of corrugated tin and tarp. Inside, his wife chopped vegetables for the midday meal Devraj sold to the construction workers across the street, who were busy clearing land for a new housing project by the Delhi Development Authority.

I asked him about his children, recalling that he had a daughter attending the school where I had taught. “My daughter is married! She lives in Faizabad,” he said. “But I thought she was in third grade when I was here, “ I responded, confused. “No, that is my son. My daughter is older. 26 years. Her name is Resham,” Devraj smiled.

I stared at him in disbelief. How had I never known that his daughter shared my name, my age? In all our travels, Zach and I had met plenty of Reshmas and Reshmis, but no other Reshams. Yet there had been another Resham on our journey all along. It was a twist to the story we had shared so many times to explain the motivation behind Chai Wallahs of India, and it made clear that the question we had set out with – who are the people behind the cups? – was one worth answering.

We drained the last drops from our glasses, the taste transporting me back three years to when chai was just a drink and Devraj had been simply a smiling face behind his kettle. It was the perfect cup of chai to have as my last before leaving for the United States the next morning, and finally knowing the story behind the chai wallah who had started it all made it even sweeter.

Devraj and Resham meet again

The post The Sweetest Cup: Coming Full Circle in Delhi appeared first on Chai Wallahs of India.

We hope you will join us tomorrow, Tuesday, February 25 for a presentation on India’s chai wallahs to open an exhibit of our photographs of tea vendors from around the country.

The American Center will feature a gallery of our photographs through March 7. We hope you can make it to the talk tomorrow, for some free chai and stimulating conversation.

What: Resham Gellatly and Zach Marks present their research on tea vendors from around India

When: Tuesday, February 25
5:30 pm: Tea
6:00 pm: Inaugural and presentation

Where: American Center, 24 Kasturba Gandhi Marg, New Delhi (near Rajiv Chowk and Barakhamba Road Metro stations)

Seats are limited and available on a first come, first served basis.

Please carry a valid photo identity card to enter the American Center.

Mobile phones and laptops are allowed in the American Center. However, photography is prohibited.

All visitors may be featured in photos or video to be used for promotional purposes or on social media by the American Center or U.S. Embassy.

The American Center does not provide public parking on its premises.

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F.R.R.O.

When strung together, these four letters strike fear into every foreigner who enters India. Dengue and diarrhea have nothing on the Foreigners Regional Registration Office.

Within 14 days of entering India, all foreigners staying in India longer than six months must crawl through the bureaucratic bowels of the Ministry of Home Affairs to have their passports inked with a string of characters.

While you wait for your number to be called, civil servants sit at their desks, palms clasped, elbows on tables, looking at you with frustration. Their eyes say, “Why have you made me come here? Hurry up and get over with this.” Those were our thoughts exactly, but now we’ve been forced into an identity crisis and we begin to wonder, “Is it our fault we’re all waiting here?”

Look around and you will see approximately 20 officials sitting in such a manner. You may wonder what their roles are and why so many are necessary. Over the course of your stay at the F.R.R.O. you will come to learn their primary role is to shuttle you to the next officer and in so doing give you the chance to meet each of them. We like to think it is a socialization ritual – a great way for foreigners to meet more Indians.

Of course these interactions rarely go beyond the Asst. Supervisor sending you to see the In Charge who will then send you to Counter No. 3 where you will begin the cycle again. Unless there is a special ingredient present in the F.R.R.O. – chai.

We were being shuttled around as we challenged our fine of 4,020 rupees for registering on our 14th day in the country – foreigners must register within 14 days. Then it surfaced that we were in India researching chai wallahs – the people who make, sell and deliver chai and are a constant presence throughout the country. Suddenly the cycle of shuttling stopped.

At Counter No. 3, a young officer named Poonam gave us a lead: “Researching chai wallahs? Even here you will find a chai wallah. His name is Shiv.” She began to wax on the merits of ghar ki chai, made at home with less milk and sugar, versus chai wallah ki chai. “I think the chai wallahs get that special taste because they’re using that same pot all day, brewing and re-brewing.”

Suddenly, other officers grew interested in our research and the cycle of shuttling began again – this time so everyone got a chance to weigh in with their thoughts on chai wallahs. The officers at the front who had sent us away to get a new stamped letter when we first came to the F.R.R.O. several days earlier now embraced us and poured a cup of rich, sugary tea from the thermos their chai wallah had dropped off. “Nice, na?” our host beamed, raising his eyebrows. We vigorously wobbled our heads from side to side in affirmation.

As we sipped chai, something magical happened. The Bureau of Immigration computer system, which officers had minutes earlier told us would not allow them to waive our fines, suddenly found a way to let us off the hook. It was as if the chai had seeped into the system and said, “To hell with all this paperwork and inflexible rules – they’re all just vestiges of the British Raj. If we’re going to keep one thing from colonialism, let it be tea!”

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My inspiration for writing about chai wallahs is a 5-foot tall Nepali woman who brightened every day for me during the year I taught English at Nav Yug School Peshwa Road on a Fulbright Fellowship.

The students made me laugh. The teachers made me fat. But it was Jhumka Auntie who made me feel at home and kept me going each day with her warm smile and warm adrak chai.

I returned to Nav Yug School to relearn the words to Jana Gana Mana and Vande Mataram, and to brush up on my Nepali while Jhumka prepared chai.

As she boiled water, she recounted her personal story. Jhumka was born in a village near Pokhara, a peaceful town on a lake at the base of three of the world’s ten highest mountains. Twenty-nine years ago she came to Delhi with her husband who had found a job at the Parliament House. She worked as a domestic in the home of S.B. Chavan, who served as Home Minister in the governments of Rajiv Gandhi and Narasimha Rao. When Chavan died, his son Ashok, who was Maharashtra’s Chief Minister until removed amid a corruption scam, found Jhumka a job at Nav Yug.

Hired as an aide to help supervise small children, her responsibilities quickly expanded to include making and delivering chai to teachers. They pool money for Jhumka to buy ingredients and give her tips to supplement her salary. “Teachers are addicted to tea,” she explained.

She splits duties as school chai walli with Anandi, who came to this school with the principal when she transferred from another Nav Yug branch. “We use different recipes for different people. Madam ko chini kam pasand hai.” The principal takes less sugar.

As Jhumka tosses tea into her pot, students pile at her door to place orders for their teachers, listing the classrooms where Jhumka’s services are needed.

Some teachers can’t wait for her to make her rounds. Lured by the sounds and smells of smashed ginger, Negi Ma’am, who teaches high school English, enters Jhumka’s kitchen. “This is my break period and I have a lot to do, but I can’t do any of it until I have tea,” Negi says. “If I’m tired I have tea. If I’m hungry I have tea. For every problem, our solution is tea. And for this solution we need Jhumka. We handle the students’ problems. Jhumka handles our problems.”

Jhumka pours a cup and hands it to Negi. She takes a sip. “Jhumka is the lifeline of our school.”

Jhumka Auntie’s Adrak ki Chai (Ginger Tea)

Serves ~8 small cups from Jhumka’s thermos

Ingredients:

3 cups water

1.5 cups milk

4 teaspoons black tea

6 teaspoons sugar

1 inch piece of ginger

Instructions:

Bring water to rolling boil. Add tea and ginger. Cover and steep for 10 minutes. Add sugar and milk. Put mixture on highest heat. Just as it is about to boil over, stir. Repeat three times. Reduce heat and let sit for a minute. Pour through strainer and serve in cups to teachers in kitchen or bring thermos around to classrooms and provide a welcome interruption to lessons.

The post Back to School: Returning to My Favorite Chai Walli appeared first on Chai Wallahs of India.

After ambling through Old Delhi’s labyrinthine alleys, we came upon a small crowd gathered around a young man making tea in a hole-in-the-wall. The term hole-in-the-wall is used liberally in the United States – often to describe small places off the beaten path. This man was literally making tea in a hole in the wall. In a nook of crumbling concrete, he had constructed a cabinet in which to make chai, and by doing so, had constructed a community. As he tossed sugar and tea into a pot of boiling milk, five men gathered just as they have in this same spot for as many years as they can remember.

“I come here four times a day,” said Bitu, a tailor who climbs down from his shop above the stall. “Chai ke bina meri ankhon nahi khulte. Daru ke bina ankhon band nahi hote.” Without chai, my eyes won’t open. Without alcohol, my eyes won’t close!

As we chatted about Old Delhi’s layered history, Ajay Verma pointed out the obvious. “This area is very old.” To prove his point, he took us to see a building that had recently fallen down roughly a hundred years after its construction.

But the tour was just beginning. From the building, we wound our way past Ajay’s friends making meethai behind a sweet shop. Past the famous Gali Paranthe Wali, where the same shops have been flipping paranthas since the 1870s. Past a crouched old man chiseling away at a grindstone in a grain store. Past the childhood home of Bollywood superstar Akshay Kumar and the temple where he used to perform puja in front of 200-year old murtis of Ganesh and Hanuman. Past cracked doors providing peeks into havelis where children laughed and pigeons flapped in open courtyards. And, of course, past chai wallah after chai wallah where similar groups of men gathered, each with their own version of Old Delhi’s history, their own experience of its narrow lanes and their own favorite cup of chai.

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The Free Souls Rider motorcycle club

Few people have visited more chai wallahs in India than the members of the Free Souls Rider motorcycle club. The Delhi-based group consists of 900 bikers who ride by the motto: “Biking is the way to nirvana. We live to ride longer and ride longer to live longer.” Their Harleys and Hondas have covered the country, recently completing the Himachal circuit with its hairpin turns through the Himalayas.

Of course the journeys would not be possible without chai. “We stop for chai every hundred kilometers,” said Ved Prakash, one of the group’s administrators. “It keeps us going and gives our butts a rest.”

We caught up with other members of the group at their regular Sunday meet up at a Subhash Sethi’s dhaba cum chai stand in Delhi’s Qutub Institutional Area. The riders have been coming to Sethi’s since the club was founded in 2011 and the dhaba serves as a de facto club headquarters.

Subhash Sethi’s dhaba, Qutub Institutional Area, Delhi.

“Chai wallahs are our life line in our journeys,” said biker Hitesh Mohan Agarwal. “I have been to three different corners of India and have taken tea in all directions. Whenever you do such journeys and have tea at various places you indulge in the chai wallah’s life. It’s not just a tea. You give him things to cherish and vice versa. On a recent expedition, the last tea shop had never seen a motorbike. A kilometer-long ride on my bike was like a journey inside heaven for him.”

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It’s a pretty common sight at Connaught Place in the heart of New Delhi – western tourists warily walking, bags clutched tightly to their chest, trying to speed past beggars and touts. Shouts of “Which country? Which country?” and “Come look my shop” fill the halls of C.P., as the complex is known, a magnificent circle of commerce built in 1933 to replicate the Royal Crescent of Bath, England.

When a young man offered us some unsolicited advice about a closed bank then began asking where we were from, we nearly ended the conversation there as we had with so many strangers who had approached us. But we had a question for him. Where could we find a chai wallah in Connaught Place?

“Chai wallahs?” the young man Rakesh asked. “Chai wallahs are not allowed here anymore. Only branded stores.” He suggested we visit one of the many Café Coffee Days – we had passed three in our short stroll from the metro already – or the recently opened Starbucks. But we wanted chai. He professed to be a tea lover himself and suggested we buy some loose tea to make if we were going to be staying in India for a while.

When we explained we were researching chai wallahs, he realized he had just the place in mind. He led us through back alleys into the innards of C.P., past stray dogs and open electrical boxes with wires hanging. The British had designed Connaught Place in the regal Georgian style as a modern marketplace, its shops neatly organized for customers to stroll by. But their architecture could not suppress the Indian entrepreneurial spirit from turning the shaded back alleys of C.P. into places of commerce themselves, as merchants set up little aluminum stalls from which to sell beedi cigarettes, tobacco packets and paan. Turning past corner after corner, we came upon a beautiful open space with a large banyan tree under which sat a bustling chai stand.

The stand was covered by a tin roof jutting out of the adjacent building. Customers chatted at a table in front of a man boiling chai and another frying samosas. Clotheslines had been strung from the balconies above to the banyan tree. Kurtas and churidars hung from the line, blowing in the wind above our heads.

“Teen chai bana do.” Rakesh ordered three cups and pulled up stools for us to sit. He was still a bit perplexed by our project and asked why we found chai a topic worth researching. Before we could respond, he answered the question for us. “In India, there are too many varieties of tea. You must go Rajasthan – there you will find chai made with camel milk. In Punjab you get rich buffalo milk chai. There is also the Kashmiri kahwa, which is really very nice.”

Our tea arrived – three little glasses, each the height of a finger, containing a double espresso shot’s worth of sugary chai. We continued talking, now less about tea and more about life. Rakesh had come to Delhi from Khajuraho, a town famous for its temples with erotic carvings depicting detailed scenes from the Kama Sutra. He was from a farming family, but did not want to be a farmer. “This new generation – we don’t want to work hard like our elders.” He said this while pointing to an old man nearby hammering away at piece of drywall.

He has struggled to find work in Delhi.  ”There are no good jobs. All the easy jobs don’t pay and all the jobs that pay are too hard. So now, what am I to do?” He drives an auto rickshaw at night, which provides some pocket money and lets him meet lots of interesting people. “Old, young, drunks. It’s interesting but it’s not great work.”

“In life you have to work but you also have to enjoy,” he said. “On Sundays we play cricket and watch films.” He invited us to join him and we exchanged numbers. Rakesh may not have seen what was so special about chai at first, but over just a cup of tea a new friend had been made.

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