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

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Amid the traffic of rickshaws, motor scooters, market-goers and a small herd of water buffalo being led down the road, we discovered the popular Pappu chai stall. Early in the day, it is a gathering place for elder intellectual types who read the newspaper, debate political issues and get their morning dose. After hours, it becomes a quiet hangout for bhang (edible marijuana) users. Locals told us the chai stand had been there for 80 or 100 years.

We sat down outside on a low concrete wall next to Ashu, a regular customer and owner of Shiva Rooftop Restaurant down the street. Over the noise of horns and bicycle bells, we asked him what made Pappu chai so special. “Because it is hygienic,” he told us. “They clean the gilaas [Hindi for glass] every time by the hot water. It is unique way. You will never see like this one.” It was true. In all our time in India, we had never witnessed soap or hot water being used to clean glasses or any chai-making implement. We observed as a young boy first rinsed the glasses in reused cold water like other chai stalls, then gave them a thorough cleansing with hot water that was boiled on an open coal fire. The health of chai drinkers across India would surely benefit from this trademark disinfecting procedure.

Manoj operated his chai stall with great precision and speed. A third-generation chai wallah, he employed an unconventional chai-making technique handed down from his grandfather. Instead of making a pot of chai, each glass was prepared individually in assembly-line fashion. First, he carefully calculated the number of glasses to be made by a count of seated customers, expected regulars and estimated drop-ins. The glasses were grouped together into three parallel rows, and a spoonful of sugar was put in the bottom of each glass. Manoj ladled hot milk on top of the sugar, then measured the tea by hand into a tea “sock,” with tea carefully added or taken out to suit the number of glasses being made. Boiling water was then slowly poured over the tea until it was fully saturated and the tea water started to come through. When the flowing tea had a rich, dark-brown color, it was quickly passed over the glasses with one hand while hot water was poured from the kettle with the other hand. He first moved the filtered tea lengthwise over the line of glasses, then back and forth. A little more tea was added, then again across the glasses. Unlike other stalls, the chai at Pappu’s is made from “new tea every time — not boiling again and again,” Ashu told us.

We learned that Manoj prepares about 700-800 glasses of chai per day from five in the morning until ten at night. We asked Ashu, “How much per glass?”

He answered, “two rupees,” and before I could do the dollar conversion of multiply, take off the zero and divide by four, the chai wallah started laughing and talking to us in Hindi. Ashu explained, “There are many customers that come every day and they are friends and take chai free. Many one is coming here and many crowd and he’ll give you chai and [snaps fingers] “chalo” [meaning “let’s go!”] — not paying the money. But they’re not caring about these things because they’re very much very good fellows.”

Finally, Manoj stirred each glass vigorously, with the rhythm and calm fervor of a classical Indian drummer. The “clink-clanking” of the metal spoon against glass was like a dinner bell to the customers. In the madness of anxious hands grabbing for their glasses of chai, Manoj handed us ours.

It was dark, bold and on the edge of being too bitter. I liked it. Even though the tea was not steeped or boiled like most, it bore a distinctive strong tea flavor that provided quite a wake-up. We attempted to give Manoj four rupees for our chais, but he just shook his head and smiled.

Jenny Kostecki-Shaw and Patrick Shaw enjoying chai in kulhars, traditional clay cups popular in Varanasi.

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Indian opposition leader Narendra Modi had a brief stint as a chai wallah at his father’s tea stall before becoming Chief Minister of Gujarat.

In October, the BJP began a campaign in which chai wallahs branded their businesses as NaMo Tea Stalls, distributing promotional materials and money for chai wallahs to improve their stalls in exchange for their public endorsement. (Modi is often referred to as NaMo, the Hindi abbreviation for his name.) After an errant comment by Mani Shankar Aiyar, a prominent politician from the ruling Congress party, that Modi would be welcome to serve him chai but could never become prime minister, the BJP has brewed up a new storm of chai-related campaigning.

Members of the crowd at the first Chai Pe Charcha with NaMo in Ahmedabad, Gujarat on Feb. 12, 2014.

Yesterday marked the launch of Chai Pe Charcha, a series of events in which Modi will visit chai stands and answer questions from audiences gathered at tea stalls around the country via webcast. It seems to be a wise campaign tactic. Chai Pe Charcha, which means “discussion over tea” in Hindi, not only allows Modi to remind voters of his humble roots as a chai wallah; it enables him to connect with voters in a place where politics is most often discussed – the tea stall. Indeed, many say the communist movements of Kerala and West Bengal began in tea shops, and when Indian political commentators want to gauge public opinion, they are more likely to head to a local chai stand than consult poll figures. Tea stalls are particularly important in Gujarat, a “dry state” since its inception in 1960 in honor of its native son Mahatma Gandhi. With no bars to go to, most Ahmedabadis head to tea stalls to socialize until the wee hours of the morning – or until cops shut down the party – over cups of milky chai, cigarettes and Gujarati snacks like gathiya, deep fried strips of spiced gram flour dough served with zesty chili-mint chutney and tangy raw papaya slaw.

Gathiya, a typical deep-fried Gujarati snack, served with chilis, mint chutney and raw papaya slaw.

In a city with hundreds of iconic kitlis – literally ‘kettle’ in Gujarati, as tea shops are known here – local BJP workers were spoilt for choice of where to launch the Chai Pe Charcha. They chose one of our favorites, Iscon Ganthiya on S.G. Highway, which we had visited the night before to meet its owner, Mandeep Patel. Mandeep, 28, arrived in Ahmedabad seven years ago from Upleta, a small town about 320 km southwest of here, with ambition, work ethic and not much else. He had worked as a farmer for five years after completing 10^th grade and heard there was money to be made in Gujarat’s largest city, which has seen significant economic development in the past decade. He taught himself to make gathiya and set up a roadside stand in Ahmedabad’s upscale Satellite area; after a year he began serving chai as well. “In the beginning I had to struggle,” Mandeep said as customers swirled about his store on Tuesday around midnight. “For two years, it was just me and a cart. It was hard in the rain and in the winter. But slowly my name got out. I went from one customer to ten customers, then ten to twenty, then twenty to 100. I earned enough to be stable, and then saved enough to rent this space,” he said, pointing to the large storefront, which has three main preparation stations – gathiya, chai and maskabun, fluffy buns slathered with creamy butter and other toppings from chili-garlic chutney and peanuts to Nutella and cheese.

Iscon Ganthiya is a popular kitli, or tea stall, in Ahmedabad, Gujarat, where locals gather all hours of the night.

It was in front of the chai station that Modi sat for three hours yesterday answering questions as citizens tuned in from reportedly 1,000 tea stalls across 300 cities. He kicked off the event by recalling his brief stint as a chai wallah. “I learned a lot when I was selling tea. I got an opportunity to interact with a lot of people. I used to listen to the people while they were discussing issues. It was a special experience,” Modi said, taking a sip of Iscon Ganthiya’s trademark rich cardamom chai. “In our country, a tea stall serves as a means of livelihood for the poorest of the poor. In a way, a tea stall serves as a footpath Parliament. While sipping a cup of tea, we always discuss a variety of issues, whether they are local, regional, national or international.”

Narendra Modi discussed a range of policy issues with citizens gathered at tea stalls across India during the first Chai Pe Charcha on Feb. 12, 2014.

Over the course of the discussion, Modi touched on topics from recovering “black money” deposited by Indians in foreign bank accounts to combating terrorism to improving transportation infrastructure. But Mandeep seemed too starstruck – or perhaps exhausted from being ordered by the BJP advance team – to have noticed the finer policy points of Modi’s speech. “Ek dum fine,” Mandeep responded when we asked him his thoughts on the event. Completely fine.

Iscon Ganthiya owner Mandeep Patel presented Narendra Modi with a garland of flowers in addition to cups of tea at the Chai Pe Charcha in Ahmedabad, Gujarat on Feb. 12, 2014.

Why did Modi choose Iscon Ganthiya as the first stop on his Chai Pe Charcha tour? “It must be destiny,” Mandeep said. Another observer suggested it was likely due to the tea stall’s location across the road from the posh Karnavati Club, of which Modi’s longtime friend Girish Dani is secretary. We prefer to think it was because of the chai. Indeed, Modi did compliment Mandeep on the tea. “Modi Ji drank three glasses of chai and said it was very good. Now everyone in Ahmedabad will know about our chai.” This could help with Mandeep’s expansion plans. He recently opened a second branch in Vastrapur and hopes to have 10 to 12 stores in the next three years. Iscon Ganthiya’s success has enabled Mandeep to hire nine employees from his village, paying each a monthly salary of 10,000-15,000 rupees (about $165-$250). One of those employees is Rajesh Giri Meghnathi, the chai wallah who made the tea served to Modi. “I feel very proud,” Rajesh said, parading a huge smile and asking friends to take his photograph. “This is a happy day.” “The happiest in your life?” we asked. “Probably until my marriage.”

Rajesh Giri Meghnathi, the chai wallah who made the tea served to Modi, was in the background (left) for the Chai Pe Charcha, while Modi and the chai were in the foreground.

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I was a heavy coffee drinker during the four years I spent in the United States completing my undergraduate studies. My tryst with tea began only upon moving back to Delhi after I graduated. At first it was the elaichi-flavoured Tetley tea bags, which were quick and easy to make at home. Soon my mornings felt incomplete without a steaming hot cup of the strong beige liquid.

I am accustomed to drinking my chai without sugar – the same way I would drink coffee – how else do you enjoy the real flavour? But unsweetened chai is a bit of an anomaly in India. The first time I asked for chai without sugar at the tea-stall outside my office in Delhi, the chai wallah responded, “pheekee chai?” which literally translates to “bland tea?” – and thus I was outcast as a pheekee chai drinker, but a chai drinker nonetheless!

Saanya (right) and her friend Deepa enjoying chai in Amritsar.

 

Chai breaks are an infamous part of the work culture I was exposed to in Delhi. A simple test I devised to determine whether you’re a chai glutton is when your chai wallah starts to give you store credit – because he knows that you will be back the next day, if not within the next few hours! Needless to say, I pass this test. On seeing me walk down, the shopkeeper would yell out to the chai wallah “ek pheekee chai!”  (“one bland tea!”)

To understand just how important chai is to the work culture I was part of, I turn to my favourite joke about the Brazilian bureaucracy:

Two lions escape from a zoo and take different paths; one goes to a wooded park and is apprehended as a soon as he gets hungry and eats a passerby. The second remains at large for months. Finally captured, he returns to the zoo sleek and fat. His companion inquires with great interest, “where did you find such a great hiding place?” “In one of the ministries” is the successful escapee’s answer. “Every three days I ate a bureaucrat and not one noticed.” “So how did you get caught?” “I ate the man who served coffee for the morning break,” comes the sad reply.

This example is apt for India, if you replace coffee with chai. I worked with a Member of Parliament in Delhi for a year, during the course of which I met several bureaucrats and government officials. Every meeting began with the customary offering of chai. We slowly sipped on the sweet milky goodness, while exchanging pleasantries. Chai is the desi way of ‘breaking the ice’ when you meet someone for the first time. You easily avoid the awkward silence by staring down into the swirling beige liquid, alternating between small sips and occasional glances at the person across from you. Soon I mastered the art of drinking chai in official settings.

I also learnt early on to never say ‘no’ when offered chai in such official settings. My first such disastrous mistake resulted in standoffish behaviour from the staff of the official that I was to meet. The next time I visited, I made sure to accept the chai offer, and sure enough, I was chided for having previously refused! Luckily for me, social norm dictates that one chai acceptance neutralises a previous chai refusal. After many chai acceptances, I am now on good terms with the staff at that office.

Chai has also been an integral part of my travels across India – if you are wary of drinking non-bottled water from obscure looking roadside stalls, opt for the chai. I am convinced that the over boiling of the liquid kills any infection or bacteria. This justifies the copious cups of chai I have consumed while waiting at stations, bus stops, and pretty much at any roadside. From Punjab, Rajasthan, Himachal Pradesh, Gujarat, Uttar Pradesh and Jammu, the chai culture prevails in most of the northern lands I ventured to. Waiting for the parade to begin at the Wagah Border in Amritsar, sitting across the Hameersar Lake in Bhuj with Gujarati folk music in the background, being woken up at an unearthly hour on a bus journey somewhere between Manali and Jammu, there are several memories that involve a cup of chai. Clearly, there is something indescribable about the goodness of garma-garam chai.

Counting the change in my wallet before boarding a train last week, I lamented to my friend, “I have only 20 Rupees. Just one cup of chai for each of us!” to which she responds, “I have 20 Rupees as well. Two cups each, we’re covered.” After all, what better sustenance for an eighteen-hour train journey.

 

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Tondalaya sips chai in Orchha, Madhya Pradesh.

I was a Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV) in India. I also returned for my marriage to a former PCV who was directing a PCV training program at Punjab Agricultural University in Ludhiana, Punjab. I accompanied him on a week’s programing tour along with his language instructor. We made one of our many tea stops at this little roadside makeshift spot which consisted of no more than three charpoys (rope beds) and some rocks piked up to hold the fire to boil the tea. There were a few men squatting around drinking chai and an old old chap sleeping on one of the charpoys. He was snoring away, but undoubtedly heard English being spoken. He rose up, looked at us, and in a loud voice wanted to know why we killed Kennedy, rolled over and went back to snoring!

 

Tondalaya and Ron’s wedding in Delhi, 1971.

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Balwan Singh Negi, who goes by the name Bahadur, has been serving chai on Bollywood sets for the past 40 years.

From behind the scenes, Bollywood’s spot boys keep the industry going. They move equipment on set, keep gawking crowds out of shots, perform odd jobs as needed, and of course, make and serve the chai that gives actors the boost they need to film the same scenes over and over.

When we told security we had come to see Mr. Negi, known affectionately as Bahadur, a guard replied, “Oh, that is a very senior man you have come to see!” We were whisked past Kareena’s entourage and beyond a table with a thermos labeled “VIP Tea,” to the side of a film prop warehouse where Bahadur was stirring a pot of boiling milk.

“Yes, you have come to see me so let me tell you everything,” the 62-year-old Bahadur said, bubbling with energy. “I make tea for all the isstars. Some want black tea. Some want ginger. But, my dear, most want my masala chai. The VIPs come here and say, ‘We need our special chai’ so I put some in this ‘VIP’ flask, but I will tell you a secret – it is the same chai, just with a little less sugar. You know, my dear, everyone is on a diet today. All the high-class artists want green tea these days.”

We had heard as much. At a recent movie shoot in Dharavi, reportedly Asia’s largest slum, Chhotu, the set chai wallah, told us masala chai is going out of fashion in Bollywood. The shift is being led by the largest legend in the industry, Amitabh Bachchan. “I just bring Amitabh Ji hot water, then he makes green tea in his trailer,” Chhotu said.

The green tea trend is evident the morning we visit Bahadur in Film City. The advertisement being filmed with Kareena Kapoor Khan is for Tata Tetley’s Green Tea brand.

Kareena Kapoor Khan on the set of her ad for Tata Tetley Green Tea.

Bahadur’s story may sound familiar to aspiring American actors who come to make it in Hollywood only to find themselves waiting tables. He left his village in Uttaranchal in 1971 at the age of 20 and came to Mumbai with dreams of silver screen success. “I loved films for the art,” he said. “I didn’t want to be a hero. I just wanted to act.”

A spot boy taking a break next to Bahadur suggests he could try out for a role as a mama, an elderly uncle figure. “He can do it. He’s a rock star!” shouts another.

But Bahadur says the passion is gone. “Junoon katam ho gaya. I love the job I have.”

After three years without landing any roles on screen, Bahadur found work as a spot boy on Jai Santoshi Maa, a low-budget film that became one of Bollywood’s biggest blockbusters. In 1980, he met a young director named Subhash Ghai and worked on one of his first films, Karz, about an unjustly murdered man who is reincarnated and wreaks vengeance. The film became a hit and Ghai’s career took off. Bahadur has been with him every step of the way, working on Ghai’s sets throughout India and around the world. “I have worked on films in Africa, London, New Zealand, Bangkok, Indonesia, Singapore, everywhere,” he says, showing off the stamps in his passport. “But everywhere I go I make Indian isstyle tea.”

Ghai said Bahadur brings an uncanny positive energy to the set. “He’s been with me more than 30 years now and he hasn’t slowed down a bit.” Indeed, it is hard to keep up with Bahadur as he rushes around the set, bringing cups of tea to production assistants one minute, putting away a spotlight the next.

“My nickname is Superfast,” he says, beckoning us to hasten our pace. “When I arrived in Bombay, I had so much energy. I would stay in Santacruz and walk everyday to the production offices in Churchgate [about 20 kilometers].”

After the Kareena Kapoor Khan ad shoot ends, Bahadur sets up for the afternoon. Subhash Ghai is filming a few final scenes for his forthcoming Kaanchi, starring Rishi Kapoor, Kartik Tiwari and up-and-coming Bengali actress Mishti.

We trailed Bahadur as he kept the crew caffeinated between shots. At one point Ghai stood on set, scratching his head. Something was missing. Apparently it was us. He called us over and asked if we would like to be in a scene. Of course we would. A line producer handed Zach a guitar and instructed him to play. Rishi Kapoor put his arm around Resham, said a few words on a cell phone as he stroked her hair, then put his face close to hers as Ghai’s voice boomed, “And scene!” It all had the makings of movie magic.

Zach Marks and Resham Gellatly on the set of ‘Kaanchi’ with director Subhash Ghai.

We were high on our 15 minutes of Bollywood fame. But for Bahadur, it was just another day on the job. “It used to be very exciting, the movie making process, but now it is nothing special. I don’t even recognize the faces anymore. Ranbir Kapoor, Rishi Kapoor, Kareena Kapoor, Karisma Kapoor, whichever Kapoor, it does not matter,” he said, rattling off names of one of Bollywood’s most prominent families. “I am doing my job, they are doing their job. Sometimes I don’t even know the name of the picture I am working on.”

Bahadur waxes philosophical about stardom and the evolving nature of the industry. “The famous actors and actresses are all nice. The problem is they have to work all day and all night and it makes them unhappy and upset. That gets misconstrued in the press as them being snobby or arrogant, but that’s not it. They are just under a lot of stress.” He suggests celebrities are not really happy. “How can they be? There is too much pressure today. It is a reflection of society. Everywhere in the world people are working so hard and life has become so stressful.”

Actor Rishi Kapoor checks his hair on the set of ‘Kaanchi’ in Mumbai’s Film City.

Bahadur says he is content not to be one of these stressed stars. But he clearly still has a love for the camera. When we ask to film him serving chai, he perks up and snaps into action. He rushes to a spot boy taking a break and theatrically thrusts a cup of tea and a biscuit at him. The spot boy protests that he has already eaten and does not want the biscuit. “Just take it!” Bahadur yells, drawing laughs from the crowd that has gathered.

A few yards away, Kareena Kapoor Khan stands alone waiting for filming to resume. In the meantime, Bahadur has stolen the show.

The post Bollywood Chai: Behind the Scenes with a Legend appeared first on Chai Wallahs of India.

If you’ve ever thrown a dinner party, you know cooking for guests can be a logistical challenge. Imagine cooking for 500,000. That is the task faced by the volunteer chefs and chai wallahs at Amritsar’s Golden Temple, the Sikh religion’s holiest site, on Guru Nanak Jayanti, which celebrates the birth of Sikhism’s founder.

The langar, or community kitchen, at the Golden Temple serves free food to anyone who visits the glimmering shrine, from pilgrims to tourists to locals in need of a hot meal. On on average weekday, about 80,000 people eat in the langar; on weekends, close to double that figure. But on Guru Nanak Jayanti, an estimated half million diners descend on the langar.

Every 15 minutes, a new group of diners enters one of the langar’s vast halls. They take a seat on one of the mats laid out in neat rows and watch as their steel thalis are loaded up with dal, vegetables and rotis by one of the many volunteers constantly marching down the aisles looking for plates to refill. After eating their fill, diners toss their plates and bowls at metal shield-wielding volunteers who deflect them into buckets bound for washing.

It is a well orchestrated process from the frying of the first cumin seed to the washing of the last spoon. Perhaps the most celebrated cogs in the langar’s wheel are the roti machines, which buzz every day turning 12 tons of atta flour into roughly a quarter million perfectly round flatbreads the size of small frisbees. Custom-built for the langar, these humming hunks of steel are contraptions that would make Rube Goldberg proud, taking the flour on a transformative journey through a mixer, a roller, and down a ten-yard conveyor belt of fire before popping out as a piping hot piece of bread.

But it is the volunteer chefs who embody the spirit of the Golden Temple. Volunteers come from all castes and communities to perform seva, or service, in a kitchen the size of an airport hangar, where massive cauldrons bubble with lentils and onions are stacked eye-high in mini-mountains.

Sukhpreet Singh, 20, a computer science student from Amritsar, has been doing seva at the Golden Temple since childhood when he would pour water for diners alongside his father. After he turned 18, he started coming on his own every Saturday evening from 7 pm til 2 am. His role is now one of the langar’s most important – he is the Golden Temple’s chai wallah.

Sukhpreet is matter-of-fact about the significance of his job. “It’s just as important as making food. Guests come and they want tea. In Punjab, we are friendliest to our guests. Whatever they want we give them.”

Sukhpreet says he does not know how long the Golden Temple has been serving tea, but acknowledges it was likely not served in the 16^th century when Guru Amar Das, the third Sikh guru, institutionalized the langar as an element of every gurdwara, or Sikh temple.

“The Britishers brought tea to India. Before that we drank milk. But now we cannot do without tea.”

Tea is served in an open patio outside the langar where people pour themselves bowls of chai from converted water troughs. They are free to go back for as many refills as they like. Should they need a cup of tea upon coming or going, volunteers hand out steel cups of chai and rusk biscuits in the walkway outside the Golden Temple.

The langar’s manager, Harpreet Singh, said he expected 30,000 cups of tea to be served per hour on Guru Nanak Jayanti. Sukhpreet would have to prepare chai the night before and it would not be a one-man job, so he brought along six friends to work with him.

The seven erstwhile chai wallahs make seven cauldrons of chai – each the size of a hotel hot tub. For each cauldron, they begin by diluting 30 kilograms of dry milk powder in 300 liters of water poured in from what appeared to be a fire hose.

That process takes about 30 minutes, according to Sukhpreet. “You have to pour in the water a little bit at a time, get it hot, mix some milk, then do it again.”

When the milk is ready, two of Sukhpreet’s friends dump in 50 kilograms of sugar from steel tins. An hour later they dump in about two kilograms of CTC tea pellets and half a kilo of a masala mix donated by a local spice merchant containing cinnamon, fennel, ginger, ajwain, and two types of cardamom – big black badi elaichi and small green choti elaichi.

The volunteer chai wallahs let the mixture boil for four hours, occasionally stirring the chai with a spatula reminiscent of a pole used to clean a pool. At the end of the night they will transfer the chai into vessels from which it will be served.

“We are here doing God’s work,” says Sukhpreet as he loads one of the vessels onto a handcart. Proving his point is a passage written above the entrance to the langar from the Sri Guru Granth Sahib, the Sikhs’ holy book: “The Lord Himself He cooks, Himself He places it on the platter, and Himself He eats it too.”

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Fiona’s favorite chai can be found in Jaipur, Rajasthan’s Pink City, famous for jewels, leather, and now chai wallahs!

Sahu Chaiwalla

365 Chaura Rasta (adjacent to the Shah Bldg). Daily 5 am – midnight.

The search for the best chai took some doing, but early one morning I found this small stall, which has been run by the same family for over 40 years. Their chai secret is the slow cooking of the milk on a coal stove and a cup costs a mere R10. Many regulars spend double the cost of the chai to travel here to have their morning cuppa. Stand on the street near the stove or step down into the café, which has a few tables.

Birds in flight, Jaipur, 2011

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This was back in 2008. I was working out of Bangalore, India for a large multinational bank based out of the US. As one would have guessed, my job inevitably required me to work until late in the night almost everyday. We, like several other multinational giants, were stationed in ITPL in Whitefield, one of the best and high-end tech-parks of the Bangalore, the Technology Hub of India.

At the back gate of this ITPL’s campus there were several chai walas selling “cutting chai” for Rs 3 to 5 from their small mobile shops which were called “tapri”. They operated until very late in the night and always served hot “elachi chai” and “adarak chai” in small plastic cups. Many who stepped away from their desks for smoke breaks preferred to enrich those breaks with a cup of cutting chai.

One could find several IT and finance professionals, clad in their formal clothes and suits enjoying their small cup of tea over friendly chats and deep and thoughtful conversations. I used to wonder several times- What makes people frequent these tapri ‘s so often? We get the best Café Coffee Day coffee and tea in our offices and that too for free, then why do we still feel the need to grab a small cup of cutting chai every day?

I think I also knew the answers to my questions very well. These chai breaks helped us switch off our professional brains for a while and get out of our highly intense work zones. Personally, these chai breaks also allowed me to be myself for that brief span of time. I enjoyed going on these breaks alone, lost in my own thoughts and with some time in my hand to observe the life around me. Most importantly, owner of one of the chai tapri’s that I frequented very often recognized me very well and always greeted me with a beaming smile and warm words of welcome. Whenever I have had a really long day or was stressed out, she used to figure that out that just by looking at me and ask,”Kaisa chal raha hai sab kuch, Didi, bahut kaam hai kya? Chai doon?”

Those few warm and caring words and hot chai would brighten my day, instantly!

Pictures from Sonu’s chai stand outside a corporate office complex in Gurgaon, Haryana.

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During winter holidays my family and I would visit our relatives in Gwalior. We would take trips to the city center (“Sudder” street) and have Kashmiri chai. This chai never tasted as good in Singapore where we lived, and I would rarely have it there since it was too hot for the temperate climate. Plus my parents didn’t want me developing a caffeine addiction.

The great thing about the chai wallah we went to was that he was my dad’s primary school friend and would give us “special” treatment. I’d get my chai in a white paper cup with extra pistachios because he knew I enjoyed the added texture. I would sip it very very slowly — savoring it as much as possible. As we drank our chais by the roadside, I would hear stories of my dad when he was my age while he reminisced with his chai wallah buddy.

Shandeep Sharma contemplating chai under the Manhattan Bridge

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