A yak walks down a road in front of Himalayan mountain peaks in Ladakh, India.

It was cold in the mountains that September, more so than was usual. There was  rain, and with it mist, that made our progress difficult. We found ourselves stranded. Day 3 of a five-day 100-km race, and we couldn’t go on. Our group of 10 was in a small lodge in Sandakphu, a tiny village on the border of India and Nepal. It had been raining all night, endless streams of water that poured down the mountainside. So when it cleared at 2 pm, without pausing to consider much, we donned our caps and coats and mufflers and our rain gear, and set off running on the trail towards Phalut.

A brief drizzle began, but we ran nonetheless. The mist had cleared and the views of the dark green conifer covered valleys and the mountains were magnificent. Which one was Mt. Makalu, which one was Mt. Lhotse? And in the distance, race director Ram Sethu and guide Pemba Sherpa pointed out, was the highest  mountain in the world Mount Everest.

Running back to the lodge a few hours later, exhausted, breathless at 12,000 feet, we made a stop. Leaving the trail behind, we climbed up, and up. The hut that emerged, on top of the windswept grassy knoll, was a simple one. Outside a little boy ran circles around a yak. Inside was cool and dark. Cooking utensils hung from the ceiling. In the corner was a bed, a fireplace.  Carl, Nancy, Sunita, Priya and I sat inside, while Ram, Pemba and the other guides walked around outside.

“You must have tea,” our village woman host smiled and put a saucepan on the stove. So wonderful was the prospect, that we just smiled happily. We didn’t protest, not even a tiny token,  though it is polite to do so. At least the first time. Instead we watched in fascination and in happy anticipation, as the water in saucepan boiled, with tea leaves and sugar and thick yak milk. The prospect of a cup of tea had never seemed more alluring, even life affirming. When it was ready, glasses of the steaming hot chai were passed around. It was different to any other tea I’ve ever drunk – hot and sweet but also a little salty with the unusual flavour of yak milk.

“Come out,” called Ram, “the clouds have cleared.” So clutching our tea glasses in both hands we each stepped out, onto the mountainside. The sky outside was a rosy pink, and in the distance were revealed the mighty Himalayan peaks. Standing there, drinking in the chai, and the view, I knew for sure, that this was the most wonderful cup of tea I would ever drink.

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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.

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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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Raman Sharma, a graduate of the prestigious and hypercompetitive Indian Institute of Technology, knows this as well as any. Currently a consultant at McKinsey & Company, he took a break from advising clients to share this memory of his favorite campus chai wallah.

Wanted to share a very special chai place which will always be memorable for me and a lot of other people from my campus. I did my undergrad from IIT Kanpur, where there is this small marketplace called ‘MT’ which has a couple of chai shops along with 2-3 paan and cigarette shops, a bike repair shop and a general store. In the middle of the compound is a small temple beside which there is a bit of an open area and a raised platform. The place has been a hub for morning tea and breakfast, cigarette supplies and evening snacks for ages. It’s the first eating place that opens in the morning on the campus and is often the final destination of a long all nighter for all students. At the same time, you’d find a groups of professors enjoying their morning tea after the morning walk. 

The place had such a charm that people even had loyalties to their particular chai shop based on the type of chai they liked. People would come in groups but would get chai from their preferred chai shop. Like a typical chai shop in Uttar Pradesh, the shops also had jalebi with curd, pakodas and namkeen to enjoy with chai. Not to mention the shops entertained credits, which would be cleared once or twice a semester. One would often spend hours debating various topics ranging from curriculum, grades, professors, research topics, hypothetical extreme ideas to politics, elections, music and even some campus gossip over several cups of chai and devotional songs playing in the background.  It’s a one of a kind social hub. 

Recent scenes from Delhi University, where famous chai wallahs are a gathering space for students. The campus plays host to many sorts of wallahs, from bike rickshaw wallahs shuttling students to scale wallahs who weigh them.

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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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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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Reflections from Resham

When I learned in high school psychology class that smell is the most primitive of our five senses – that the nerves are located in the very back of the brain, far removed from the frontal lobe where all our logical decision making takes place – everything made sense. Since I was a child, I’ve always had strong reactions to smells. They’ve transported me to times or places that I had forgotten, taking me out of my current state and temporarily transforming me to a younger version of myself. Stepping off the plane from Delhi today and inhaling the air – somehow humid and full of the smell of burning trash, even though we were still in the enclosed, modern, sterile airport – was one of those moments. My eyes were bleary from 17 hours of travel, my ears were still ringing with the white noise of the airplane’s engine, my mouth was dry from lack of water, and my body felt cramped from being curled into a hard seat for too long, but my nose told me that everything was right, that I was back home.

Of course, my home is Hawaii, not India. That’s where I was born and raised, where I return twice a year from life in New York. But the smell of India screams “Home!” to me as much as the ocean and plumeria scented air of the Honolulu airport does, so I know it to be true.

Things felt odd yet alarmingly familiar at the same time. Driving from the airport to our friends the Advanis’ home, I was struck by just how gnarly Delhi is. It was eerily quiet. There were giant street dogs digging through garbage, rows of falling down shops lining the highway, groups of men walking in the middle of the street with linked pinkies, cars (including ours) casually running red lights, and yellow roofed autos parked haphazardly in front of the metro station. I spent so much time in America trying to explain how India isn’t just what people see in Slumdog Millionaire, that there’s so much more to it, that I’d forgotten those parts of India do exist and that they comprise a large part of Delhi. Seeing the city through fresh eyes made me a bit more sympathetic to the friends who visited our Fulbright cohort and were unable to leave our apartment, overwhelmed and paralyzed by the chaos and unfamiliarity of Delhi.

Yet when we reached the Advanis, stepped inside and hugged Mona, and were promptly seated at the table with plates of rice and palak and dal, it felt like we had never left. The bright yellow kitchen walls were the same, the fish tank with the lone fish was the same (perhaps the fish had grown a little), and the TV playing Indian reality shows was the same – but were we the same? Obviously we weren’t. More than two years had gone by since we last sat in that dining room. Those two years had been filled with experiences that shaped us into different people, experiences that will in some ways inform the research we do.

Yet it was a little scary to feel like we’d gone backwards, reverted to our lives here instead of going somewhere new. As travelers who are intellectually curious and seek out new experiences in earnest, we knew that by going back to India, we’d be missing out on the wonder that comes with living in a new place. But I’ve battled that thought because getting to know India through the lens of chai wallahs will expose us to parts of society that we didn’t think to touch on last time – things that don’t come to mind when you’re busy learning a new language and shopping for saris and delighting in the sight of monkeys eating rosebuds in the monsoon rains.

It’s not that those experiences were worth less. They made me fall in love with India again, differently than I had during my annual visits growing up. And they bonded our group of friends in a very special way, evidenced by how close we remain more than two years after leaving the country and beginning new lives in different states. We have to be careful not to compare this trip to that one, or this trip to what might have been had we chose to live somewhere new instead.

What is certain is that this time, there will be more learning, and likely in a deeper sense, than there was during our last stay. There will also be more anxieties, more hurdles, and more frustration. Nothing is set up for us, and it’s scary. I hesitate to admit it, but part of what made Fulbright so wonderful was how easy it all was. The visa was done for us, our Hindi courses were arranged, our stipend was neatly deposited into our accounts every other month, and we had a built-in group of potential friends to commiserate and celebrate with as we experienced the ups and downs of life in India.

We don’t have those luxuries this time. Our Hindi is rusty, we’re trying to navigate endless social media platforms, we haven’t quite mastered how to use our new camera, and of course, we’ve never written a book before. But something brought us this far, and it wasn’t a coincidence or a mistake. We have to find a balance between feeling anxious – which will serve us well if we use it to make sure we get things done – and being confident in our project and ourselves.

Is it written? Not yet, but it will be.

Our first chai in India at the Advanis, Delhi

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I went to Old Delhi to buy some Hindi books at Star Publications on Ansari Road. Outside, on the arcaded pavement, a chai wallah had set up his stand. Nothing unusual about that, but the man was. He was smartly dressed, with a sport jacket, loafers, sunglasses tucked into the opening of his shirt. He could have been a moonlighting university professor! And he had a mobile phone (not so common in those days) hanging on a cord around his neck. While he was making chai for me (excellent chai, made to my request, with fresh ginger) his phone rang and I realized he was taking an order from a nearby office. Soon a little boy was running off with the usual wire basket full of brimful glasses. He remarked to me on what a boon the phone was for his business. This vignette, at that time, seemed to epitomize to me the changes wrought by the coming of cell phones and the emergence of a new middle class, even among very small entrepreneurs like this man.

- Philip Lutgendorf, Professor of Hindi, University of Iowa

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