"Chai, in my family, has always been more than boiled leaves and milk. It’s an inheritance, passed down like jewelry or old photographs", writes IC columnist, Sweta Vikram.
Estimated reading time: 6 minutes
If you are on Instagram, you may have come across this reel—if there were Indians on the Titanic when the ship was sinking, they would try to get in the last few sips of chai before drowning. When a friend forwarded that to me, I thought, “I get it.”
If you knew me, you would know my middle name could have been chai. So much so that at one of the Ayurvedic hospitals in India, where I did my internship, my peers had a dance named in my honor called the “Chai-dance.” After working 14 hours in the hospital and 8 hours all night for my US commitments for more than three weeks in a row, chai got me through those long days and nights.
Chai as a Metaphor
Chai – or milk tea brewed the Indian way – is sacred for most Indians as it’s a metaphor for family and memories. A cup of chai has been the backdrop to conversations big and small—life advice from elders, stories of migration, or whispered family secrets.
Even if you don’t drink chai, you know why it’s a beverage that’s a secret ingredient in stories, traditions, travels, celebrations, mourning, and quintessential when you are asking for directions. The chai-waala ki dukaan (a corner store that specializes in serving hot tea) is a landmark in every city in India.
The hallmark of love and hospitality
Making chai is a ritual of remembrance, connection, and healing. Even at home, the crackling of choti elaichi (green cardamom pods), the sharp smell of fresh grated ginger, steam rising as milk boils over, and the argument over how much of the tea leaves should be added feels like a ritual. Every family has its unique twist on spices (some add cloves, others cinnamon, or black cardamom pods), recipes, and a hierarchy of which ingredient goes first. You might have even witnessed an intergenerational kitchen moment—when you have watched a parent or grandparent make their special chai, as chai isn’t one-size-fits-all.
The household helpers get their chai break and gossip about their employers over this beverage, which offers that moment of grounding amidst all the chaos. Offering chai is an act of love and hospitality in Indian homes and communities—every person who enters the house is offered a cup of chai. Growing up, I saw owners of clothing as well as jewelry stores in India serving chai to their customers.
Chai as a Generational Thread
I remember sitting on the terrace of my husband’s paternal ancestral home with his Dadi, his grandmother. She was an amazing woman, but we didn’t have much in common. However, I would often sit on the terrace with her and sip several cups of tulsi chai on crisp, foggy January mornings when we visited her in India. In those moments, it felt like a language of love that transcended words.
Even as a young girl, my mother brought me with her on these shopping escapades, which I loathed since retail therapy isn’t my idea of having fun. But I loved the chai-sipping in these moments because chai is more than a drink—it’s a way to stay tethered to roots, tradition, and culture while adapting to new times. The shopping was often for new brides in the family, and it became a portal to joy and connection.
A comfort in grief
I also think of chai as a confidante—it was present in hard times. Be it after a loss, during exams, or through transitions—making it a comfort drink as much as a cultural one.
Chai has been my comfort in grief. I still remember sipping on a cup of chai after cremating my father, and then standing outside the ICU, not knowing that was the last time I would see my father-in-law, while at the same time planning all that had to be done for my father’s Chautha (memorial service) and my mother’s 9th death anniversary puja. I found strength at the tea stall by the road outside the hospital.
Coming Full Circle
Chai, in my family, has always been more than boiled leaves and milk. It’s an inheritance, passed down like jewelry or old photographs. After we got married, I bonded with my mother-in-law over our shared love of “masala chai” rituals in the mornings.
When I moved to NYC, chai became my anchor. The process was unhurried — a rare pause in a world that moves too fast. In a city where I felt anonymous, where even grocery stores smelled foreign, I’d wake up and boil water with crushed ginger, green cardamom, and tea leaves, and suddenly my kitchen wasn’t just mine — it was an extension of every kitchen I’d ever known.
Chai has been our universal language. After my mother passed away suddenly in her early 60s, chai became the beverage of bonding and healing for my father and me. His evenings, my crack-of-dawn mornings … for almost nine years, we had a daily ritual to sip a cup of memories, moments, and mother’s stories in the form of chai. But then, after my father passed away, chai no longer held the same taste or priority in my life.
After my father’s passing, I remember sitting at the dining table, clutching a cup I barely tasted, the heat against my palms grounding me when everything else felt untethered. But for months afterward, I couldn’t bring myself to make “Masala chai.” It was either a tea bag or instant chai. The ritual felt hollow, the kitchen too quiet without his voice on the other side of the phone or the familiar rhythm of our shared conversations over chai.
It felt unthinkable to keep drinking chai when the person who had introduced me to this sacred beverage and shared the most cups with me was gone. The cardamom didn’t smell the same, the ginger tasted too sharp, and every sip reminded me of conversations I’d never have again. It was as if the chai had lost its sweetness, its meaning steeped in a grief I wasn’t ready to face.
When I decided to give up my morning chai. I didn’t miss it. My life philosophy is to constantly ask this one question, “Does it nourish me?” Chai no longer did. I had no caffeine withdrawal. But I felt a sense of emptiness. So much of life feels unfamiliar now as I refer to so many loved ones in the past tense. Chai had always been about connection — and without my father, it felt like an empty ritual, a ghost of what it used to be.