Gossip, Ginger, and a Glass Full of Warmth

I leaned against the window of JP Tea Stall, nestled under the shade of an old tree in D School, and called out my usual order—"Ek kadak chai". Raju Bhaiya, a lean, dark-skinned man with a warm smile, nodded in acknowledgement. He had a way of making everyone feel at home—students, faculty, admin staff—serving them steaming hot tea like clockwork.

 

If you ask me, making tea for people is one of the kindest jobs - to offer them a warm hug in a mug while they struggle to keep up with the …chaos of life. Deadlines, heartbreaks, existential crises—everything feels a little more bearable when there’s a steaming cup of chai in hand.

 

At exactly 10:15, the bell of a cycle rang, announcing the arrival of an elderly man in a white kurta and boat-shaped white topi. He parked in front of the stall, handed over a packet of freshly baked aloo patties wrapped in brown paper, and went on his way without a word. 

 

I smiled, as Raju Bhaiya slid me one of those warm, flaky delights. It had become my go-to breakfast this semester. You know how some months you obsess over a particular breakfast? Umm or Am I the only one who does this? 

Picture credits : @_life.on.canvas

 

Patty in hand, I sat under a tree, waiting for Gullu Bhaiya—this man in his fifties, wearing a weathered shirt and sporting a white beard that made him look like a storyteller of sorts—to bring my tea, just as he had done every single day for who knows how many years. But today, he was nowhere to be seen. Curious, I went back to the counter to see what was taking so long.

 

Turns out, the gas cylinder had run out, and the whole process had to start from scratch. As I stood there, I overheard two professors whispering about a third. Intrigued, I stayed put, pretending to be lost in thought while secretly trying to catch the full story.

 

Raju Bhaiya, oblivious to my motives,  started making the tea—poured water into the vessel, and added tea leaves and sugar. The familiar smell of chai filled the air. He grated fresh ginger into the brew, letting it simmer before cutting open a milk packet with a knife, pouring almost all of it into the vessel—saving just a little for the campus dogs, who had become the unofficial students of the college. 

 

The black elixir rose to the surface twice before he finally turned down the flame. He grabbed a handful of freshly washed glasses and strained the tea, the rich, golden liquid flowing smoothly into them.

 

A simple ritual—just leaves and water transforming into warmth, but on a cold winter morning, it meant everything.

 

The faculty members picked up their glasses and walked away, leaving the gossip unfinished. Let’s just say they didn’t spill the tea, the way I hoped for.

 

Finally, Raju Bhaiya handed me my cup. I went and sat near a group of juniors, their faces buried in reading material, trying to survive midterms. My trance broke when a friend tapped my shoulder, reminding me that we were running late. Classic.

 

As I stood up, I looked around at the small corner of campus—the old tree, the tea stall, the people caught in their own little routines and realized it’s not the big moments that make the difference, but the tiny ones—the ones you hold onto when life feels like it’s moving too fast.

 

This - this is how every morning began at D School. Fifteen minutes of bliss, wrapped in chai, gossip, and the unmistakable comfort of routine, with no network on our phones (maybe D School had jammers, or maybe it was just a blessing in disguise? Guess we’ll never know!).

 

With a sigh, I placed the empty glass back on the counter and walked away—already looking forward to doing it all over again tomorrow.