Chai Masala Memories

I still remember my first foray into the kitchen – not just because it was my first time but more so because of its association with my mother. Afternoon tea was a daily ritual in my maternal home. The entire extended family would congregate in my grandmother’s room for chai (tea) daily. The actual making of the chai was usually the duty of the youngest daughter-in-law, but one afternoon, popular consensus decreed that I would make the chai. It was time – as reasoning went – for me to learn these little household chores. After all, it was a responsibility that I would have to shoulder when I married! Bristling, as I was usually wont to at the mere mention of my getting married, I determinedly made my way to the kitchen, followed closely by my mother.

I rarely had my mother to myself. For once, I did not have to share her with my siblings or the many household chores that usually kept her on her toes. And I revelled in it. Every nuance of the afternoon is etched clearly in my mind. I was 11 or 12 years old, and it was a late Sunday afternoon. The laziness of the day had seeped into the afternoon air. A small, very inadequate fan whirred overhead, and resident parrots gossiped in the laburnum tree outside the kitchen window – every time their feathers were ruffled, myriad sunbeams danced around the kitchen.

I can recall every sensation as well: my mother’s soft hands guiding my smaller, clumsier ones; her voice imparting ingredients and proportions – water and milk, measured out in equal portions; sugar, a teaspoon per cup; a few cardamoms, pounded and then added, along with a generous pinch of fresh mint and lemon-grass leaves; lastly, a measure of chai masala (a special spice blend for tea), the spices releasing their fragrance into the air via the steam clouding up from the vessel. Mom gently guided me, firm hands steadying as I grasped the heavy tapeli (pot), protecting me from singeing my nose on its hot edges, helping me carry the heavy tea tray in to the waiting family. She smiled proudly as I basked in the glow of praise from everyone. Thankfully, my future skills as a wife lost focus. (As fate would have it, both my grandmothers fretted needlessly. I ended up marrying into a different community and have never made chai for them!)

We all have a favourite dish our mothers used to make for us when we were children, but, besides being a great cook, my mother has been the strongest influence on my cooking. She is my inspiration in life. Her passion and enthusiasm are expressed in the way she lives, in her work, in her love for her children, in the food she cooks for her family and in the time she takes to cook for us, even as she juggles the demands of dealing with her own business. Every time I visit her, she will have cooked up a storm of all my favourite dishes.

Last weekend, we went over after ages; she’d been travelling, and my schedule had been extremely busy so it was a welcome break. A bowl of her patented Dal Soup (lentil soup) was the perfect antidote – a sign that Mom was around and all was well with the world. Nope, it doesn’t really matter that one is in one’s 30s and has two children of one’s own – having Mom around is always soothing, and, for me, it is always associated with the scents of clove, cinnamon and bay leaf wafting from her lentil soup.

Dal Soup Recipe