As it finally began to rain across NCR in short, sharp bursts over the past few days, I instinctively reached for a cup of kadak adrak chai. Until then, I had been getting by on cold brew coffee. I usually prefer tea, but the searing summer had left me little choice. The mere thought of sipping anything hot in that kind of humidity was enough to make me break into a sweat.
Columnist Vernika Awal talks about rains and tea
But tea is not just a drink, is it? Especially not for us Indians. It is comfort, habit, ritual and memory, all poured into a single cup. It marks the beginning of most of our days, and for many of us, brings them to a close as well.
For as long as I can remember, tea has held a quiet, steady presence in my life. In our home, there was always a teapot ready by six in the morning, whether or not anyone wanted it. My mother’s tea was sacrosanct — strong, with a hint of ginger and barely any milk. My father, by contrast, preferred a delicate, lightly brewed cup of Darjeeling tea, served without fuss. As for me, I seem to have inherited a bit of both. Even now, whenever I travel, I find myself slightly nervous about how the tea will turn out. Because, as anyone who drinks it knows, chai is deeply personal.
Less milk, more milk, no milk, full sugar, no sugar, well cooked, barely brewed — it is remarkable how many versions of this single drink exist, and how fiercely we each defend our own. But the real beauty of tea, I think, lies in the spaces it occupies. Some of the most memorable conversations in my life have happened over a cup of tea.
Hesitant first hellos, long-winded family debates, heartbreaks softened, friendships sealed. The phrase chai pe bulaaya hai still carries the weight of awkward introductions in arranged marriage setups. And even in our fast-moving, glass-and-steel office buildings, the nearest tea stall remains the one place where everyone gathers — just for a few minutes — to breathe.
Aarzu Sadana, a Moti Nagar resident from West Delhi, once said something that stayed with me. “Morning teas are personal and more inwards, afternoons are more community focused,” she told me during a casual conversation. At the time, I nodded along, but it was only later that I realised just how true that is — and how I had never really paused to think about it.
Morning tea, for most of us, is a solitary ritual. It is quiet and reflective, often had in silence or shared only with immediate family. It is a moment to gather your thoughts before stepping out into the world. There is comfort in its predictability, its familiarity.
Afternoon tea, on the other hand, leans outward. It is more social, more leisurely, and often shared with colleagues, neighbours or friends.
During my college years at Delhi University, my friends and I would often find ourselves in long, sometimes passionately heated discussions over endless cups of masala chai at Triveni Kala Sangam. That place, with its quiet charm and open courtyard, became the backdrop for everything — relationship woes, group projects, politics, poetry. The tea was simple, served in modest white cups, but somehow tasted better when paired with the feeling of youth and possibility.
Another small but significant ritual from that time was visiting Connaught Place with family, especially in winter. No outing ever began without a stop at a tea vendor. There was something deeply comforting about holding a tiny paper cup of steaming hot chai while the cold wind swept through the wide arcades.
That rhythm of life — punctuated by tea — continued into my early years of working at a national daily. Reporting to work on icy winter mornings felt like a punishment, but the promise of a hot cup waiting somewhere between news meetings made it bearable. Even amid the chaos of tight deadlines and clashing editorial opinions, tea breaks were sacred. They softened the edges. No matter how heated the newsroom debates became, the moment someone suggested a tea round, the mood would shift. We would gather, laugh, dissect cricket scores, trade film reviews and offer half-baked political theories — all held together by those few warm minutes and the comfort of a cup in hand.
Looking back, it strikes me that tea has never just been about taste. It has always been about time — how we spend it, who we spend it with, and how we pause in the middle of it all.
And now, with the rains back, it feels only right to return to it.