Making chai
while the world burns
“Mom, where is the saunf ?”
I’m rooting through a spice cabinet as deep as my arm. Plastic jars litter the countertop. The khaki-green of cardamom pods makes the dry bay leaves look brighter. They seem almost verdant against the nuanced browns of cloves, cinnamon sticks, star anise, and cumin. Black mustard seeds, pepper corns, nigella seeds and black cumin hold all the darkness. The bite of injustice done. The heat of entitlement thwarted. The wool pulled over eyes, too distracted to see what is really happening.
The world is darker than usual. Much darker.
Yesterday, a democratically elected world leader opted to bomb a West Asian country. The action was not a surprise. Subcontinental media covered the theatre of diplomacy like Cruikshank and Levy deconstructing The Hills (IYKYK). Meeting logistics molehills morphed into mountains of meta meaning-making. As water poured into a heated pot, the agitation is expected. The question is when, not if.
I’m used to the posturing and hot air. The big words strung together, pins on a clothes line, holding up nothing. The consistent pattern in words feels obvious if you know where to look. I see it the way I see the weave in my jamdani kurta. Deliberate threats woven into grandiose declarations. Absurdity wrapped over statements to trigger economic and geopolitical uncertainty, driving market shifts and funnelling still more wealth to those who have more than they need.
It is not new. In this second regime, it is the predictability of the same measuring cup, the same milk jug, the same mortar and pestle. The same empty threats. The same diplomatic theatrics to buy the time needed to sail ships, mobilize military personnel, and obfuscate objectionable actions elsewhere. The sameness lulled me into complacency like my grandmother’s teak swing would lull me to sleep. Subtle enough to ignore, steady enough to normalize.
Then there were bombs.
Dropped during the holiest time of year for the region. The jet engine roar of subsonic missiles shattering the silence of spiritual self-reflection, self-discipline, gratitude, and empathy for the less fortunate. Hot air transmogrified into 108 deaths (and counting) at a girls’ school - because that is clearly where bright young minds are learning to enrich uranium. The Palm reduced to rubble because obviously that is where genius military minds are plotting. Commercial airspace closed indefinitely, stranding nomads far from their chosen homes and families.
No one has answers to the big questions that impact little lives.
Who should I call for support?
What are the steps to reschedule a flight because of a war?
Where do I start the process?
When will it end?
Why did it really begin?
To create a real smoke screen over damning evidence of sex trafficking, elite immunity, systemic failures in law enforcement, crimes against humanity, judicial negligence, and political power brokering? To trigger a global recession? To shore up a polarized, fundamentally fragile economy that is built on the profits of war and oil demand? To recapture the attention economy after the lowest SOTU viewing audience ever? To boost an approval rating that has hit historic lows? To enforce regime change on a sanction-stripped economy while boosting ballistic missile sales? To establish supremacy in a deeply destabilized region and colonize more land?
I watch bombs drop all night. I count myself lucky that my view is mediated by a television screen, not a window. At 18:00, I start a chat with the airline AI assistant. She tells me she is not empowered to re-book my flight. Instead, Sara sweetly offers me a chauffeur, a meet-and-greet, and a wheelchair to improve my comfort. I ask her to connect me with a human. She accedes and warns that the wait time is uncertain. She doesn’t get it when I ask her what else is new.
At 00:45, I give up and go to bed. Sleep is fraught. I am thankful because it’s mosquito bites, not falling shrapnel. I snap awake multiple times, hands over my ears. I’m grateful for the ringing phone, not blaring sirens. I hear desperation in calls from friends. I’m appreciative of their concern, which overrides the social contract to review timezone alignment for mutual convenience before confirming proof of life.
At 08:00, I restart the process. I know I am too overwrought to be my favourite self. I know the agent I eventually connect with will be in a worse mental state. This conversation requires fortification. It requires roots strong enough to hold the emotional fallout. It requires present moment awareness to hold grief, anger, justice sensitivity, gratitude, peace, and calm. It requires focus and sweetness to negotiate policy barriers, to ideate aligned solutions, to see the opportunity in the problem.
It requires chai.
More than a caffeine delivery vehicle. More than a sugar rush.
It requires the deep tactile presence of bare feet on tile floors, rooting into a kitchen and culture that have held displacement and homecoming across generations.
It requires active visual engagement that distinguishes fennel from cumin from black cumin, selecting for fire calming sweetness instead of the pungent bitterness of choices regretted.
It requires the aural attendance to crush cardamom pods open without grinding the seeds to dust, so the perfume lingers without overpowering.
It requires olfactory awareness to discern Assam from Darjeeling so that the chai brews dark and strong enough to hold the heavy fragility of hope that resists with tooth and claw.
It requires the gustatory appreciation to balance the intense burn of ginger with the cool smoothness of milk and the toothsomeness of sugar.
It requires alignment with the rhythms of pouring, counting, crushing. It requires patient observation as boiling water turns from green, to gold, to tannic brown. It requires a steady hand and a confident nose to nail just the right shade of caramel.
It requires the same delicate adjustments that adapting to change draws forth from us.
Beginning with awareness - why chai? Why change? Why now?
From there desire - why me? Why us? Where is the benefit in the hardship, the reward in the discomfort.
After that, knowing the how - what is in my locus of control to do? How can I access agency, empowerment and confidence through disruption?
Then the question of ability - the skills to lean into sensory awareness for the perfect cup. The capacity of self awareness to manage my fear, grief and entitlement. The exercise in social management to extend compassion to the human bound by draconian policies dreamed up by actuaries and bottom line thinkers who is still fighting to create the best possible experience to relieve my suffering.
Finally, the reinforcement that comes from practicing values-aligned action - especially when it is difficult. Especially when I feel owed something for my hard-earned dollars. Especially when my heart is broken on so many levels. Especially when I just want to go home.
I can’t.
But my home is still standing. My kittos are still safe and well cared for.
So I sit, with my chai. I commiserate over policy failures with the human who is doing their best to help. I offer them what comfort I can in a world we no longer recognize but are not surprised by.
So beautifully and poignantly written at such a devastating time. Glad you have a safe place to be while you wait to be able to fly home <3