Walking With Intent

by Ra of Rarasaur

I grew up on Indian tea– dark black grounds nesting in a stainless steel sifter, resting in a black skillet. The hot water boils around it, the stovefire simmers, and the heavy milk sprawls on top like a sheen of plastic. Everything about it looks dirty and it probably is– you’re not supposed to wash a black skillet, you know.

But when the tea pours, it is pure. My mom lifts the skillet in one hand, balancing the strainer in the other, and tips the heavy weight of the pan to the side. The strainer catches stray pieces of cardamon, loose grounds, and clumps of milk. The tea itself is a solid, heavy consistency. Some of it spills, always. It is spicy, scented, hot, and sweet– an introduction to a million sensory experiences at once.

Good morning, chai says. Here’s a sampling of…