leela katari gupta
When I order chai at the Open Door, they ask me, masala or unsweetened? I say, masala, please, and pay my five dollars and sit down to wait. I don’t say anything about the masala question because I know I know what real life masala chai is like, brewed in stainless steel and poured back and forth between tiny cups until it’s just the right temperature, Goldilocks-style. It’s pumpkin spice chai tea season, y’all, says the girl on my feed. And I’ve got the perfect recipe for you. ‘Pumpkin spice chai tea’ is an abomination to my ears, in more ways than one, but I don’t open up the comment section—I just keep scrolling, absolutely certain she doesn’t even know what she’s talking about. Pumpkin spice chai tea. Ridiculous, or autumnal?
While it isn’t my favorite of the seasons, I’ve never hated fall. As a self-described winter bitch, fall is anticipation that builds and builds until the air is finally cold enough for my breath to steam. I love cable-knit sweaters and crunching leaves; I love Halloween, hay mazes, and hot cider; Florence + the Machine and Fleetwood Mac. I love all the fall flavors—pumpkin, apple, cinnamon, caramel, pecan. At least once a year, I surrender and order a pumpkin spice latte. It’s a seasonal drink, after all—I’d better get it while I can, before it’s time for hot chocolate and candy canes.
But to me, chai is not an autumn drink. Chai is my trip to India in the spring of 2023, hotel teatime in ninety degree weather, dry wind that feels like the breath of the people that came before me. My family only came to America in the 1960s, after all. In the scheme of things, we aren’t that removed from the farmers in the Karnataka countryside. Any of the double-braid-wearing schoolgirls I passed in the tourist rickshaw could have been me, in a slightly strayed parallel universe.
Those schoolgirls would laugh, I think, at the chai lattes I order from Starbucks, High Point, the Open Door. It's the perfect autumnal drink, says the girl on Instagram. I imagine a conversation between her, sin language barriers, and the schoolgirl who could have been me. OMFG, I love chai tea! You do realize you’re saying tea tea, don’t you? Do you put pumpkin spice in yours, too? What are you even talking about?
I, of course, am complicit. I order chai lattes on the basis of three things: 1) caffeine, 2) cheaper than coffee, 3) arguably better taste than coffee. It’s a tiny, convoluted piece of “my culture” that helps me get through Monday mornings.
As a third-generation immigrant, the idea of “my culture” is convoluted. When I get the inevitable Where are you from? question, I say Mount Airy, just to piss people off, because I know it’s not what they want to hear. Where are your parents from? Connecticut and New Jersey. It’s the truth. But when they follow up with the more calculated Where is your family originally from?, I say India. How could I not? I’m proud of my culture, certainly. When my great-uncle traced our family lineage all the way back to the 1450s, I was the only one who read his book start-to-finish. I celebrate Diwali with my family, and I sing Ganesha Saranam, even if I don’t know what the words mean.
Still, I’m not a very good Indian-American. The only Hindi word I know is namaste, and the Indian clothes I do own squeeze my body on the curves, and hem much higher than they’re supposed to. I haven’t bought new ones since I was eight. I celebrate Christmas and Easter, and probably know more about the Bible than I do about the Mahabharata. I dance ballet, not bharatanatyam. I’d rather do pilates than yoga. No Sanskrit, just plain old butt kicks for me.
I suppose chai lattes are oddly representative of my identity. I’m a real life masala chai. Indian, but watered down by America and time. Less cardamom, more cinnamon. Based on milk instead of water, served Pinterest-ready. But I wear my grandmother’s gold earrings with my mass-produced cable-knit sweater. I smile at the Ganesha statue in the hallway on my way to eat breakfast. When I’m old enough, I’ll get a katari dagger tattooed on my arm, the same arm that will carve the Thanksgiving turkey.
And I’ll always, always drink chai. During autumn, and all year round.
instagram: @leela_kg