A Taste of Four Cities

Since moving to Spain in 2000, returning to my father’s home in Bangalore has become a return to my own essence–my roots. As I step into the arrivals hall at the airport, I inhale deeply, feeling inspired and salivating at the thought of breakfast. I always make a special request of Kanchana, the heart and soul of the household, for masala chai, dosa and her dreamy coconut chutney.

As I walk down the dusty hallway towards the apartment, usually by around 9 am, each kitchen is bustling with activity. The sounds of boiling milk, simmering masala chai, pressure-cooking dal, and the aroma of pounded spices fills the air, creating a harmonious symphony that almost makes me want to dance. Kanchana is at the door with open arms, exuding warmth and love. I give her a tight, childlike squeeze, telling her how happy I am to see her, and rush in to leave my bags in my room–the room where I grew up as a teenager. A room strategically placed opposite the kitchen, allowing the enchanting aromas to waft in.

Kanchana prepares my chai with dedication, using a heavy steel pestle and mortar to pound ginger, lemon grass, cardamom, and black pepper, as I joyfully watch her in her element. I ask after her family, her health, and immediately tears well up in her eyes. She’s been needing somebody to ask her this for a while now. My instant reflexes are to hug her, and so I do. “It’s very difficult, Anjali. My brother works so much, my son also, full day and night…” She continues talking as I stir the pot of chai just as it’s about to boil over. The conversation has just begun, and we will have many little moments like these. I make sure we do.

For now, I take my masala chai to the sunken sofa in our living room, where I sit with my father and enjoy the morning papers. Opening the entertainment pages first, I savour the scent of the printing ink before diving into its contents. My father fiddles with the radio, believing that I want to listen to its scratchy tunes, but I find bliss in listening to the crows and the call of the bhaji-walla downstairs, accompanied by the familiar sounds of horns on the main road–sounds that signify I am truly home.

As if by magic, a plate appears in front of me, a crispy, glistening dosa atop it, a tiny steel bowl of coconut chutney and a soft, steaming idli right next to it. Kanchana looks at me with a satisfied smile. A silent understanding passes between us, a camaraderie shared by women who devote themselves to the needs of others. It’s a connection formed by the art of crafting a meal and offering it to someone who reciprocates with boundless gratitude. Kanchana and I exchange this unspoken bond frequently. For me, this moment is one I hope my daughters experience in their lives too. I hope they come home to this same sense of purity.

I tear a corner of the warm, buttery dosa; this is the feeling I want to transmit to all who I now call “home” in Barcelona. When I cook for them, when I teach them, when I share my knowledge with them. I want to bring them back to this very place…

In the fading daylight of winter evenings, the journey home feels like a weighty task, as though I am dragging my entire rain-soaked being on the bus. Yet, the prospect of tea time at home invigorates me, as it is a moment of returning to my true self–a self that often remains hidden during my school day. Concrete grounds, brick walls, charcoal skies, and the shouting of young voices across that playground–none of these ever gave me comfort. I was a shy and timid girl, but not in a sad way.

I had a sunny, bright existence. I was a dreamer. A dreamer of colourful skies and all pretty things. I also always loved love. Love was all things welcoming, caring and giving. And to me, London in 1980 didn’t quite feel like that. There was an underlying angst everywhere. From the somewhat intimidating Punk music era, to the conservatism Margaret Thatcher brought, there seemed to be extreme anger all around.

But as I approach home, every step closer to my front door, knowing mum will be there, Radio One playing in the background, in our bustling little kitchen, preparing dinner while looking forward to my arrival, putting the kettle on…that brings me a tiny ray of colour…

Tea time. A cherished ritual, a moment of calm solace. It’s a time for reflection. It allows for that moment of slowing down. To see my reflection in that milky, skin-brown, glistening liquid. It feels like a warm embrace and a minute of me just being me. No grey, no rain, no smelly uniform.

Mum pours the water into the mug for me, just a quarter of the way, barely covering the tea bag. As I grew older, I took charge of adding the milk myself, pressing the tea bag against the mug to extract every last bit of flavour. The milk would rise almost to the brim, transforming the tea into a soothing beige milky delight. With a generous sprinkling of sugar, the tea was perfectly comforting. We chat about the day; I never have much to say. It’s usually a question about homework and tests. But I quickly manoeuvre towards the living room, and Mum knows it’s my time, just for that half an hour, before the routine gets underway.

I savour the next moments of ultimate pleasure, alone. Feeling the rugged ‘70s carpet beneath me, the warmth of that mug of tea-milk in my tiny, cold hands, sipping it, steaming up my 5-inch thick glasses, exuding the feeling of belonging and safety. I dip a chocolate digestive biscuit ever so slowly into the tea. Then, magical things happen. The matte chocolate turns silky and shiny, the aroma of milk chocolates hits the tip of my nose. I quickly place that melted edge of the biscuit onto the top of my tongue, allowing it to disintegrate and coat my palate, filling my senses with bliss.

I have chosen this memory to carry with me through to my motherhood, introducing it to my girls, so they may inherit it and pass it on. Jiya, my younger one, has adopted the entire act of after-school afternoon tea so naturally. I haven’t recounted these stories to her. She has no knowledge of my experiences on those dark London winter evenings. But somehow, as I watch her dipping her biscuit into her tea, as she falls onto the sofa, chattering joyfully about her day, I notice that she’s a brighter reflection of me at 14. She’s her true self, every second. The colours in her head are her reality. And the effervescent way in which she lives this soulful moment, inspires me.

Sundays, slower and forgiving, offer the luxury of time to immerse in the life-affirming ritual of making a mug of glorious masala chai from scratch–to enjoy solo–a treat I thoroughly savour. Here in Spain, it is not often that this ritual is enjoyed. The busyness gets in the way. Our lives are fast-paced and noisy. The city of Barcelona is forever bustling and active, so one must keep up the pace, or you might miss something! No time for long pauses of masala chai, no, no.

So Sundays are for that pause that I cherish. The process of making my chai takes me back to all my homes, evoking a sense of belonging in my own kitchen. I love my kitchen. It’s the only room in the house that I have made sure is MINE in every sense. It’s airy, bright and cozy too. Spacious and intimate, it feels like home for everyone.

I stir the chai, cup it between my hands and lower my nose to it. The bouquet of sweet spices mixed with sugar and milk is transcendent. I think about that for a second and realise how banal it must be for those who make this daily, serving it to hundreds of people on the street corners across India. But for me, sitting here in my kitchen on a sunny Barcelona winter morning, it is a drink I savour so gratefully.

I put on some soulful morning tunes. I love the sounds of Prem Joshua or “It’s Life” By Niraj Chag. I revel in this slow moment, as I glance out the window at my neighbours as they go about their Sunday rituals too. One is watering her plants, the other hanging out his freshly washed laundry to dry. Another couple is sitting on their narrow balcony, having a quiet chat, drinking coffee and sharing a cigarette. Everyone’s home. And I wonder, what music are they listening to? What brew are they drinking?

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Listen to/Read the Spanish version here