I never used to be a "chai person." Growing up, chai was just something that happened around me - other people's ritual, other people's comfort drink. I'd sip it out of politeness at someone's house, or skip it entirely if I could. So it's a little funny that today, one of my most sacred, non-negotiable habits is a five o'clock chai at a small counter in Trivandrum.
This is the story of how that happened.
It Started as an Excuse, Not a Craving
When I first moved to Trivandrum, chai wasn't really about the chai. It was about having somewhere to go. Some days, work stretches on and on, and you just need a reason to step outside, stretch your legs, and remember there's a whole city happening beyond your desk. So a few of us started wandering out in the evenings - not because we were craving tea, but because we needed an excuse to leave the building for fifteen minutes.
We tried a few spots. Nothing really stuck. Until we found Malabar Mahal.
Malabar Mahal and the Chai That Changed Everything
Malabar Mahal wasn't anything fancy - just a restaurant with a counter that made properly good chai. Strong, well-brewed, the kind that actually tastes like someone cared while making it. That alone would have been enough to keep us coming back. But what actually turned it into a ritual was the man behind the counter: Gopan.
Gopan doesn't just hand you a cup and move on to the next customer. He remembers faces. He remembers routines. And somewhere along the way, without either of us really deciding it, "the evening chai" stopped being just about the tea - Gopan became a part of why we keep going back, even if it was never the whole reason.
A Few Minutes That Make the Whole Day Worth It
Now it's a small, familiar routine. My colleagues and I show up around the same time every evening, and before the chai even hits the glass, Gopan is already asking how the day went.
It's never a long conversation - a quick exchange, a laugh, maybe a complaint about the day tossed his way while he pours the tea from one vessel to another in that long practiced stream. And if one of us shows up without the other, he notices immediately. "Aa matte aal illa alle" - the other one's not here today? - he'll ask, before we've even ordered.
It's just a few minutes. But it's become the one part of the day that's completely unhurried.
Why This, Out of Everything, Stuck
I've thought about why this particular habit took root when so many others didn't. I think it's because it was never forced. I didn't decide to "become a chai person." I didn't set out looking for a comfort ritual. It just quietly built itself, one evening at a time, around a good cup of tea and a genuinely kind person who makes it.
