The syrup-sweet chai exhales loving tendrils over our cheeks and lips in the crisp mountain air. We sit in a cross-legged circle in the dusty courtyard clasping chipped, fist-sized mugs and there is a moment of silence as we take the first sip in unison. My eyes meet the sun-lined face of the middle-aged woman sitting directly across from me, whose dark pupils glint like a silver carp darting below the surface of the crystal brook murmuring nearby. No word is spoken but the moment is begging to be remembered.
The village of Ghosal, nestled into a crook of the Indian Himalayas, a short and well-traveled hike away from the more touristic hub of Manali in Himachal Pradesh, has a way of making you feel like you are the very first traveler to discover it. The same majestic peace worn by the distant snowcapped peaks has come to rest heavily on the straw-thatched roofs of the high wooden houses and the colorful woolen shawls of the villagers.
Earlier, the village had surprised me with a jovial procession of tambourines, drums and twisting bovine horns and I had suddenly found myself swept into the crowd of children gleefully following alongside. We arrived at a modest Hindu temple merrily garlanded with banners of blue and silver streamers fluttering with excitement. It seemed that the entire village was gathered here and as the ensemble ceased playing, a reverberating prayer-song took its place, emanating from chests young and old while prasad, a divine offering that is subsequently shared among devotees, was passed out. An ancient woman had pressed an orange handful of sweet Gulab Jamun into my hands with a welcoming smile.
I now sit along with her and four other North Indian women, sipping steamy chai. The absolute tranquility of this cool North Indian village could not be any further from the sticky chaos of cities further south; the daily cacophony of brakes, bargainers, horns and animals wafting buffets of pungent scents, a curry of paan-spitting rickshaw drivers, and tiny outstretched hands demanding, “Miss! Miss! Chapati?” And yet, the biggest democracy in the world, with its infamously juxtaposed extremes, is unanimously blessed with a unique national inclusivity and hospitality.
The woman to my left laughs, croaking a phrase in Hindi that seems to require a response. “Acha,” I say, “Good.” “Acha!” she exclaims, clapping her hands under her chin childishly and rocking forward to lean against the woolen cap of the small boy curled in her lap. As the light dwindles, so too does the chai in our cups.
When we part, I am a friend rather than a tourist or tourist attraction. It is experiences such as these that remind me that a place is as much its people as its landscapes, as much its planned itineraries as the mutual, comfortable silences that often follow. In order to truly experience India, sometimes all that’s needed is to sit down and share cup of chai.
