Girl, Lost on Purpose.

“You want tea? I get us tea!” cries Babu, darting out the door of his little leather shop on the North Cliffs of Varkala. The floor beneath my bottom is old linoleum and my fingers trace the pattern as I breathe in the smells of leather and dust and mustard seed oil. Around me, overloaded racks of bags and beautifully embroidered slippers line the walls up to the ceiling. A table with little purses and leather-bound journals stands at one end of the tiny room and at the other end a curtain covers the doorway into the backroom, where a dentist has set up his practice. It is quiet in the shop, except for the tinny pop music being forced through the inept speakers of Babu’s cellphone.

I lean back on my arms and stretch my legs in front of me, wiggling my bare toes. Babu is back, balancing glass mugs of sweet chai in his hands. He is beautiful. Not handsome and not pretty, but beautiful. He has sharp features and high cheekbones, dark eyes and black hair pulled back into a bun. He is from Rajasthan, in the North West of India, and he’s young. I take a sip of my chai, the sweetness sticks in my throat.

He holds up the bag he’s been rubbing down with mustard seed oil, trying to catch the sunlight coming through the door. The electricity has been out all day and his shop has no windows. “You like, huh?” he asks. “And this one,” he says, jumping to his feet and pointing at a row of handbags, “this one I call the Babu. My own design.” He is unashamedly proud of his design, stroking the buckle as he peers eagerly into my face. Sitting here on the floor of Babu’s shop, I am completely at ease. I feel at home and yet my home is a million miles and 18 000 kilometres away.

“Yes,” he laughs when I tell him this. “It’s the chai. It makes our tongues sweet and then we are friends.”

Cardamom, cinnamon, ginger, cloves and pepper scent the chai and you feel your soul warming before you even taken the first sip. Heaps of sugar enhances the flavour of the spices and the sweetness fills your mouth and burns a warm, milky path to your belly. It is the taste and smell of India; the welcome you receive in any home.

“But this,” he continues, “This is not good chai. He is Tibetan, he doesn’t make good chai.” Babu is referring to the café owner next door. “My grandmother, she makes the best chai. You come to Rajasthan and she will make you chai that changes your whole life.” I take another sip and the calming smells of spice and leather mix in my nostrils. I believe him.