The Chaiwalah’s den: To boldly go where no chai drinker has gone before

Hot afternoon. Tapri chai at the corner of a dusty quiet lane. A and D find a place to sit.
D: … And then I left
A: Geez, I was beginning to wonder if that moron would ever get it…

They laugh. Suddenly the shadow of a man looms over them. A snort is heard. They stop laughing. Heads whip upwards to see….


Crowded local. A and D are speaking animatedly to each other. The clickety clack of the train has receded into the background. The various yelps and abuses that their fellow passengers are hurling at each other do not disturb them. A and D chat on. The phone rings...

A: Ello?
Voice: Hi...

Train screeches to a halt…

3 am. A and D whisper to each other over the phone.

A: It is not that he is always there that is worrying me. It is the fact that I think he is smirking at us. I…I can’t whip around my hands any more like a windmill.
D: Yes, I think we need to meet him.
A: Are you sure? He doesn’t know about our real powers. He thinks we only drink tea… Should we…
D: Tomorrow is best. Let’s do it.

Line goes dead ...

And we set off. The Carrot aka The Coffee-Drinking Chaiwalah, a sinister underworld don had been dominating our conversations for quite a while. Ever since one of us revealed to him the existence of our blog, he had sent out his fellow chaiwallahs after us. We no longer felt safe. We felt our tea was drugged. Why else would one of us feel the urge to spill all our secrets to Him? He was giving us gaajar, and we were lulled into a sense of security by his convincing act of innocence (you should try reading his version of events, especially the part where he glosses over the fact that he couldn’t find a single tapri. He thinks he fools everyone with his ‘I am just a blogger, and know nothing about the syndicate of tapris I run, earning me some black money I can spend on cheesy movie tickets’), and one of us started discussing everything with him.

We took care not to go to the same chaiwallas, but no matter where we went, he would know. We would be waiting for a restorative drink at a new chaiwalla, when the chaiwalla’s phone would ring. A quick word and he would stop smiling at us, we would freeze, the chai would come, but we would gulp it down, afraid that one of us was revealing everything to the Chaiwalah.

We decided to corner him in his own den. We donned ordinary clothes, not the sleek black suits we usually wore when making a hit. We saw him across the road. Our cronies, in unmarked vehicles, kept a close watch on us. We pretended to falter while crossing the road while exchanging a complex code of signals with our bodyguards trained in martial arts. They were keeping an eye on us, ready to move in, should we need armed assistance.

Lunch was not good. He kept quiet, watching the television, we had paid the channels a lot of money to keep out the news of raids all over the city on a particular chain of tapris that He lorded over.

He realised nothing. We had him fooled with our act. We took him shopping while the other tapris in his syndicate were razed to the ground. It was a cruel way of mitigating his terrible act, but we had to be ruthless. There were innocent people drinking tea here. He, felt damn sure he had the upper hand. One of us pretended to pull a muscle and had him distracted while the last chaiwalla standing was hauled away.

Coffee? Ha! Ours was laced with our own secret supply of tea. We just came back from an all-night chai-party, celebrating our victory over The Carrot. New tapris will soon come up. We arrive outside and the sweet smell of tea is wafting in the air. Chai, is safe again.