Chai Like Clockwork

Some mornings don’t begin — they unfold.

As I step through the black wrought-iron gates and onto the circular driveway of Steve’s old bungalow, the world seems to exhale. The air here feels heavier, slower — the kind that remembers.

Built in the British colonial era, the house wears its history well: tall Doric columns guarding the wide porch, thick lime-washed walls that trap both heat and memory, and ceilings so high the fans seem to turn with stately indifference. It is a house that refuses to hurry.

The floors have been replaced with polished ceramic tiles, but I can almost see the original granite beneath — grey, flecked, cool to the touch — a silent witness to countless footsteps over the decades. To my right, a majestic peepul tree rises like an ancient priest, its branches draped over the house as though in blessing. To the left, a graceful neem stands sentry, its shade spreading like a quiet promise. Between them, the house feels held — protected by roots and ritual alike. 

This is a good house, I think, one blessed by its sentinels of shade.

But it isn’t just the house that makes my stay here special — it’s the small moments of tradition and comfort that lend each day its quiet perfection.

Morning begins the same way, almost ceremonially. A soft rustle of a book shifting on my bedside table, followed by the gentle clink of porcelain against metal — the unmistakable sound of tea arriving. Man Bahadur appears soundlessly, like a note of music you almost missed but can’t forget. Gurkhas are famed for their bravery — fierce, unflinching warriors — yet his movements are tender, deliberate. He places the tray beside me with a faint nod, the steam from the cup curling upwards like a benediction, before disappearing into the silence beyond the door.

I wake fully at the faint chime of my six o’clock alarm, still cocooned beneath the rajai — that thick, comforting Indian quilt that feels like a warm embrace. A stray draft brushes my shoulder, crisp against skin that hasn’t yet escaped the quilt’s hold. Then comes the first sip of chai — hot, sweet, mercifully strong. The world outside can wait.

There’s something profoundly comforting about this routine. The world hums with traffic, deadlines, and the tyranny of notifications, but inside these old walls, time behaves differently. Here, mornings are measured not by urgency but by aroma. The rhythm of life is set by tea leaves steeping just long enough, by sugar stirred three times clockwise, by the small kindness of someone remembering exactly how you like it.

In a world that races toward bigger, louder, faster, this quiet predictability feels almost sacred. A cup of chai placed beside your bed — at the same time, in the same way, every morning — is not a small act. It’s a love letter written in routine. These unhurried gestures remind me that meaning lives in repetition.

So I linger. I sip. I listen to the rustle of trees outside and the slow, steady breath of a house that has seen generations come and go. The grandeur of its architecture, the grace of Man Bahadur’s gesture, the warmth of the rajai — all of it weaves together into something more than comfort.

It is continuity.

It is belonging.

It is chai, like clockwork.