A Persian goodbye seemingly extends for years. I recall several childhood memories of silently tugging at my mother’s dress, whispering reminders that the sun has set, that my favorite cookie tin has run empty, that she said we’d leave an hour ago.
I hide my eagerness to discover whether the moon is truly following us, or if my father will finally confess he can see through how my siblings’ and I fake our slumber on our drives home. My mother softly rakes her fingers through my hair, and my distress briefly leaves me. I hear the zarf shirini delicately tap our cousins’ wooden coffee table, followed by the subtle placement of several cups of chai that succeed it. My mother’s face exudes a soft gleam as she whispers, “Just five more minutes.” I loosen my hold, rest my head on her dress, and accept a few truths that have become certain: The moon’s intentions will remain elusive, my father will once again humor our charade by carrying us to our shared room when we return home, and soon I will watch the steam rise from the freshly brewed chai, listening closely as it whispers a kind apology for delaying our parting by yet another hour.
The brewing and indulgence of chai is an ancient ritual, a quiet luxury that transcends time. Each sip carries a taste of its history, a practice revered across cultures for centuries. As a child, the undeniable elegance and significance of chai was beyond my grasp. When mugs of it entered the room, I’d crinkle my nose, reducing it to a glass of boiled, tinted water. So, when hosts offered chai at the end of gatherings, or my parents asked if they should prepare an extra glass in the comfort of our home, I politely declined. Instead, I’d shift my loving gaze toward the accessories that accompanied it; an assortment of adored Persian sweets like zaban and nan berenji and stirring spoons with engraved patterns. I even had a fondness for the small jar overflowing with sugar cubes that I’d sneak a handful of, allowing them to dissolve in my mouth when no one was watching.
While I may have overlooked it as a child, in my Iranian household, chai’s presence had an unwavering familiarity. In my adolescence, I became increasingly conscious of my parent’s deep dedication to our family. Their sincere efforts were evident in both big sacrifices and in small, yet deeply meaningful ways, such as the care with which they prepared each cup of chai. Sure, there are memories of chai that remind me of my unanswered questions about the moon or my delayed bedtime; but there were other, more prominent memories, too. Ones where I watched in awe as my father separated the loose leaves from their tin, delicately placed them in the teapot, and spoke to me about the value of patience while we waited for the water to absorb a deep, saffron color. How, afterward, my mother would sit in front of me with four or five small glass cups that curved outward at the rims. I admired her warm demeanor as she poured the chai slowly, then all at once. Reaching for the nabat, she stirred in a touch of sweetness, her motion commanding the water to follow as the tea leaves that snuck through the strainer swirled and eventually settled at the bottom.
This practice became second-nature, a daily display of affection that I honored from afar until one day it felt impossible to resist. After difficult days, stressful exams, or grueling colds, I began not just nodding at the offer of chai, but also looking forward to it. There was no need to convince my taste buds, that the first sip felt like home. Initially, I focused on the chai itself — it wasn’t until I zoomed out from the portrait of my childhood memories that I could clearly see the true value of chai. As I reflected more, it became clear that chai served as a center for family and friends to come together, fostering a sense of belonging and community. The brewing and offering of chai meant much more than a complement to Persian pastries. Chai was poured to prolong social gatherings, a way of saying, “I’m not done appreciating our conversation yet,” like standing in front of a museum painting, drowning out the noise of eager footsteps rushing to seek the next display. Its steam rises in the morning, gently energizing you. Its warmth catches your troubles, unwinding them right before your eyes. Soothing harsh throats and even harsher truths, it relieves physical and mental troubles just as much as it draws you toward immense gratitude. Chai signaled celebration and comfort alike, a companion to hold you in difficult moments and cherish you tenfold in joyful ones.
Chai’s presence beautifully lingered, its spiced aroma — notes of bergamot, rose, and cardamom — was burned into our Persian carpets, its glassware filling half of our cabinets. More than a drink, it served as ritual, a cultural touchstone, a comfort interwoven deep into the fabric of our home.
My favorite thing about chai was the preparation of it. As much as I love Persian chai, my love poured over to other culture’s preferred ways of brewing tea as well. Be it my friend Zoie’s mother’s masala chai she made every time I came over, or japanese matcha I ordered every summer Monday with Akemi and Adiya, trying every local cafe we learned served it (Nook Coffee became our personal favorite). Chai was the ribbon that tied together most of my fondest memories and intimate moments with people I love. In addition to being an act of service to others, chai was a means to serve and extend kindness to myself, too.
Over the summer, I immersed myself in the ritual of making tea — finding peace in the intimacy of it.
Whether it was herbal at night or black in the morning, selecting the tea leaves became a quiet act of self-care. The steam rising from the boiling water softened my skin as I watched the colors infuse the water. Adding a splash of soy, I savored the world’s stillness, the only movement being the swirling hues of tea. On mornings I was graced to wake before my alarm, I had the privilege of preparing my almost daily matcha latte, gently sifting green powder into my bowl, the rhythmic whisking syncing with my soulful sunrise playlist.
Years of watching my parents prepare chai have imprinted a deep sense of serenity in me. When I whisk my matcha or brew loose leaf tea, I feel their presence — it’s as though I embody them. In these quiet moments, my internal and external words align. I become attuned to the simplicity of the task, and everything suddenly feels right. There is no rush, no worry — only the comforting certainty that for this speak of time; everything is exactly where it’s meant to be. This is when I feel most myself — grounded and at peace. I don’t rush to the reward of the tea; instead, I savor the ritual itself as well as honoring the time I get to spend with myself. My kitchen becomes a sanctuary, not defined by external expectations, but rather the stillness I’ve created in my solitude. The nutty aroma of chai, the vibrant green of matcha — each step reflects the care and attention I put into crafting a perfect cup. This simple practice resists the fast pace of my schedule, reminding me that sometimes the kindest thing I can do for myself is make something just for me, with no greater purpose than the peace it brings. As a chronic chai drinker, I feel fortunate to experience this meditative ritual — a practice so simple, yet so rich with gratitude and presence.
Looking back, I can’t fathom that there was ever a version of me deprived of her daily chai, who underestimated the profound act of love embedded in the brewing, serving, and drinking of it — for others, and for myself. Who had yet to learn that she, too, would one day heartily extend her own goodbyes. Even now, as I write this, I’m indulging in a black tea latte, and with each paragraph — like breathing — I find myself naturally reaching for the cup for comfort. Each sip soothes me, and if I close my eyes, I can almost once again smell the chai burned into our Persian carpets, the saffron hue that stained the wooden coffee table. I can hear the glasses clink, taste the zarf shirini. I feel myself tugging at my mother’s clothes, closing my eyes just enough to pretend I’m sleeping on the drive, but squinting enough to still watch the moon follow us home. And that’s exactly where chai takes me, even if I’m almost 2,000 miles away from it.
MiC Columnist Nadia Jahanbin ntanaz@umich.edu.
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