Chai Wallah

I have stopped to drink a chai by the side of the river. The chai wallah is a sadhu wearing a purple fringed orange lungi and a neck full of beads. The chai wallah is old, and his string of dreadlocks are pure white and ring his balding head like a crown, mixing with the dreaded locks of his long beard. His other customer is another sadhu, sitting with his legs crossed and drinking his chai with his small finger straight. His technique reminds me of the queen. The chai wallah pours me a glass of sweet chai from a large steel kettle. He places the small glass on top of the steps while I climb up to take my seat, at this pseudo river theatre.

The daily performers are small children who run away from a buffalo that they have just taunted. Men strip to their underwear before plunging into the river that just a few moments ago I watched dead bodies be bathed in.

A newly bathed young boy hops around, trying to jump his feet into the trousers which he is holding in front of him like a large net. He is naked apart from the red sacred thread tied around his tiny waist.

I sip my chai, its warmth refreshing me despite the heat. The chai wallah is continuously busy collecting his glasses, refiling and then carrying over the various groups of men. I wonder if this is the first cup of chai I have been served by an aging bare chested monk?

The young boy finally relents and his bare bottom lands on the stone as he sits around buffalo shit pulling his trousers over his skinny hips.

I watch an older man simultaneously clean himself and a buffalo. The buffalo stands removed from the experience. His thick skin twitching, eyes unblinking, jaw hanging, saliva dripping. The man alternates between scrubbing the beast and scrubbing himself. I watch the other bathers and wonder why the men fully submerge themselves three times in the water? I wonder how the bathers appear on the third time looking so clean?

I try not to wonder where the chai wallah fills his kettle?