Let’s sit at a roadside dhaaba,
steam curling from chipped clay cups.
Let the chai’s heat rise between us,
softening silence,
stirring words we didn’t know we carried.
Let the rain drip from tin rooftops,
its rhythm folding into our pauses.
Let the world blur for a while,
So only the scent of Elaichi
and the sound of your laughter remains.  
We’ll break pakoras, crisp and golden,
or tear into flaky lachaydaar parathas,
grease marking our fingers,
moments marking our souls.
Maybe we'll wait for something that takes forever to bake,
just so I can linger in your eyes,
learning their language sip by sip
until the only thing left to agree upon
is the giving of your heart.
And then,
I wouldn’t be waiting for chai anymore.
I’d be the one brewing every cup for you
stronger on weary days,
sweeter on the softer ones.
So let’s give life a chance.
Let it write our story in rising steam,
in unspoken words,
in feelings that quietly spill over
a simple cup of chai.
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