At the chaiwala stall

Standing room only

Feb 03, 2026

This wasn’t planned as a piece at first.

It started with a place that already existed — a stall people stop at without stopping for long. You stand, you wait, you take the heat, you move on. Nothing remarkable. Nothing owned.

Dipti and I stood there separately, noticing different things. Not at the same time. Not with the same language. We didn’t try to line it up afterwards.

What follows are two sets of observations passing through the same space, leaving traces without trying to explain them.

What follows keeps the same posture.
Standing. Passing.
Heat taken in, then let go.

Nothing is held long enough to become a statement.

ㅤ

The chaiwala is already busy.
Steam lifts from small glasses,
thin ghosts rising and vanishing.
Coins clink, disappear, reappear
in another palm.

The air is thick with ginger and heat,
sweet and sharp enough to stop you mid-step.
No one sits.
Bodies hover—
one foot anchored, one already leaving.
A sip, a breath,
a moment borrowed but never kept.

I arrive halfway through a rhythm already underway.
Space makes way for the rush.
A glass is being lifted,
another set back
as someone turns away.

I stand where a gap opens,
and feel a hush

Nothing waits,
except the steam.

ㅤ

The stand is already in motion.
Liquid lifted from fire to glass,
glass to mouth, mouth back to air.
Hands meet briefly, separate.
A body leans in, another replaces it.
No chairs.
Only weight shifted from heel to toe
while warmth is held just long enough
to be noticed.

A quiet agreement keeps it alive:
nothing here is meant to last.
Heat teaches waiting.
Waiting becomes an exchange.
Exchange dissolves into habit.
Each return looks the same
because it cannot be kept.
What passes through the cup
passes through the people—
pause without possession,
repetition without remainder.

I realise I’m holding the glass too long.
Heat insisting, dreams fading,
relief arriving late,
already leaving.

Around me,
no one lingers long enough
to call this rest,
yet something familiar settles,
enough to loosen a grip.

ㅤㅤ

Steam lifts from small glasses.
Heat loosens its grip into the air.
Hands circle, release.
Coins flash, vanish.
Shoulders wait without resting.
The stand keeps no one—
only moves them along.

What rises is more than steam.
A pause slips between errands.
Fatigue softens, briefly.
Time agrees to slow, then doesn’t.
Nothing is owned here—
not the warmth,
not the moment—
only repeated,
only passing.

The steam slips away,
warmth briefly borrowed,
time convinced to pause.
Imprints of memory followed,
moments waiting for the next.

Then someone steps forward,
coins changing hands,
the stall continuing.

And so do we —
repeating,
passing

ㅤ

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