"Chai! Chai! Chai!" came the strangled wail that jolted me from my early morning slumber. It sounded like the painful cry of a scalded cat, but it wasn’t. It could be only one thing—swarms of Indian Railways chai sellers, laden with pots and urns. It was five in the morning, and I was travelling from some place to some other place—I can't quite recall—in second-class sleeper. As was usual, people were coming to life early and by about six, were out of their berths and sitting, eating or just glaring out of the window. I can’t understand why most people arise so early and then sit bored witless for hours when they could pass the time by sleeping. Maybe the chai sellers have a lot to do with it. They prowl the corridors shouting and screaming as if their particular chai is the last available chai on the planet, and instill a sense of urgency by making everyone feel that they must order some before it runs out. Unfortunately, it never does. There is always an endless supply of chai and chai sellers—all day and half of the night—no matter what. They arrive on the scene just at the precise moment I am beginning to doze off. I decide to order a coffee, working on the basis that if you can’t beat them, then you'd better join them. I wanted coffee even though the chai seller appeared to have only tea. But to my surprise he smiled and pulled out some coffee powder. “Fantastic”, I thought. Then, astonishingly, he put a spoonful of coffee into a cup of tea! He had no hot water—only hot chai. I gave him five rupees, shook my head and made a deliberate expulsion of air. India had made me an expert in the art of sighing. In a way, the chai sellers represent the hyperactive part of India that visitors can find both fascinating and infuriating. A sense of urgency often prevails and makes the place exciting and electric. Walk along any main street and you will feel it in the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Vehicles from autorickshaws to mopeds dodge and weave in the latest jam and accelerate at pace just to get into the most unlikely gap in the traffic. And walk along any street shoulder to shoulder in a mass of humanity only to have someone slither into a space in front of you where no place appeared to exist. Why all the urgency when really there is no call for it? India exhibits a frenzy that, if transferred to the West, would be a recipe for stress and bad temper likely to cause coronary overload. I often feel like telling people to chill out—but surprisingly people are chilled out in the midst of it all. Indians seem unfazed by all of the hyperactivity and exude an inner calm that Westerners tend to lack. So it is to be expected that the non-stop chai selling often irritates someone like me, and the wailing and bellowing that accompanies it. But there is another explanation: I am British! A lot of people have come to regard complaining as a British art form. Australians condemn us Brits by asking, “What's the difference between a 747 and a Pom? The 747 stops whining when it gets to Sydney airport!” I think they say this because many of us Brits are brought up to search for a place called Wit’s End. It took me some time to realise that it is not a mountain peak or far-flung point on a peninsula. Wit’s End is the pinnacle of a metaphorical journey: The end of an inner quest for self-realisation. Eventually, my train pulled into the final station and a thousand passengers alighted (or should that be a thousand chai sellers?). On the adjacent platform a train was about to begin its journey. It was packed with passengers and, of course, with chai sellers. As I checked into my hotel and entered my room, I was greeted by swarming mosquitoes and an overflowing bin. The fan was the noisy type. It was a highly effective mosquito repellent but made a constant rattling sound, which kept me awake for half of the night. Anyone who has ever slept in a mosquito-ridden room will know that it is no fun whatsoever having mosquitoes annoyingly hum past your ears all through the night. So on this occasion the rattling fan is a necessity. The journey’s end is often more hard-bitten than what we ever imagined or hoped for. Compared to my hotel room, Indian trains aren't so bad after all. One day, someone may build a monument to world travellers. If they do, I hope it is modelled on, of all things, a ceiling fan. Then all travellers who visit the site will be transported in thought to a hot night in Asia lying in bed, tormented by the sound of some noisy fan, pesky mosquitoes or the cry of “Chai! Chai! Chai!”. Then, at that point, they will get the inexplicable urge to do it all again and hit the road; the human desire to keep striving; to keep moving on; to keep journeying. Itchy feet and wandering minds; or should that be itchy minds and wandering feet? It doesn't really matter. More chai anyone? The writer is the author of Chasing Rainbows in Chennai
