Two Borders, One Teacup: How Pakistani Chai Bridged the Divide
“Excuse me!” she called out, rushing after me just as I was about to leave the restaurant. “Please, could you tell me which tea bag is this? The tea smells utterly fantastic!”
It had started simply enough: a laptop, a cup of hot water, and a tea bag in a quiet corner of Basel, Switzerland. The person brewing that cup was yours truly—already notorious in the city’s desi community for carrying my own tea bags everywhere I go. In Swiss cafés (yes, I see you frowning at my coffee etiquette, or lack thereof) and high up on airplanes, I refuse to compromise on my daily elixir. Now, I know the purists are shaking their heads in disdain—real chai ki patti belongs in a teapot under a tea cosy, not in a bag. I agree. But when you are on the move, a round, staple-free tea bag filled with coarse, rich tea leaves has to do. And it has to be the best.
Which brings me back to the restaurant tray rack.
Minutes earlier, I had dropped off my empty cup, leaving behind a few last drops of tea and the spent bag inside. As the woman clearing the tables—a lady of Indian origin—picked up my tray, she caught a whiff of the leftover tea. Her reaction was so enthusiastic that even I was taken aback by her sudden fervour. Had I just spotted a fellow chai devotee?
She hurried over, her face a mix of curiosity and shyness. “Do you mind if I ask you something, please?”
Now, if you’re a desi living in a non-desi land, you know what you know. No matter how many queues we stand in obediently, rules we learn to follow, zebra crossings we respect, and PET bottles we recycle, there is one thing we always welcome in equal measure: a random conversation struck up by a desi stranger who somehow feels familiar simply because we share the same subcontinent. So when the Indian lady approached me—half shy, half determined—I responded just as any desi abroad would:
“You can ask me anything and I’d be happy to answer, but only if you ask me in Hindi or Urdu.”
She smiled. “But of course. Ye chai kaunsi hai?” Which tea bag is this?
My quizzical expression prompted her to elaborate. Pausing to catch her breath, she explained with the excitement of someone who had just uncovered a well-kept secret: “I picked up the cup you dropped off on the tray rack, and I couldn’t help taking in the aroma of the leftover tea. It is the most amazing aroma.” She held her breath, mimicking the exact moment she caught the first whiff. “It was absolutely incredible! The khushboo…”
She went on to tell me how she and her husband sit down for a cup of tea every evening after work, yet lately, nothing they bought tasted quite right. The flavour, the strength of the leaves, the aroma—none of it hit the mark. Until this tea bag.
I smiled. Living in the moment is a real thing, and this was one that stayed with me. If you’re a Pakistani reading this, you know that quiet rush of pride when someone from across the border tells you they cannot get over Pakistani tea, mangoes, a drama, or anything from home that lands as the ultimate flavour hit in a world full of dupes.
“It’s from Pakistan,” I replied. “And I’d be happy to get it for you.” I smiled with the air of someone who knew she had just landed a win, yet wanted desperately to stay humble. Play the role, keep calm and nonchalant, I whispered to myself.
“Oh, just tell me the name and I’ll order it online,” she offered. So I told her, and she searched on her phone—only to come up empty-handed. Tapal tea bags are not stocked in Swiss online shops. They are a rare commodity in desi expat households, and we do not part with our stash unless we know fresh supplies are already packed in a suitcase crossing the border into Switzerland.
Still, I told her not to worry—I would bring her some. Generosity has no limits when one gets to flex the best from across the border.
Fast forward a week and a quick dive into my cellar back home in Basel. I emerged with two silver-foil packs of Tapal tea bags and, as promised, delivered them to our Indian—now officially Pakistani tea fan—friend at the restaurant.
She beamed with joy and promised to brew a proper cup for her husband that very evening. I walked away still amazed that a few leftover drops in a near-empty cup and a single used tea bag could spark an entire cross-border exchange of the drink consumed in bucketfuls, morning, day, and night, across both our countries.
That wasn’t the end of it, though. The next morning, I woke up to my husband making me an espresso.
“Darling, we’re out of tea,” he said, sounding puzzled. “I could have sworn we had some packs left in the cellar, but I couldn’t find them. Can you write in the group chat? Whoever is flying in from Pakistan next, we need to restock.” (Read: re-hoard.)
I murmured an innocent, “Oh no. Not the tea! I thought we had plenty left.” Quietly, I reached for my laptop bag—the one I carry on my daily café visits. Tucked safely inside was my emergency stash, the backup plan every expat needs when the kitchen runs dry. I counted them carefully: twelve tea bags, exactly.
Should last, I whispered to myself. As long as I don’t share.
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