In this world, there are busy roads and not so busy roads. People jostle to move past or move ahead. Each of them walks these roads in his own faulty, perfect, hesitant, cocksure gait. But each one takes a step in a direction – some with the urgency of getting away from, some with the earnestness of getting closer to.
Every road is a maelstromific bubble. Every person who walks it, walks it with little spurts of crackle. No matter how small or desolate a path, it is someone’s highway to somewhere. And on these roads, there are stalls that stand vanguards to the ultimate emblem of the free spirit – an open road.
These stalls are frequented by an ilk that hasn’t gone soft. Their hearts are still simple, their minds are still unfettered. There’s rawness in their bustle. There’s quickness in their transaction.
These stalls are no place for the mind to get plush or lofty.
When the sun beats down on these stalls, people with unfinished business stop here. They have a grit in their eyes that you would miss in a chic coffee shop anywhere. These eyes could belong to a laborer who’s thinking of being the Marco Polo of his village or the sales guy who’ll shed his corporate shackles today or the woman who’s listening to the first applause of her play. These people are different from those with smooth, processed desires who sit in cool, mild café’s. Their dreams are unpolished still – like the stalls they frequent.
From these stalls comes a beverage that infuses this doggedness. It’s sweet and scalding – like the careless tomorrows that crackle in the maelstromic bubble. Again, it’s not for the content or the laggards. It’s for those who sear and bear and grimace yet blink at the sun without shades. It’s for those commoners who claim the open road without sunscreen. It’s the liquid brew of the Ceasar’s promise and the Excalibur spirit.
The cutting chai is not everyone’s cup of tea.