Chapter 27
Five-thirty AM found Vikram on a borrowed motorcycle, prosthetics reshaping his face into anonymity, dressed in faded jeans and a plain shirt that had seen better days. He’d called his makeup artist at four in the morning. Paid him four times as much.
And, he'd skipped his workout. The gym equipment sat unused for the first time in years.
That mattered. His morning routine was sacred: an hour of weights and cardio before the world woke, building the physical discipline that translated to every other area of his life.
Directors praised his dedication. Co-stars envied his consistency.
All of it abandoned for a cup of tea.
Mumbai's early morning streets were still clearing from the night as he navigated through delivery trucks and newspaper vendors. Linking Road appeared through the morning haze, and there, on the corner exactly as Mrs. Menon had described, stood a metal cart under a faded blue tarp.
The Tapri.
Nothing fancy. Just a weathered cart with a small gas burner, dented pots, mismatched cups, and a proprietor who looked like he'd been serving tea since independence.
Raju. Had to be.
Vikram parked the motorcycle down the street and approached, waiting until the current customer left before stepping forward.
"Chai?" Raju asked, not looking up from the pot he was cleaning.
"Actually, I need to learn."
Dark eyes lifted, assessing Vikram with decades of experience reading people.
"Learn what?"
"How to make your chai. The exact method." Vikram kept his voice steady, accent deliberately flattened. "My girlfriend is obsessed with it. Says it's the best in Mumbai. I want to surprise her."
Raju's expression didn't change. "I don't teach."
"I'll pay." Vikram pulled out a fold of cash, generous without being insulting.
The vendor's eyes dropped to the money, then back to Vikram's face. A long pause followed, as though Raju was weighing something deeper than currency.
"Fine," he said finally, pocketing the cash. "Watch close. I only do this once."
The lesson began.
"Two teaspoons loose tea. Not the dust they sell in packets, proper leaves." Raju measured with his fingers, the motion so automatic it seemed like instinct rather than measurement. "Water boils first. Full rolling boil, not just hot."
Vikram watched, committing every detail to memory.
"Ginger. Fresh. This much." A thumb-sized piece, crushed with the flat of a knife. The scent hit immediately. Sharp, clean. "Cardamom. Two pods. Crushed but not powdered."
The vendor's hands moved with practiced efficiency. Milk next. Sugar measured by eye. The liquid came to a second boil, frothing at the edges.
"Now the important part." Raju's voice dropped. "Three seconds. You steep for three seconds once it boils the second time. Not two. Not four. Three."
He demonstrated, pulling the pot from heat and holding it. One, two, three. Then pouring through a strainer.
"Too short, the flavor doesn't develop. Too long, it turns bitter." He handed the cup to Vikram. "Taste."
Vikram took a sip. The chai hit his tongue with layered complexity. Ginger's heat, cardamom's aromatic sweetness, tea's robust foundation. Beautifully balanced.
This was what Divya had walked fifteen minutes for.
"Your turn," Raju said, gesturing to the cart.
Vikram stared at the equipment.
I've never even held a pan.
He reached for the pot. His fingers fumbled with the handle. The weight distribution felt wrong, heavier at the bottom, awkward to maneuver. He added water, overfilled it, had to pour some out. Turned on the burner and nearly singed his knuckles adjusting the flame.
How do people do this every day?
A customer approached. "Bhaiya, teen chai dena."
Vikram looked up, panicked. The man was staring at him expectantly, thirty rupees already extended.
Raju waved the customer off. "Closed for ten minutes. Come back."
"But the cart is right here,"
"Closed." Raju's tone left no room for argument.
The customer grumbled but left. Vikram exhaled.
"Focus," Raju said. "Water's boiling."
Right. Water. Vikram grabbed the tea leaves, tried to measure with his fingers the way Raju had. Too much. He dumped some back, scattering leaves across the cart surface.
This is a disaster.
He added the ginger. Crushed it with the knife, or tried to. The piece shot sideways, nearly flying off the cart before he caught it. Cardamom next. Two pods. He crushed them too hard, turning them to powder.
"Not powder," Raju said patiently. "Crushed."
"Right. Crushed. Not powder."
What's the difference?
The second boil approached. Vikram watched the liquid, waiting for the right moment. Was that it? No, not yet. Now? Maybe...
"Three seconds," Raju reminded.
Vikram pulled the pot from heat, counted internally. One, two, three. Then poured.
The chai that emerged looked wrong. Too pale. The scent was off, ginger overpowering everything else.
He tasted it. Medicinal. Harsh.
Raju dumped it without comment. "Again."
Second attempt. Better. He got the boil timing right, the spice ratio closer. But he pulled it too soon, and the flavor fell flat.
"Your girlfriend," Raju said as Vikram started the third attempt. "What's her name?"
"Divya." The name came easily, naturally.
Raju's hands paused for a fraction of a second. His eyes sharpened, studying Vikram's face with new intensity. Then, carefully neutral, "Divya. College student? Media house?"
Vikram's pulse kicked. "Yes. That's her."
Something shifted in Raju's expression. Recognition, understanding, and beneath it, barely contained shock. His gaze swept over Vikram again, taking in the prosthetics, the disguise, the careful anonymity.
‘He knows,’ Vikram realized. ‘He's figured it out.’
The media coverage of his marriage had been everywhere. Divya's name. Her face. The connection would be obvious to anyone paying attention.
But Raju simply nodded, his exterior calm even as his hands trembled slightly while adjusting the burner. Inside, his mind was clearly racing.
Vikram Khanna. THE Vikram Khanna is standing at my tapri learning to make chai.
"Good girl," Raju said, his voice steady despite the revelation. "Always smiled. Always said thank you." He paused, then added quietly, "I remember her well."
The third attempt proceeded in charged silence. This time Vikram nailed the sequence. Boil. Spices. Second boil. Three seconds. The pour.
He tasted it. Close. Very close.
"The milk," Raju said. "You're adding it too cold. It needs to come to room temperature first."
Fourth attempt. Vikram focused on every detail. The sound of the boil, the precise moment to add ingredients, the three-second steep. This time, the pour produced the right color. The scent was just right.
He handed the cup to Raju.
The vendor sipped. His expression revealed nothing for three long seconds. Then he nodded.
"Good. Your wife is lucky."
Wife. Not girlfriend.
Vikram's chest tightened. "Thank you."
Raju set down the cup, his composure absolute even as wonder flickered in his eyes. "Bring her back sometime. Tell her Raju remembers." He paused, then added with quiet dignity, "I would be honored to host the real you both."
The statement hung between them. Acknowledgment without announcement, recognition without spectacle. Raju understood who stood before him and chose discretion over drama.
Relief flooded through Vikram. He stepped forward and pulled the smaller man into a brief, genuine hug. "Thank you. For everything."
When he pulled back, Raju's eyes were bright but his face remained composed. Professional. As though teaching Bollywood's biggest star to make chai was just another Tuesday morning.
Vikram returned to the motorcycle, hands still smelling like ginger and cardamom, satisfaction settling into his bones.
He'd learned what he came for. And Raju had given him something more valuable than the recipe: the gift of privacy, of treating him like just another man learning to make tea for his wife.
◆◆◆
The morning light had fully broken by the time Vikram arrived home. He showered quickly, changed into fresh clothes, and found Divya in the study, her textbooks spread across the desk, highlighter in hand.
"Ready?" he asked.
She looked up, surprised. "For what?"
"The set. We need to leave in twenty minutes."
Her brow furrowed. "But you said I should stay home today. Focus on my studies."
"I changed my mind." He leaned against the doorframe, casual. "People on set were asking about you. They miss having you around."
The statement landed between them. Divya's expression cycled through confusion to disbelief, settling on polite skepticism.
People miss me? On a film set?
The idea felt absurd. But she didn't argue. Just nodded and began gathering her things. "Give me ten minutes."
"Take fifteen," he said. "I'll be in the car."
They skipped breakfast. Kavita didn't object. She knew her son would take care of both himself and his wife.
The drive to the studio was quiet. Divya sat with her bag in her lap, textbooks inside, clearly planning to study between takes.
She watched Mumbai traffic pass, oblivious to the fact that Vikram's hands still carried faint traces of spice, that his morning had been spent learning something specifically for her.
They arrived at the studio. The security guard waved them through with practiced efficiency. Crew members called out greetings as they walked toward the set. Some to Vikram, a few to Divya, most surprised to see her after several days' absence.
"Glad you're back," the assistant director said, passing them in the hallway. "The schedule's been chaos without you."
Divya smiled politely, still not quite believing it.
Inside, the set hummed with pre-shoot energy. Lighting technicians adjusted rigs, makeup artists hovered with powder brushes, Farhan stood near the main set piece gesturing broadly at the cinematographer.
Normal. Routine. Just another production day.