Chai and Sacrifice

She leans in close to whisper. Her dark hair, large curls arranged neatly atop her head, engender a commanding air. An organic crown, imposing, sensuous royalty, softened by the few loops that fall to frame her ears. Lidded eyes lost in some deepening dream vision, full lips a deep burgundy in the low light, I can almost hear her words before she speaks them. Were I a younger man, were I not under the effects of the same chai, were I not a specter from the realm of the waking, I might be lost in a foggy estuary of eros.

It must be the 1930s. I have been wandering a massive estate. An ancient palace in some place considered new. Stones in a perfect disorder. Walls, tunnels, windows, arches, and buttresses. Everything is perfectly carved, smooth in its immaculate construction, and yet somehow also a labyrinth. An imagining of San Simeon, of someone who’s never been, made real. With a distinct silence curious individuals arrive, stepping out of hushed cars whose engines and closing doors cannot be heard. The idealists are gathering. Anti-state-ists. Communists. Anarchists. Revolutionaries. What names they give themselves. Anything to disguise their fantastic dress and deflect from the eminently luxurious surroundings.

I peer out from a tunnel that passes under the core of the ornamented structure, leading from the front grounds to a cloistered inner space. It has been raining. The copper lamp posts, somehow already aged and covered in verdigris, do not seem to cast enough light. Yet the shape of the world is brightly outlined by reflections in the rain slick rock. Everyone clutches their outer vestments tightly, shoulders raised. Ideologies abound, but are held mute behind eager eyes. No one is speaking yet. We are all here for the ceremony. It looks like a party filtered through some somber glass.

I turn and walk back through the tunnel. Everyone follows. We all know where we need to go. Not into the palatial stone home, but through it, under it. The inner courtyard is darker, but soft lighting makes certain things visible. While there is an area of open space where one could look up past inner walls of stone to their towering peaks, glimpsing sumptuous ornament and gilded windows and finally the dark, starless sky, it is small and too wet. The cobblestones making up its base too slippery for the well heeled guests. A terrace, adjacent and open to that inner space, but under the mass of the building, has been invitingly prepared. Could a grotto be so luxurious? Despite its shadowy nature there is enough illumination yet that we can see evenly spaced tables, each with its complement of simple but comfortable chairs. There is enough room for everyone, and the guests begin to seat themselves. Everyone is in a hurry to reach the start of the magic, but like sleep, it cannot be forced. The place thrums with the impatient energy of the living. Even filled almost to overflowing with giddiness, no one wants to speak.

There are two young men and a woman already seated at the table where I chose to sit. For an instant I catch the look in their eyes; they are not keen on my joining them. But there is no room for or interest in squabbling; none of us are here to make friends, enemies, or small talk. Still I do not fault them their irritation: I can recognize that they are aware, somehow, that I am not cut from the same cloth as the other party goers, despite the fact that I am known by almost all present. Soon after I have made myself comfortable, a woman a bit closer to my age takes the seat to my immediate right. Her beauty is understated, concealed by some inner distraction, but hard to ignore. The shapely curls of her hair, piled high, play, entangled with each other carefully. It is hard to tell whether her hair would be long or short should she let it down. A mystery I have no time to investigate.

Everyone is seated and it is only a matter of a few breaths before several smart young men appear from some shadowed archway, their incongruous clothing a style that seems to be flowing into the future. These are the purveyors of the fabled sacrament. They begin their service. Anticipation reaches its fevered crescendo, murmurs erupt throughout the gathered intelligentsia. The aroma of the chai wafts boldly amongst the tables, dominating space, joining with the impatient desire and the whispers, creating a delightful fugue that, through an inconceivable alchemy pushes everything into the realm of warm satisfaction as the guests immediately partake. None wait to make sure their fellow party goers have all been served, but all sip with care; no one wants to be the first to empty their cup.

I am one of the last to be served, but I have been practicing patience for long years now. Still, I am grateful for this amazing opportunity. Such chai is hard to come by. Something more than black tea and cream. A masala both classic and otherworldly. Sweet enough to please the inner child, and yet not disturb the conflicted adult mind. Every sip is a delight. It uplifts the delicate sensibilities of the tongue, and with a cream of impossible purity, lays a comforting weight on the stomach: a delicious blanket of perfect density and warmth. For me, as it is for all the other guests, every sip slows time and adds a delicious unseen gravity to the body, spreading healing relaxation through one’s entire being, just as the sun begins to warm a mediterranean beach at dawn. I cannot help but lean back in my chair. Who knows how far back I actually go. All I know is that I do not fall and I feel at a most peculiar angle to the world.

Is it me? Is it someone else? Someone speaks. Without fail the question is asked, “What is in this?” Answers are always given, but are they ever the truth? “The husks of trifling wyrms.” As the young server speaks I can almost see it in my mind's eye. Small dark things, dissolving in a teacup.

Eventually someone, a more robust and more politically minded being, usually one of the organizing forces behind the event, manages to stand. Through lidded eyes I can barely make out their silhouette, but in my mind's eye they are clear. Their jaunty Ivy perched at a moderate angle, in stark contrast to their political leanings. A brown jacket with matching slacks. Grinning like a fool, if the fool had knives for teeth. A matching hunger can be heard in his voice.

“We all know what we’re here for. So I will begin without further ado. I give up the state!”

A great deal of mumbling agreement, a few cheers, earnest, though subdued due to the chai. Another voice chimes in soon afterwards.

“I give up cursed monies!”

A few gentle laughs, but generally more mumbling agreement.

“I give up the slavery of time!”

Some good cheers. Things are picking up, and it continues in this vein for several minutes. Rebellious folk, swearing off the various evils that plague their worlds. I don’t have the energy to think of something important, or even apropos to say: I haven’t come for their games. I’m here because of the darkened chamber. The time of night. The impossible waking dream that is the chai. But their game is born of necessity: you cannot take the chai unless you give. Sooner or later I will have to play it.

It begins as conflict: minute waves of thought crashing against each other in the once still pool of the mind. I feel this uncomfortable turmoil grow within me; something undigested that will arise, bidden or not. I struggle to not speak a thing I already know is terrible in its own way. Somehow I also struggle to speak it. The ritual pushes. The chai is unyielding. The compulsion to voice this thing moves faster than my vacillating mind: say it because it’s true and you hate yourself, or say it and make it true because it is the only way to make it a lie. My harrowing, unpolished desire rattles the cage of my soul, escapes, and forces its way past increasingly numb lips.

“I give up attainments.”

I can feel my own hurt, my own pained experience of myself. Why would I give this up? Am I really trying to force the universe to do my bidding through reverse psychology? Why would I doom myself thusly? There are sounds of confusion and dismissal, but I can barely hear them. I am both stuck in the calm bliss of the chai, and left dumbstruck, wondering what I have done to myself. I am sitting upright again. I am watching the impassioned young strip themselves of things they deem evil. I am hunching over the table now, supporting myself with my arms. Fists clenched. The woman to my right stirs.

Her beauty is boldly accentuated by everything that has come to pass thus far. The night, the rain, the chai, the bitterness of my own thoughts. Somehow it radiates serenely through my stained glass mess of a mind, restoring a small inner calm. Even more, I am roused to compassionate concern. She is too far gone into the realm of the chai. Whatever it wants from her, or took from her, she is only half present.

She barely manages to clasp my right hand with her left, and I see her clearly. She leans in close to whisper. Her dark hair, large curls arranged neatly atop her head, engender a commanding air. An organic crown, imposing, sensuous royalty, softened by the few loops that fall to frame her ears. Lidded eyes lost in some deepening dream vision, full lips a deep burgundy in the low light, I can almost hear her words before she speaks them.

“I think,” her whisper is not truly audible but I know its content as if it had been shouted, “you cannot leave me this night.” Some part of me is losing to desire.