Chai with Dad: A Heartfelt Tribute
What my father in law taught me about chai, cuisine, and career
“Here’s your chai, dhikri.” My father-in-law pours me a cup of a fragrant brown elixir into a Pioneer Woman mug. A term of endearment in Gujarati, dhikri means heart. It’s like a pet name used for children and those we love.
The steam swirls above the mug, as I inhale the aroma of ginger, cardamom, and mint leaves. I lean over the granite countertop, as he continues to strain the chai into 2 more cups by the stove.
“Dad, can I do that for you?” I ask, referring to the serving of the tea. It was my job, I thought, to serve him the tea as the daughter-in-law. I was taught to follow a certain adab of service.
“No, dhikri.” He places two steamy mugs on a white Corelle plate, with a small bowl of cake rusk. He carries this breakfast up the stairs to his wife, as they get ready for the work day together.
Mom fits in a quick workout on her stationary bike, while Dad watches the news and figures out his stocks and grocery list for the day. I can hear the tv and them talking from downstairs. By 7:30 AM, they are both dressed and out of the house for their jobs.
I loved their morning routine of making and having breakfast together. Sometimes Dad made the tea; sometimes Mom. But the routine was the same for the 6 years I lived with them.
I called my father-in-law “Dad” as a term of respect. It never felt awkward to call him that because my father I call “Abbu,” the Bengali word for father. When my husband and I would tell stories, people would get confused: “Whose Dad?” they would ask.
I couldn’t think of any other word for someone who inspires, leads, and cares for his kids and family as he has done over his 74 years.
This week was his birthday.
In the midst of the horrors and sadness of witnessing Israel kill more people in Rafah, I found a little bit of joy.
I cannot think of any other way to honor this human being except to write an essay, to write down what he has taught me.
Dad has been a cornerstone of my life for the past 20 years. Not only did my husband and I live with his parents, I also worked with Dad in his retail business. I saw how he operated his business and his life. I shadowed him for about a year. I was between undergrad and graduate school, confident that someone, someday would hire me with my Philosophy degree in a recession. Dad offered me my first real job as a pharmacy technician.
Our time together taught me some valuable lessons on entrepreneurship and leadership. Today, I wanted to share 3 lessons from Dad:
Dad taught me how to cut an onion.
Gratitude and patience are key.
Life is like the stock market.
1. Dad taught me how to cut an onion.
One fine Saturday morning, when my MIL and FIL were cooking lunch, I was tasked with cutting an onion.
(My husband was in a basketball/softball/sports league on Saturday and Sunday mornings. Had he been there, he would have sliced a perfect onion and saved me the ensuing embarrassment.)
I peeled the onion and immediately started to tear up. I tried to hold the tears in, as I pressed down with a santoku knife in a somewhat zig-zag fashion. I had no idea how to stop crying from the onion smell, and the zig-zag was not intentional. Theoretically, I was trying to get thin slices to then chop finely, but I thought you could eventually dice finely without actually getting the slices right. The result? I had an assortment of Chex-sized onion pieces. And I was crying.
Dad stopped me.
He showed me how to hold the onion with my left hand, how to hold the knife steady, and how to make uniform slices. He showed me to bend my fingernails so that I wouldn’t cut myself. And he taught me to put the peeled onion in the fridge so that I wouldn’t cry.
He probably felt sympathy for his eldest son, married to a Desi girl who did not know how to cut an onion. Most young women in this family knew how to make and serve chai, cook, and clean as part of their upbringing. These were life skills taught early, especially in South Asian families.
Growing up in one of the most competitive education markets in the world (NYC), my mother taught me to focus on my studies. She said these life skills would automatically come when the situation required it. She believed strongly that there was a time to focus on your studies, and then a time for family.
No domestic skill was automatic, at least not for me.
My mother hadn’t imagined that her studious, slightly socially awkward daughter would get married at 20. She thought she had time to teach me how to cook after I graduated from college. Growing up, I never showed any interest in making or preparing food, not even for holidays.
Is it automatic that you know how to sort and wash your clothes properly? Or that you know how to drive? Well, it’s not automatic that women know how to cook or clean up vomit properly. It all requires some level of exposure and skill-building. This is why my son and daughter know how to set the table, load the dishwasher, make their breakfast (toast bagels) because life skills take time and practice.
Once I got married, I learned so much in that kitchen, working alongside two people who both loved to be in the kitchen together. My father-in-law taught me to cut onions, and by extension, how to cook pretty much everything my husband ate. Our Saturday mornings were spent with the 3 of us cooking meals for my husband’s grandparents.
And when my husband came back from his game (games?), he would drop off home-made food to his grandparents. Dad would leave for work on Saturdays around 9:30, Mom would rest, and I would be too tired to do anything else after 6 hours in the kitchen.
Dad taught me to cook with love. He said that’s what makes food exceptional. He opened 3 restaurants over his lifetime, and he said it’s not just about the marination and prep but there’s an essential ingredient of love that he puts into his food. He thinks about his family or the end user as he’s cooking. He does salawaat or sings sometimes when he cooks. He’s often invoking God’s name as he cooks. Maybe that is the love.
Gujarati food looks like this:
For someone who can live on mostly white rice and lentil soup, learning Gujarati cuisine took some time and a lot of chai on Saturday mornings.
Gratitude and patience are the key
Any time he felt stressed, Dad said “Thank God.” Or rather, the Arabic, which is Shukuralhamdullilah.
When his businesses were robbed by drug addicts, and vandalized, he said this.
When he lost money in an investment, he said this.
When he was sick or someone close to him died, he still said this.
He always reminded me that it could be worse.
He said, he could be back home in India, where Muslims are treated like second-class citizens even though they have been part of the original founding of India. In fact, India has the third largest population of Muslims in the world, after Indonesia and Pakistan. Yet there is a lot of overt discrimination in India towards Muslims as a minority group. In America, at least where I live, I feel privileged to be part of an Indian family.
Dad often referenced how much his parents sacrificed so that he could study to become a pharmacist. He was full of gratitude for everything, whether it was good or bad, and this outlook allowed him to weather the ups and downs of entrepreneurship.
He had zero expectations for what his life would look like. He had zero expectations that his kids would go to Ivy League universities. He never pushed his sons to achieve, yet they excelled at everything. There were no trophies on display; no certificates on the walls. I was surprised to see boxes of awards in the basement. No one displayed trinkets or achievements in this house.
I grew up in a household where my Ma framed every award, every certificate, and displayed first-place trophies alongside family photos for decades. Winning first place in policy debate or fencing 20 years ago— who needs to know? Who cares about these awards? My Ma said it reminds her of her kids, and she puts our pictures everywhere in her house. It just makes her happy to see what her kids have done.
Was one approach to “winning” better? The ethos of achievement was present in both households growing up, but I think the emphasis was different.
According to Dad, awards and recognition do not matter. The ultimate reward is from God, so talking about achievement was not acceptable. What will you do with these talents? He thanked God for giving him his gifts (memory, timing, health) and he used these gifts each day in his work, serving customers.
A career that is about service to humanity has always been attractive. It’s why I studied social work and organizational dynamics. I saw Dad model a career of serving sick people every day. Food was a kind of medicine for the heart, and medicine was a balm to the body. He operated in both those realms.
When I told him I wanted to work in philanthropy with no connections to the field, Dad listened. At this point, I had finished graduate school and was working in nonprofit consulting in New York City. But he told me I could not do this commute forever. He told me about a company he had noticed while driving. He said, “Check this place out, you never know.”
I had many reasons why I was not an attractive candidate for this place. I didn’t have the pedigree or the education, or the connections. But I applied and reapplied, listening to Dad’s advice: “You never know.” Finally, I got the offer to work at this place that Dad and I had dreamed about. In a pool of 400+ candidates, I was the first-round pick. I was shocked but Dad was not.
Dad believed in my dreams and provided emotional support to make it happen. I’ve seen him do this with all his kids. He is the first investor in our ideas.
Life is like the stock market.
“The stock market is about blah blah blah.”
The first time Dad said it, I laughed. How can this make any sense to anyone who invests?
He explained that the perception of stocks is based on what people say is going to happen, the confidence they feel about a company—not about facts. The stock market goes up and down and you have to ride it out, he said. It’s more about perception, not so much reality.
I interpret this to mean the perception of things is what shapes reality.
This was one of the key lessons he taught me about how people are so quick to judge you based on what they perceive about you.
In American society, the perception of a scarf-wearing Muslim woman is not great. People assume the worst about the men in my life. They assume that as an Asian woman, I am quiet, docile, and servile.
Relationships are based mostly on how you make someone else feel. In business and in his personal life, Dad listened deeply and cared about his customers. He saw his pharmacy customers each month, took the time to talk to them about what was happening in their lives. Sometimes he’d advocate for his customers with limited English proficiency. On the phone with the health insurance company, Dad would try to get a generic drug covered for a patient who couldn’t afford the co-pay for the brand name. There were countless examples of how he helped sick people through his pharmacy and food businesses.
“My Lord! Be merciful to them as they raised me when I was young.”
(Surah Al-Isra’ 17:24)
A Question For You
What are some lessons you’ve learned from a Dad in your life? Do any of these lessons resonate with you? Let’s meet in the comments!
Hi, I’m Sadia. I write through the ugly stage of motherhood, as a mom of young children trying to make space for creativity and the pursuit of spiritual knowledge. I write about topics like theology, culture, gratitude, and trying to live a prophetic life in modern times.
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A lovely tribute. May Allah be pleased with him.
I loved this love letter to your Dad! Its so beautiful.
I also like the contrast you draw with the way you were brought up, especially in terms of thinking about accolades and praise given while growing up. I think about that a lot for our kids, namely how we want to strike a balance between urging them to try sports/activities and pushing them to excel.
I definitely salute you and your partner! I don't think my partner or I would ever want to live with either set of parents! But as they get older, we have been wanting my parents (who do not live near us) to stay with us for longer and longer periods. One time, I asked my parents if they wanted to stay with us for 3 months at a time, and they shrugged their shoulders and said no, wanting to stay home so they could hang out with their crew of seniors that they see two or three times/week. Often, I call my mom only to see that she's dressed up at a brunch with their crew. Its amazing, their social life is way busier than ours!