“One medium chai latte, please,” I say to the cashier in the Dunkin’ Donuts on Chambers Street at approximately 4:10pm. He looks at me with a surprised expression across his face but quickly notes my order and gives me the receipt. I can tell that the cashier is Bengali because as soon as he turns around, he whispers something in Bangla. Although the only word I hear him say is “American,” I know exactly what he whispers to the other Bengali workers: “An American, ordering chai?”

I may be a Bengali-American, but with my brown curly hair and my English-style clothing, I have always been considered a foreigner. In America, a foreigner is someone from a different country, but in the Bengali community, a foreigner is someone who is too American to be considered Bengali. In an effort to stay connected to my heritage, I pay more attention to things around me that relate to my culture, and a chai latte, whilst being my guilty pleasure, is a drink I feel obligated to order.

Every day, at around 5pm, my parents and my grandparents sit around the dining table, gossiping about their daily activities and what they hear about their relatives in Bangladesh. While the things they talk about change all the time, there is one thing that never changes: a pot of chai resting in the center of the table. In my family, chai has always been made in the exact same way. It starts with a pot of milk on the stove, and after it reaches boiling temperature, the ground tea leaves are added into the pot. There’s no exact time to remove the pot from the stove because as soon as the chai is ready, its rich cinnamony aroma spreads through the house. Even though the chai latte doesn’t smell exactly like that of my family, at 4:10pm, it’s the closest thing I have to home.

Chai culture is not only prevalent in my family, but throughout Bangladesh. The streets of cities like Dhaka and Borishal are lined with street vendors stirring chai in large metal pots. Whether it is a particularly hot day or a cool day, there are people of all ages surrounding the vendors, holding small metal cups that wait to be refilled. While on line for their second or third cup of chai, strangers begin to exchange stories, telling one another of the last place they had chai and how this new place is better. Soon, getting chai at their corner vendor will become part of their daily routine, and the people who were once strangers will be akin to their family.

I may not be able to experience the authentic Bengali chai culture, but chai lattes prove to be a middle ground between my Bengali heritage and my American identity. At 4:10pm, I am not in Bangladesh nor at home with my family. I am the girl ordering a chai latte, not to feel “exotic,” but to reach for an identity standard I can never meet. Part of me believes that I only enjoy chai lattes because I feel as though I have to enjoy them; that because I’m so far removed from my roots, I have to hold on to Bangladesh in any way possible, to be as Bengali as possible. It’s either that or I do actually enjoy chai lattes. Nevertheless, it’s a way for me to appreciate my culture and acknowledge where I come from without being questioned by others. For the most part, it’s perfectly American for me to walk into Dunkin’ Donuts and order a chai latte. It’s only other Bengalis who see through my order and understand the struggle of trying to hold on to culture while also adhering to societal norms.

The truth is that the first time I drank a chai latte, it was not what I had ordered. The worker had forgotten my drink and given me the latte instead. Somehow, I believe it was supposed to have happened that way. It was the universe’s way of telling me to reconnect with who I am. The best I could do was drink my chai latte and remember that my cup held more than just a hot drink.

Inspired by The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri