By eight thirty, the shop smells of eucalyptus, damp paper and the first stems of the morning. Outside, Brighton is still half-awake. Inside, Meera has filled the metal buckets and put the kettle on. Before the door is unlocked, she stands at the workbench with a mug of chai warming both hands.
Meera, 34, runs a small florist in Brighton. Her work is full of colour, but her chai is simple. Strong tea, fresh ginger, a little cardamom if the mood is right, and just enough sugar. We spoke about market mornings, the comfort of repetition and why the best cup often comes before anybody else arrives.
When you hear the word chai, where does your mind go first?
To my mum in the kitchen. She had this way of making chai while doing five other things. She would be on the phone to an auntie, telling me to find my shoes, checking something on the hob and still produce a perfect cup. I think that is why chai feels so domestic to me. It is tied to movement and noise and ordinary life.
Did you always care about it this much?
No. I took it for granted growing up. It became mine properly in my twenties, when I was working very early starts in a flower shop and realised I needed one small thing in the morning that belonged only to me. Coffee wakes me up, but chai settles me. That feels more useful.
How do you take your chai now?
Quite strong, definitely gingery, and not overly sweet. I like cardamom but not every day. Sometimes people put in so many spices that it starts tasting like an event. I want something I can drink on a Tuesday before opening the till. Comforting, not performative.
When does chai happen in your day?
The first cup is before we open. That one is the best because the shop is still quiet and the flowers have not yet been handled by ten different people. Then sometimes another around three, when my legs are tired. On Sundays, if I am off, it moves later. I make it slowly and drink it in bed with the windows open.
Does working with flowers change the way you think about rituals?
Completely. Flowers look spontaneous when they are done well, but almost everything in the shop depends on tiny repeated actions. Trimming stems, changing water, sweeping leaves, unwrapping deliveries, tying bunches. Chai sits inside that rhythm. I do not think of it as a break exactly. It is more like a marker that tells my body where I am in the day.
What part of Brighton feels most like yours?
Very early mornings near the seafront, before the city becomes itself. There is a moment when the light is pale and the cafés are only just getting going. I like that version of Brighton. It is a little less polished, a little windblown. More real.
What is occupying your head outside work at the moment?
I have been trying to grow things badly and accept it. I can work with cut flowers all day and still manage to disappoint a basil plant at home. At the moment I am attempting tomatoes behind my flat. They are not thriving, but I have become strangely attached to them.
What is the cup of chai you remember most clearly?
The one my younger brother made for me the week I opened the shop. We were exhausted and everything had gone slightly wrong. A delivery was late, the card machine was temperamental, I had not sat down once. He turned up with two pastries and made chai in the back room using a saucepan that was much too small. It was not elegant, but it tasted like relief.
Who would you most like to have a chai with?
My grandmother. She was never a grand speech person, which is why I would choose her. I would not want some dramatic conversation. I would just want one ordinary afternoon, with her commenting on the flowers, asking nosy questions and telling me I should eat more.
Part of our editorial portrait series, inspired by chai rituals across Britain.
