"Masala chai," I say to the young man making a pot of steaming milky spiced black tea.
The chai wallah prays and chants as he tosses the black tea into the stained pot. Chants as he scoops the sugar and throws it in. Chants as he pours in the milk. Rings the prayer bell as the savory-sweet tea boils. Says a prayer as he pours it through the strainer into the tiny earthenware cup that looks like a miniature clay flower pot. Hands me my spicy milk tea, then puts his hands together over his heart.
"Nameste. Hare Krishna," he says to me.
Imagine what life would be like if Starbucks started implementing this policy for their baristas.