A few years ago in Oct 2022, I visited Chittorgarh Fort on a solo trip. Like every sensible tourist determined to “fully experience history,” I hired a guide, and like every guide worth his salt, he ensured I walked every possible inch of the fort while narrating stories of bravery, sacrifice, kings, queens, sieges, tunnels, secret passages, and probably even stones that had “historical significance.”
My unforgettable Chittorgarh Fort chaas seller story began on a blazing October afternoon in 2022. Like every sensible tourist determined to “fully experience history,” I hired a guide, and like every guide worth his salt, he ensured I walked every possible inch of the fort while narrating stories of bravery, sacrifice, kings, queens, sieges, tunnels, secret passages, and probably even stones that had “historical significance.”
After nearly three hours, I was exhausted, sunburnt, thirsty, and spiritually ready to sit inside a refrigerator. As I reached the exit gate, I spotted salvation.
A chaas seller.
Not just any chaas seller — this man looked as though Rajasthan Tourism itself had appointed him. He wore a magnificent red turban tied with flair, a spotless white kurta and dhoti, with another piece of cloth tied to his hips, and carried the confidence of a man who knew his chaas could heal emotional trauma.
Fair, plump, cheerful, and theatrical. The moment he saw me slowing down near his cart, he sprang into action.
“Madamji… thandi chaas! Fort ki thakaan ek minute mein gaayab!”
Before I could answer, he lifted a steel tumbler high into the air and poured the chaas dramatically from one vessel to another as though auditioning for a cooking show.
I was sold.
In Rajasthan, I had noticed that many men spoke to women with remarkable politeness — lowered eyes, respectful tone, measured conversation. This gentleman too spoke with great courtesy.
“Madamji pehli baar aaye ho?”
“Yes.”
“Akele?”
His eyebrows nearly touched his turban.
“Yes,” I smiled proudly.
He looked momentarily disturbed, as though I had casually informed him I had climbed the fort walls barefoot. At that exact moment my driver appeared nearby, and the chaas seller visibly relaxed.
“Achhaaa… driver saab ke saath aaye ho.”
The driver added helpfully,
“Udaipur se specially fort dekhne aayi hain.”
The seller nodded with approval. Order had been restored to the universe. Meanwhile, he continued glorifying his chaas.
“Isme jeera hai… pudina hai… body ko thanda rakhta hai… digestion first class!”
Honestly, by then I was willing to believe the chaas could also solve geopolitical tensions. Just as our little cultural exchange was warming up, destiny entered dramatically.
A foreign tourist walked toward the cart. Blonde hair. Hat. Camera. Curious expression.She pointed at my glass and asked,
“What is that? Is it safe?”
I immediately transformed into India’s unofficial tourism ambassador.
“Oh yes! It’s chaas — buttermilk. Very refreshing. You should definitely try it.”
She smiled. “Okay! I’ll have one.”
That is when the betrayal began. The chaas seller straightened instantly. He adjusted his belt. Retied part of his turban. Stood taller. Then, in what I can only describe as International Hospitality Mode, he declared:
“Madam… dis is berry famous drink. Natural! Healthy! Cooling system!”
Cooling system. I almost choked on my chaas.
Suddenly the pouring became more elaborate. The smile became wider. The performance became grander. Every swirl of the ladle was now for her.
I’m quite sure it wasn’t the first time a foreign tourist had stopped at his stall. Chittorgarh sees visitors from across the world every day. Yet, the transformation in him was instant and unmistakable.
The respectful, composed chaas seller who had been discussing cumin, digestion, and solo travel with lowered eyes suddenly became a showman performing for an international audience. His broken English appeared from nowhere, the pouring became theatrical, and I — his original customer — quietly faded into the background.
Then came the final insult. He thrust his phone into my hand.
“Madamji… photo kheecho na.”
And there I stood — demoted from valued customer to official photographer.
The foreign tourist smiled politely beside him while he posed proudly with his chaas vessel like a celebrity chef receiving an international award. I clicked the picture.
“One more, madamji.”
I clicked another. Neither of them noticed that I had quietly finished my chaas. Or that I had started leaving. Or that the original customer — the one who had first stopped at his cart — had vanished into the crowd.
No goodbye. No “phir aaiyega.” Nothing.
As I walked away, I couldn’t stop laughing. It was impossible not to laugh. Human nature, after all, is sometimes more entertaining than history itself.
Ironically, after becoming their official photographer, I forgot to take a photo of the man himself.
Very nice , explained ver well,also very true that in India foreigners are respected by these sellers,the chaas seller may have printed the photo with the foreigner and must have showcased it in his stall to boost his sales
Thank you so much! 😊
Yes, that possibility about the photograph made me smile. It’s fascinating how a small interaction can become part of someone’s story—and even their marketing! 😄
Beautifully portrayed the emotions and expressions of the chass wala. I could imagine the situation in front of my eyes. The chass wala easily forgot to thank you. — his original customer. 😗
Thank you! 😊 I’m glad the scene came alive for you. And yes, perhaps in that moment, his attention shifted from his regular customer to the unexpected celebrity! 😄
Very nicely described the scene. It happnot just with street vendors but also in corporate area where the foreigner is treated like god/ celebrity and relegating the colleagues or friends to lower status. Not just foreigners there is also a status divide wherein a well dressed person gains more importance than the one with crumpled clothes.
Thank you! 😊 Sadly, appearances and perceived status often speak louder than the person themselves. Your observation about how this plays out even in corporate spaces is so true.
Interesting! This could well become a plot for yet another Imperial Blue’s “Men Will Be Men” ad campaign 😀
Although it must have felt bad, noticed how you took it in a lighter vein.
Nice click. Yes, remembered the location specific portion in the song…
Thank you! 😊 Sometimes a little humour is the best way to turn an awkward moment into a memorable story. And yes, that location made the experience even more special! 😃
I also laughed out loud at the “cooling system” comment.
I also find it comical at people’s transformations when they are trying to impress others
Absolutely! 😂 I think that’s why the transformation part is so funny—we’ve all seen it, and perhaps even done it ourselves at some point! It’s such a universally relatable human behaviour. 😄
Sneha ma’am, I think the chaas seller assigned you as his very own, and not a customer. Him asking you to click his pictures is proof that he trusted you and knew you would do a good job with the camera. We behave like this, innocently with our own, hai na?
Yes! ❤️ That’s such a cute way of looking at it. I hadn’t seen it that way at all—but now I love the thought that he had simply decided I was “one of his own.” 😊