A year selling tea

The first 365 days of my tea business

One year ago, I woke up before the sun, packed a few sawhorses and a piece of plywood into a folding wagon, and rolled over to the Fort Greene Farmers Market in Brooklyn. I had a small vat of chai that I’d prepped that morning, about 50 paper cups, and no idea what I was doing.

I’d been working on Raazi Tea for about a month at that point—behind closed doors, quietly working on a brand in an industry I knew nothing about. I second-guessed everything: the name, the recipe, the labels, whether I was even "qualified" to sell tea. I wasn’t a trained chef or a food scientist. I just had a flavor I grew up loving, and a belief that it should be shared with care.

But there’s a specific kind of fear that hits when you set up your first stand and realize: this is it. There’s no big company behind you or safety net below you. Just your idea and a makeshift table on the street.

Day 1 vs. Day 30

That first morning, I set everything up painfully slowly. I burned my tongue on my own chai—probably nerves. But then a woman named Joanna walked up to the stand and asked what I was doing. I told her: “I’m starting a tea business. Today’s my first day." She nodded and said, “That’s awesome.” Then she bought a cup of chai.

She took a sip. Paused. Looked up at me.

“Wow,” she said.

And just like that, I was in business.

Over the next few months, I kept going back to the market. It was a grind—hauling supplies, hoping for decent weather, praying someone would come by. But slowly, it started to build. People would return. Some brought friends. Some told me their own tea stories—about grandmothers who crushed cardamom pods by hand, or Sunday mornings with their parents, or recipes they’d long forgotten.

The first time I held a Raazi product in my hands—a cotton bag with “Raazi” stamped in red ink across the front—I just sat there staring at it. I’d been up late the night before, wondering whether I should be doing it at all. Packing imported tea into bags in your walkup Brooklyn apartment isn’t exactly encouraged by the FDA. But something from my imagination had stepped into the real world.

Early versions to my first shelves.

Months later, I walked into a shop in Brooklyn and saw those same teas lined up on a shelf. I’d packed the boxes at the warehouse, put the labels on myself, and biked them over for delivery. I wasn’t expecting it to hit me so hard. Seeing them there, sitting among other brands, just made it all feel real.

This past year has had its ups and downs. There were weeks when no orders came in. I woke up around 5AM every Saturday and Sunday last summer to prep chai I sold at parks—the same parks my old coworkers had picnics at on the weekends. I still compare myself to others constantly. I spend late nights worrying about what tariffs might do to my supply chain, and whether or not my production partners are ripping off someone new to the food industry (it happens more than you think).

But every kind message, every photo someone sent of their morning cup, every little note about what the chai reminded them of—it all mattered. It still does. Those interactions are what business is built on.

Meaningful messages

One of the most unexpected joys this year was learning how to sell. I don’t mean pushy, upsell-y, “let me grab your attention” selling—I mean standing behind a table, meeting people where they are, and figuring out how to talk about something you love in a way that connects.

It’s awkward at first. You stumble through your pitch, repeat yourself, and over-explain. But eventually something clicks. You start to read the way people move through a market. You learn to say just enough and listen to how their day is going. And when someone’s eyes light up—when they take a sip and pause—you realize that’s the moment that matters. That’s the sale, really.

The word “raazi” in Hindi roughly translates to “satisfied,” or a feeling of contentment. And really, I started Raazi because I wanted to slow down. Tea has always helped me do that, and I thought maybe it could help others too. Even if it’s just five quiet minutes spent preparing a cup and being present, to me that feels like time well spent. Raazi is an invitation to pause. To taste something and connect with one another through a ritual shared by billions around the world.

So here we are. One year in.

Still small. Still learning. Still growing—cup by cup.

But what a gift it’s been to make something real—to watch it connect, however modestly, with people who care. Thank you to everyone who brewed a cup this year. Who told a friend. Who showed up. I don't take any of it for granted.