Once upon a Chai Wala...

By: Hania Bilal

Through the foggy, dimly lit alleys of Lahore, a figure walks, stooping under the weight of his frail body. With every step, agony surges through him. In the distance, a crow, dark as night, flits off into the horizon. The once vibrant city brimming with life and culture now stands sedated. The bleakness of the town is mirrored in the man’s sunken features. His feet brush against the gravel, echoing off the empty walls of a familiar space. He stops. The smell of mint and cloves hangs in the air, tantalizing his senses until his mind is flooded with memories of a finer era…

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The streets of Anarkali bustled with energy as tourists struggled to make their way through a turbulent sea of shouting hawkers, rickshaw drivers, and street vendors. Food is to a Lahori what paint is to an artist or what strings are to a guitarist. A tikka chef, drenched in sweat, roared at the waiter to collect the order as the kebabs changed to a shade of gold. The clinking of jewelry echoed through the streets as newlyweds tried on earrings and necklaces, bargaining relentlessly. Invigorating aromas wafted through the ambiance, attracting bystanders like moths to a flame. In the midst of it all, stood a teashop.

Locals would gather round in awe, as the celebrated tea vendor would effortlessly pour the drinks in five cups at a time, each one bursting with flavor. Rumors traveled the streets that the man would brew the finest tea with magic that would fulfill one’s deepest desires. Aristocrats and nobles would journey from distant lands to taste Shah Ji’s renowned tea, hoping to gain newfound wisdom. Upon demand, he would whip out his faithful Samovar; an ancient Russian instrument made for brewing. The gentle hissing and warm glow radiating from the Samovar had cheered him during many a dark and lonely evening. Never would he appear so elegant and lithe, as when he was orchestrating his tea ensemble. Its musky fragrance would dance through the atmosphere, capturing the souls and engraving vibrant verses in the minds of the wandering poets.

No infusion of his tasted the same - each tailored impeccably to the customer’s needs. Although he enjoyed the company of his comrades, he had a fondness for children. Every day at dawn, kids would leave their cricket games and run up to the vendor to listen to his stories. They would watch him intently, sipping silently, intoxicated by his voice, as he would weave umpteen tales of strange worlds and exotic creatures. The alley would fall silent; the only sound being the mesmerizing tone of the eccentric old man, and for a few blissful moments, that was all that mattered.

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Shah Ji manages to muster a smile, for old times’ sake. He lifts his hands; the very hands that once spun miracles, now tremble. Reality hits him, brusque and unforgiving. He merely exists, stagnant in the ever-changing scenery. Patiently, he will bide his time until the hues of life’s canvas bleed him dry. “Impermanence is rooted in all things”, he whispers out a phrase from a person he does not know, from an age he is not aware of, waiting for death until one day his ashes will become the essence of the tea of life.

(Photo by @lil_mystrian on instagram)