On a Saturday morning at the Indian Coffee House

The Coffee Machine makes a long gushing noise churning out the coffee beans into a magical aroma that is enough to lift up your senses. I take the window sit, put my bag aside, take out my writing pad, pen and spectacles. I waive my hand at the boy who is all neatly dressed up in white ironed attire with a properly tied waiter’s turban and say, “Ek Coffee aur ek Omelette”(One Coffee and one omelette). I am sitting at the Indian Coffee House and enjoying my Saturday morning.

There is an old charm associated with the Indian Coffee House. The black soot at the ceilings and crumpled paints reverberate the tales of the past. The wooden and marbled tables bring out the sheer simplicity which still lures people to this place.  

It’s 10:30 a.m., Coffee House wears a deserted look. The chairs look pale and the table lies in disdain. It seems as if they are mourning in deep grief devoid of the visitors’ arrival. But this does not continue for long as within few minutes, a group of four persons arrive and break the silent milieu that was prevailing. One of them open their laptops and few others take out their writing pads. It seems like they are here for talking business. Wow! It’s good to know that its not the CCD’s and the MAC D’s, the alternate business meeting points apart from offices, Coffee House also forms a part of the league. My coffee arrives. I take the first sip and overhear the conversation going on at the other end. Seems like the group is here to discuss some business deals.

I look outside through the window glass. There is a mild wintry chill in the air as the breeze blows away the left over dust and leaves at one corner of the terrace. The sun plays hide-and-seek as it peeps once and then disappears again in the clutter of clouds. The weather is just perfect for a romantic date. Just when I think this, two love birds arrive. The young couple in their early twenties first exchange romantic glances, then give each other a warm hug. They take the table opposite mine, get cozy and prattle till the time the waiter comes and takes their order. Oh! did they forget that they have to order? because they seem to chatter, not being aware of the waiter. The girl finally breaks the conversation and places the order as the boy obnoxiously looks at him as if he has interfered in their private affair. As the couple continues their lovey-dovey talks, my attention is snatched by an angry voice.

Hur – Hush!, the voice has reached even higher now. I see a waiter running across the terrace with a large wooden stick. A herd of monkeys have arrived. They have created a ruckus; turning the chairs up and down, throwing the ketchup bottle on the ground, causing few of the visitors crumble in fear as they hurriedly move from one end of the building to the other.

On the other end, visitors have started pouring in quite a few numbers as the receptionist is quite busy now taking the orders. The waiters are leaving no stone unturned to serve the visitors. The business group is over with its meeting for the day and is enjoying light talks over snacks and tea. The young couple is in search of more privacy now as they leave in a hurry and make a quick exit.

 A tete-a-tete point, a writer’s sojourn or a lover’s paradise?, the Indian Coffee House is the place to be for anyone who…………………………

Well, go there and find the reason because it cannot be explained here unless you go there J

  

To the Ghalib's House

I took a rickshaw from the Metro station, but was unable to explain to the rickshawala, where in Ballimaran should I go to visit the residence of the great urdu poet Mirza Ghalib. It was only after he heard another rickshawala saying Nawabkhana, he took me to my destination.

As I was making my way towards Ghalib Memorial, Chawri Bazar wore the traditional charm of Old Delhi. Rickshaw pullers were making their way speedily through the narrow lanes, pedestrians were rushing their way to work without even a sign of verbal protest (like a quintessential Delhite), the chacha at the nearby tea stall was still busy serving his first customers of the day and was deeply engaged in a conversation with his everyday friend, women in black veil or Hijab (as it is known in Urdu) were bargaining with the fruit sellers on the prices while the tiny tots were busy looking at the toys that were displayed on the rags of the toyshop, the houses on both sides of the narrow roads were so close that they seemed to hug each other every morning.

It was 11:00 a.m., and there I was at the ‘Ghalib Smarak’ or the ‘Ghalib Memorial’ the place where the legendary Urdu poet spent his last nine years (1760 - 1769) of life with his wife Umrao Begum. Before proceeding further, a small introduction of Mirza Ghalib. Mirza Asadullah Baig Khan was one of the most famous Urdu and Persian poets during the Mughal Era in India. His literary works are popular not only in India and Pakistan, but is also widely appreciated and read all over the world by many well-known authors as well as literature lovers.

   

A small place though with two large rooms, the Ghalib Memorial sums up the life of this legendary poet in a beautiful way. At the entrance, a huge door welcomes me to a room where a marble statue of Mirza Ghalib, his attire (although a replica) and an array of interesting belongings of the poet are kept.

On either sides of the walls in the room are the two neatly ironed dresses of the Ghalib which he used to wear normally.   

The other half of the room was embedded with this beautiful line from one of Ghalib’s poem

Moving on to another room I came across a shelf full of Nawab’s Books, which would arouse an interest in anybody appreciating Urdu literature and poetry

An exact replica of the then period utensils transported me back to Nawab’s time. Just near to it, I came across another statue of Mirza Ghalib.  

The visit was worth that value which cannot be measured in money, but will be kept forever in the memory.

If the Nawabkhana is your travel itinerary, then take a look below for the timings.

The little girl in the park

She runs, she twirls, she twists

And she takes sweet little turns

She is the little girl in the park

Who adorns the morning with a spark

She takes me back to my childhood days

When I played, ran and got drenched in the rain

For there was not a single worry in the world

As there was love, joy and parent’s warmth

That little girl in the park

Arouse the innocence and playfulness in me

That stopped long ago and lost somewhere

When I took a leap from adolescence to adulthood

After a while she sits beside her grandpa

As she wants to know and solve her dilemma

That why she has no wings like the birds?

And why don’t they come out at night?

 The grandpa giggles looking at her and then replies,

 “That’s because they are less naughty like you”

She gives a disgruntled look at first  

Then goes back and starts to play with the dust

I wonder and think in aghast

May be I was the same little girl

When I was a tiny tot, to whom

Life was nothing but pieces of joyful thoughts

That's why you should always write

Write, to strike the rhythmic tune in your heart,

That skipped a bit and sang a romantic song,

When it saw the beauty on that wonderful dawn

Write, to release those suppressed emotions ,

That laid covered under the fake sheet of happiness,

And is now searching for a soul with all fondness

 Write, to break the shackles of loneliness,

Which has trapped you inside,

And has posed a barrier to the anticipated joy

Write, to treasure those happy and gloomy moments,

In the pages of your life’s journal,

To remind you of life’s teachings and its morals

Help the troubled mind to seek shelter,

In a world of peaceful paradise,

Write, to get reprieve from the misery for sometime

Take the pad, think a bit and move the pen with stride,

It may be a sentence, a paragraph or a single line,

Writing always helps to have a stable and calm mind

That’s why you should always write.........................

Tales of a winter night

The clock ticks tick-tock! tick-tock! A light wintry breeze enters my room. I cuddle in my blanket and a chill runs down my spine as I fight with the season’s first winter night. I peep through the hazed window panes and watch the tree leaves. They move in disdain, much against the nature’s harsh winter wave. The dog at the roadside tries to seek shelter in the rugs and other dilapidated rubbish. The stench doesn’t seem to bother him as all he wants, is a good warm. Soon, two men wrapped in blanket appear from nowhere. Only the eyes are visible as rest of them are all covered. They lit a bonfire, few biris and release the smoke that mixes with the thick mist in the air. They are joined by another two and that roadside dog.  There is a strange silence in this gathering; it’s only the fire flames that do all the talking.

More mist gathers outside and now it is milky white. I cannot see anything through my window pane but can only feel the ‘soosh’ of the harsh winter winds outside. The street lights appear blurred as the darkness of the night has mixed with the thick mist outside. I think about those helpless children who lie almost naked in the torturing winters but still succumb to this natural phenomenon. What is their sin O lord? Why are they trapped in this ugly spat of life? While all such questions fill my mind, I consider myself lucky and pray to God for those helpless lads.  

The moon smiles at me as it tries to seek its presence even in the crowd of endless moving clouds. I open a bottle of rum as my shivering fingers try to hold bottle opener. As I gulp down a few drinks from the can, I get a respite from the winter tide. After a little while, I feel dizzy. The clock still ticks – tick tock! tick tock!, but now I don’t fight with the winter night because it’s time to part ways from all the worldly thoughts and surrender myself to the sleep Gods.

Confessions of a PEN.........

The famous ancient proverb, “The Pen is mightier than the sword,” by English author, Edward Bulwer-Lytton holds true to this day. It is a lethal weapon for writers that may not put a scar on the body but definitely makes a mark in an individual’s mind.  

The following poem is a pen’s narration of itself  

I became your companion

When you wanted a communion

I formed the bridge of love

And helped you to find your love trove

When you were immersed in oceans of emotions

I formed a bridge between the mind and paper

For I captured the thoughts of your mind

And let them flow out in easiness and kind

From a graphite lead to an inked cone

You graduated with me as a better writing soul

You made me a part of your attire

To add the sign of suave, elegant and dapper

Sometimes as a token of appreciation

And sometimes as a gift

I am a symbol of happiness

For all your good deeds

Time will fly and season will elapse

But my importance in your life will never lapse

Of love, life and despair

The warmth of your voice

Created a feeling of belongingness in me

Your presence took away

The tinge of sadness inside me

and filled my heart

with happiness to the brim

I started smiling

With every little thoughts of yours

A veil of love started covering me

I was now covered with a thick blanket

Of emotion and deep love

You now rule my thoughts day n night

You are the new meaning

Of life to me now, the heart says

She is the one you have been looking for

But suddenly a thick mist appears

And one morning everything disappears

A fear looms over my mind

As you go away from me

I search for you every now and then

But everything goes in vain

I weep in pain as all the reason

To me, this moment is inane

As  haze prevails over

The thick blanket of love

My heart is void

Without you, it sings an emotional choir

Of delirium and despair  

I don’t know where you are

But would be my love forever………..