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Lahore Stories: Cracked crockery

By Ayesha Javed Akram

They say Faiz Ahmed Faiz used to sit there. They say there was a time when the tea was made to perfection. They say the biscuits were crisp, the pastries fresh. Today though, the Pak Tea House is but a relic.

Though the Lahore Writer’s Club continues to hold meetings there, and just yesterday they conducted a musical evening at the Tea House, but it is no longer the literary hub of legend. In an attempt to find out who the average customer of the Pak Tea House is nowadays, I started dropping in regularly for tea, served in cups without saucers. Twice, I encountered cups without handles, and once, I was served in a cup with so many cracks I wondered why the tea wasn’t dripping all over the table. “Is this the crockery Faiz sahib was served in?” I asked the waiter. He shook his head, scowled, and walked away.

But if you don’t mind feebly rotating fans, sticky tables and the constant drone of passing traffic, the Pak Tea House could become your favourite haunt for the following reasons:

Even when you order a single cup of tea, the teapot placed on your table always contains enough for two servings. Tea is made from milk, and not milk powder. If a fly falls into your tea, thanks to the dimly lit interior, you would never know. No one dresses up for tea. By simply paying for tea here, you can feel good that you are doing your bit toward promoting literature in Lahore.

But in my six visits to the Tea House, I did not encounter any literary activity. The first time I dropped in was in the middle of a hot July afternoon, when the Tea House reeked of sweat, grease and milk that had been cooked for too long. Understandably enough, there were only three customers. At a corner table sat an elderly man with a salt and pepper beard flowing over his cup. The heat had put him to sleep, and his loud snores remained uninterrupted by the rude glances the other visitors were throwing in his direction. At a table across from him sat a student who was in his final year at King Edward Medical College, and had come to drown the sorrow of failing his oral exam in cups of sugary tea. Near the door sat a confused looking foreigner with an open note-pad in his lap. He was a tourist, making his way through India and Pakistan, and had been told that the Tea House was of historical importance. So far, he hadn’t been able to figure out how. “So, did your founder drink tea here?” I overheard him ask one of the waiters.

On my second visit, I encountered two bicycle mechanics who worked opposite the Tea House and had dropped in for a mid-morning break. They had heard that this place was once habituated by famous people, but had never seen any in here. “My father told me that he once saw Allama Iqbal have tea here,” said one of the mechanics.

My third visit brought me in touch with a couple of NCA students who claimed the place never ceased to inspire them. “I adore the ambience,” said a young boy whose ponytail flowed down to his shoulders. “This Tea House has character,” said the other.

The next time, I noticed a slight change. Tables had been pulled up to the centre and joined together to seat about 20 men. They sat in a circle, dressed similarly in ill-fitting shalwar kurtas and grimy overalls, gesturing wildly as they spoke. Cups of unfinished tea sat in front of them. The heated discussion seemed to be gaining momentum, and I inched forward to try and overhear the arguments. But instead of Ghalib’s couplets, the ruckus was over the wages they worked for at a motor workshop. Once the discussion became a series of abuses, I realised it was time to leave.

On my fifth visit, I encountered the sleepy old man again. I was told he was a regular of sorts, though no one knew his name and referred to him as Baba Ji.

On my sixth visit, I couldn’t squeeze into the Tea House for a musical evening was in full swing, and an enraptured audience had occupied all the available chairs. So much for literature.

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