Chaikhana by Ghalib’s.

[Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Debt-ridden poet Mirza Ghalib is nearing the end of his life, passing the final days in a mansion in Old Delhi’s Ballimaran. He is still writing verses, still daily walking the short distance to a chaikhana with a disarmingly hopeful name—Dilkhush, meaning “heart-happy.”

Ghalib is long gone. Dilkhush still stands in Ballimaran.

If only this were true. Parts of it are. Ghalib’s last home is indeed nearby, and the chai establishment does exist. But Ghalib died about 150 years ago, while Dilkhush Tea Stall appeared twenty years ago, as the man at the counter explains.

Those historically minded people who like continuity, and try to seamlessly stitch the present to the past in the historic quarters of great cities may feel disappointed to discover no direct connection between the tea establishment and the timeless poet. Yet the establishment manages to bridge the gap between then and now. Not through nostalgia, but through a restless, contemporary energy that belongs to today’s Old Delhi.

Look at the establishment’s colourful hand-painted banner: Hindi alongside Urdu. But that is not the most interesting detail. Look closer. In one corner, the name Haji Muhammad Sultan Ji Chai Wale appears in black. Beneath it, painted in red, is another name: Naseem.

The man at the counter explains that the late Sultan, a native of this very Purani Dilli, once owned the property where the stall now stands, which is now inherited by his son. Naseem, the current tenant, moved from Bihar and founded his tea business here two decades ago. The two names unconsciously map the Walled City’s present, where people arrive from distant places, and make fresh beginnings alongside those already rooted in the historic quarter. Sometimes newcomers work for others; sometimes becoming owners themselves.

As for the tea establishment, it is sociology in motion. It calls itself a “tea stall,” but is more like a tea house. This afternoon, the tables inside are witnessing a steady flow of arrivals and departures. Customers lounge over chai, chatting loudly, on themes ranging from “khala ka ladka” to a hyperlocal cricket tournament.

An elderly man now enters, slightly bent over, leaning on a walking stick, hands trembling. Everyone is calling him respectfully as Chacha. Over chai and biskuts, he explains that he daily commutes from the distant suburbs to the Walled City, where he walks the streets seeking alms. The income made this way helps him support his wife and little grandchildren. His son, he says, was murdered some years ago.

A notice on the establishment’s back wall informs that coffee is also served. Another warns the customers to check the “rate list” before ordering tea. Makes sense, for the chai ranges from 15 rupees to 35 rupees.