The Chaiwala's Silence Poem by Sumita Jetley

In Saddar's maze of endless streets,
Where chaos and quiet fatefully meet,
Stood Musa's dhaba, a humble place,
Where time slowed down, and hearts found space.

His chai brewed thick, with steam that danced,
A simple drink, yet so entranced,
It wasn't the tea that drew them near,
But Musa's silence, calm and clear.

One evening came a man, burdened and small,
His shadow stretched long against the dhaba's wall.
No words did Musa, the chaiwala, say,
Just poured him a cup and gestured, stay.

Saleem sat down, his mind a storm,
The bench beneath him, old but warm.
The city roared, yet Musa was still,
No advice offered, no answers to fill.

Night after night, Saleem returned,
His stories spilling, his silence unlearned.
He spoke of Karachi, its crumbling veins,
Its beauty, its struggle, its countless pains.

Musa stirred his pot, his face unread,
Listening to all that was left unsaid.
No questions asked, no judgment shown,
Just a quiet space, a bench of his own.

And one day, Saleem, like others before,
Didn't come back through Musa's door.
The bench sat empty, but Musa knew,
The city would send someone else anew.

For the chaiwala wasn't just pouring tea,
He was serving a moment to simply be.
No words, no magic, no grand display,
Just the power of silence, at the end of the day.