Poem I Aishanya Gautam
In the heart of Old Delhi, where the narrow lanes breathe tales of history,
There lies a collection of memories etched in the clay cups
That once cradled the warmth of winter nights.
One memorable evening, Grandpa and I decided to stroll down Paranthe Wali Gali,
an infamous lane known for its delectable paranthas.
We ambled through the lively streets,
The tempting aroma of frying paranthas guided our way.
Grandpa, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye,
Shared how he and his friends would sneak out of school
To savour these crispy delights, fearing the stern glares of their teachers.
The lanes, worn by years of history, echoed with the whispers of the past.
Amidst the bustling markets and old buildings,
My grandpa and I found comfort in a simple tradition – sipping chai from kulhads.
The clay cups, warmed by the steaming tea,
Cradled not just the fragrant kahwa but the essence of Delhi’s winter nights.
Grandpa’s eyes lit up as he reminisced about his college days at Delhi University.
The North Campus, with its vast lawns and ancient buildings,
Was a haven for intellectual pursuits and youthful friendships.
Grandpa regaled me with stories of heated debates, late-night discussions,
And the simple joy of sharing a cup of tea with friends who became lifelong companions.
The chai-stall, our refuge from the cold,
Echoed with laughter and the clinking of kulhads.
Amidst the chaos, our connection deepened, bridging the gap between generations.
In those moments, I learned the art of storytelling not from books
But from the well-worn tales etched in the wrinkles on Grandpa’s face.
One winter night, sitting by the steps of the Jama Masjid,
Grandpa spoke of a Delhi that embraced traditions yet welcomed change—
A city filled with the laughter of children flying kites
And the rhythmic chants from nearby temples and mosques.
As I sip chai from a clay cup in a faraway place,
The Kulhad Chronicles, a timeless legacy, continue to resonate in my heart,
Reminding me that the spirit of Delhi’s winter nights is immortalised
Not just in bricks and mortar but in the stories etched in the clay cups
That once held the warmth of a thousand tales.