Ever since the time I read about Keats and Co. gathering at The Mermaid Tavern, discussing poetry, opium and other intoxicating ways of the world, my heart’s desire has been to engage in something similar, despite the knowledge that when my circle of friends gets together, we mostly talk about who is dating whom. But, since hope springs eternal in the human heart, I imagine that one day I will be sitting in one of the SoBo coffeehouses, surrounded by a group of less talkative friends, drinking cheap, delicious cups of tea and sharing our recent Musaic ventures.
I would necessarily prefer one of those Irani restaurants, where the cash in your purse lasts longer than the food. These are a refreshing change from the other posh coffeehouses that line the Mumbai shoreline, those corporate empires of creamy cappuccinos and club sandwiches. You step inside the restaurant filled with elegantly cushioned chairs and palm fronds. After much thought about the prices and less about the food per se, you order the cheapest item on the elaborate menu. To provide the illusion that your chicken sandwich is worth the amount you are paying, you nibble on it with ladylike grace and make sure the minutes stretch to make an hour at least. And then you step outside, again with feminine charm, resolving never to step into this place again, unless there is an anniversary discount happening.
No. None of this ridiculously expensive jazz, please. What the amateur writer knows best is to save her few hard earned rupees, the material outcome of overcoming obstacles such as writers’ blocks and publishers. This is why humanity set up Irani restaurants. A plate of butter bun, more substantial than the size of the cookies priced elsewhere at forty rupees apiece. A simmering “chai”, spiced with what you will – a dash of cardamom, a hint of ginger, a sprig of lemongrass, a dab of cream…Here, hungry souls find their salvation in the midst of inspiring aromas.
The scene which keeps recurring in my mind is the time when my friends and I sat around the plain tables of an Irani restaurant, enclosed among the busy, winding streets of Mumbai. We had had a luxurious evening, and our palate had been the field of communion for a variety of flavours. Biscuits, buns, custard puddings and masala sandwiches had streamed towards the table from the kitchen. Towards the end of the evening, when we were savouring our third round of coffee and tea, two friends realised their common passion for Ghalib. And lines of poetry in alternating voices ascended in the air along with the beverage vapours.
It is an absolute pleasure discovering these little restaurants that do not have elaborate advertisements. You find them on one of those rainy days when you are dripping wet and lost in the meandering streets. You seek refuge in these bustling outlets. And, to while away the time, you buy yourself a hot cuppa, in a glass tumbler and it warms you from within. And you buy yourself another. And another. Then, when it stops raining, you find your way back home. And then you write about it.
My two friends who had discovered their common love for Ghalib got married a year later. This is why humanity set up Irani restaurants.
What price love? What price inspiration?
Nice one! The Irani cafes always have the charm of being easy on the pocket. They also have that distinctly old world charm to it. It is actually sad that we are silently losing the culture of Irani cafes to CCDs and Baristas. I hope there isn't a time when Irani cafes will be wiped out of the scene totally.
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