Coffee House

The semester exams of college are knocking at the door. I, along with my friends Sourashis and Asif decided to go to College Street to purchase some books as they were available at much cheaper prices. We were more bothered about saving money than about the upcoming exams, I guess!

So off we went. Hand carts, tram lines, dilapidated buildings-wow! This was definitely different from what we regularly see in the busy streets of Kolkata. 

We found the books we needed soon enough. We were strolling along the alleys as we had enough time to kill. “Chol chaa-samosa khai”-Sourashis said.  Asif replied immediately-“Hey, I heard there’s this iconic Coffee House at College Street. Let’s go there!”. Soon after we found the signboard of Coffee House on a dilapidated building and went in… 

   

(BRIEF PAUSE) Imagine a B/W or sepia background. We enter the small hallway. On the right, a stall selling novels, newspapers and magazines. People feeling cold outside come in and smoke a cigarette or two. This sounds so much like a film, right?

We climb up the stairs and reach the first floor. Gosh! Our whole lives just blew away on seeing the atmosphere above. It felt like we had travelled back in time- when the aristocrats, bureaucrats, poets, film makers came here for important discussions. This place spoke volumes about itself. These great people, these great men, they live even today-they live in us and these iconic places that are part of Kolkata’s vast culture and tradition.

As we put our foot forward, a quiet symphony of whispering stops..People look up for a second and then the quiet murmur begins again. We were amazed to see this place- a piece of the past and the present both.

The place was already full, so we headed over to the second floor. Yeah, we find a table soon enough. Amidst the pics we took and the jokes we cracked, my eyes fall on the walls of the Coffee House. 

On the walls embedded with bricks were written, or rather inscribed numerous names, little love stories, memories of reunion and farewell. We run our hands over these scribblings. 

Each one of them has a story of it’s own, although we are unable to decipher them. Out of curiosity, Sourashis writes his name and so do we..Hoping that someday, somebody would read our names and think of us.

We order 3 cups of cold coffee. We gently sip on it while taking in the atmosphere surrounding us. Time to leave as it’s already too late. The fifty rupees we paid was nothing compared to what we just saw and felt. As we get down the stairs, the song –“Coffee Houser shei adda ta aaj aar nei..” plays in our minds on repeat. And takes room in our hearts, without notice..