The Tea House of Forgotten Dreams
By Faraz Parvez
Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal
(Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal)
I. The Invitation
In the dim hush of Lahore’s walled city, down an alley that never quite looked the same twice, stood a tea house so old it no longer had a name. It was spoken of in whispers, in pauses between sentences. Locals called it “Mehfil-e-Khamoshi” — The Gathering of Silence. Some said it vanished with the first light of dawn, others that it was a purgatory for the regretful.
One fog-laced evening, seven souls found themselves at its doorstep, each holding a delicate parchment sealed in red wax. No one remembered receiving it, but all remembered what it said:
“Come for tea. Bring your truest memory. Leave your heaviest lie behind.”
II. The Tea Master
Abdul Ghani Chaiwala, the tea master, looked no more than forty, though his hands bore the elegance of centuries. His eyes were charcoal black — too calm for a man, too ancient for time.
“The tea is simple,” he said. “But what it brews in you may not be.”
He set out seven cups on a marble table. Each cup bore a name written in calligraphy that danced when stared at too long.
III. The Guests Arrive
Mr. Baqar Rizvi, a retired philosophy professor, walked in with a cane and a heart full of unsaid apologies.
Noor Jahan, the famed kathak dancer of the ’80s, hidden for years, covered her eyes with a dupatta and her shame with silence.
Yasir Ali, the tech prodigy once hailed as Pakistan’s Elon Musk, arrived in a torn coat and trembling hands.
Sister Helen Marie, a nun with fading rosary beads and an Urdu diary tucked under her arm.
Inspector Hashmi, heavy with rank and suspicion, came last — not invited, but drawn.
And Anaya, a 10-year-old orphan with eyes that knew things children shouldn’t. She’d been waiting inside.
IV. The Memory for a Sip
“One memory for a sip of truth,” said Ghani Chaiwala, pouring tea that smelled like rose, saffron, and childhood.
Baqar sipped first. A scene flashed: a baby girl crying in a cradle, and Baqar walking away in shame, unable to raise her. That night, she’d been adopted by strangers. “I never knew what became of her,” he whispered.
Anaya looked up: “She became Noor Jahan.”
Noorie dropped her cup.
V. The Dancer’s Silence
Noor Jahan sipped. Her hands trembled. Her truth spilled: she had loved a poet who vanished during Zia’s censorship years. She danced for him, once. Just once. “He wrote a poem about me and disappeared into the dark,” she said.
Ghani nodded, pouring again. “His name was Rumi Qadri. And he didn’t disappear. He became someone else.”
Baqar’s eyes welled. “I am Rumi Qadri.”
The dancer gasped, tears falling. “You were the father and the poet.”
VI. The Collapse of the Genius
Yasir Ali hesitated. “Do I have to drink?”
Ghani smiled. “You already are.”
He sipped. His memory unfolded: A friend and co-founder poisoning his company’s success, selling its secrets to foreign firms. Yasir was blamed. Ruined. “I trusted him like a brother.”
From the shadows, Inspector Hashmi muttered, “That man is now a federal minister.”
Yasir stood. “I want justice.”
Ghani replied, “Justice is served when you rise again, not when you fall together.”
VII. The Sister’s Secret
Sister Helen Marie sipped last. “My grandmother was Muslim. I kept her faith hidden in my cross and Qur’an. I’ve been preserving a manuscript — a Sufi scroll that unites Isa and the Mahdi.”
Ghani’s tone shifted. “The world is not yet ready for your scroll — but you are. You’re the bridge.”
Anaya clapped quietly. “She holds two lights in one hand.”
VIII. The Bell Tolls
The tea house grew quiet. A soft bell tolled from nowhere and everywhere.
Ghani spoke: “You may now choose. Leave, and carry your truth. Or stay, and relive your dream.”
Mr. Baqar wept and chose to stay — to write again, to dance again — in this place outside time.
Noorie stayed, her ghungroos already humming.
Yasir left, eyes blazing with a second chance and a digital vision.
Sister Helen walked into the mist with her scroll, ready to teach, not hide.
Inspector Hashmi turned back to the door, but found himself in his childhood home. His mother — long dead — whispered, “This time, don’t become them.”
And Anaya, the girl who knew too much, looked at Ghani and said, “Shall I open the next tea house in Tbilisi?”
Ghani smiled. “Yes, my dear. It’s time.”
IX. At Dawn
The tea house was gone. The alley returned to its ordinary silence. Only the scent of saffron lingered.
Epilogue
Some say they still see a tea house in odd corners of the world — in Istanbul, in Granada, in old Delhi, in forgotten Georgian towns. It always appears when a heart breaks quietly, but yearns loudly.
And some say, if you ever feel like you’ve forgotten your dream… follow the smell of rose-saffron tea.
You might just find it again.
By Faraz Parvez
Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal
(Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal)
