Poetry with chai. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] The white lighting at Modern Tea House would illuminate the darkened Walled City alley far beyond the midnight. Inside, the last table would be clouded in tobacco smoke, smelling of beedis and of lukewarm chai. This was the poets’ corner. The singsong recitals of shairyi would be punctuated by interludes of comfortable lulls. All of this stands silenced. The tea house in Gali Haveli Azam Khan shuts by 8. The poet’s’ corner has its old table, but no poetry. During the day, a few of those verse writers might still trickle in, arriving at different times from nearby gallis, kuchas, katras, chattas, ahatas. Occasionally, two or three of them happen to be present simultaneously,