By; Raazia Syed
In a narrow alley of an old Karachi neighborhood, there stood a tiny tea stall. There was no bright signboard, no fancy furniture—just a mud-covered floor, a worn-out wooden table, two benches, a small clay stove in the corner, and an old wooden shelf holding jars of tea leaves, sugar, and milk powder.
The stall was known as “Baba Ji’s Chai.”
Baba Ji, an elderly man in his sixties, was tall and thin, with a face full of deep wrinkles. His white beard was always neatly combed, his eyes calm and kind, and his voice carried a gentleness that made even strangers feel like old friends.
Every morning at 7, Baba Ji would open the stall, light the stove, and begin brewing his famous tea in a copper kettle. The locals—shopkeepers, students, rickshaw drivers, daily wage workers—would gather there, not just for the tea, but for Baba Ji’s warmth and quiet wisdom.
Baba Ji lived by a simple rule:
“If someone has money, they can pay. If they don’t—no problem. The tea is still just as warm.”
One winter morning, it was raining lightly. The fog had wrapped itself around the narrow street, and at the far end, a thin, soaking-wet boy stood against a wall, shivering. He looked to be about twenty. His clothes were soaked, and his hands were empty.
Baba Ji was stirring the tea when he noticed the boy. Without asking anything, he called out:
“Son, come inside. It’s raining. Sit down.”
The boy hesitated, then slowly walked over and sat quietly on the edge of a bench, eyes down, trying to hide his trembling hands.
Baba Ji poured a cup of tea and placed it in front of him. He also opened an old biscuit tin and put two biscuits on a saucer beside the cup.
The boy looked up, hesitantly.
“Baba Ji… I don’t have any money.”
Baba Ji smiled gently and said:
“Son, not every cup of tea needs to be paid for with money. Sometimes, speaking kindly to someone, helping a stranger cross the road, or simply listening to someone’s sorrow—that’s more than enough.”
The boy didn’t say a word. But his eyes filled with tears as he slowly sipped the warm tea.
That day, Baba Ji didn’t just serve tea.
He served kindness.
Years passed.
The stall remained the same, but Baba Ji grew older. His back bent, his breaths shortened, and then, one quiet morning, he left this world silently.
The entire neighborhood mourned. People came to his funeral as if they had lost a dear relative.
The shop stayed closed for a few days. Then, one day, a new wooden sign appeared above the door:
“Yaseen Chai Wala (In Memory of Baba Ji)”
It was the same boy—Yaseen—who had once stood in the rain, hungry and broke, embarrassed to accept a cup of tea. Now, he was running the stall himself.
But he kept Baba Ji’s golden rule:
“If someone has money, they can pay. If not—the tea is still just as warm.”
Whenever a tired worker, a grieving traveler, or a broke student walked in, Yaseen would pour them a cup of tea and say with a soft smile:
“Not every cup of tea needs to be paid for with money… Sometimes, speaking kindly to someone, helping a stranger cross the road, or simply listening to someone’s sorrow—that’s more than enough.”
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