Tea With Rekha by The Corner Of Grant Road Poem by Sumita Jetley

He came each week at half past four,
A man with time stitched in his sleeve.
Coins in hand, he asked for tea,
No sugar — just a hint of leave.

She wore a saree, always bright,
Lipstick slightly out of place.
Bangles chimed like evening rain,
A quiet laugh, a steady grace.

"Alone again? " she'd tease and pour.
He'd nod, "Your tea keeps me alive."
"It should, " she smirked, "I boil it slow.
Let the heat and hurt survive."

He spoke of kings and dusty wars,
History books, half-read debates.
She listened like a patient drum
That holds its breath and never breaks.

One monsoon day, the tarp gave in,
The city soaked in swollen skies.
She passed him chai, and then she said,
"My husband's fists taught me goodbyes."

He stayed in silence — not from fear,
But because silence sometimes fits.
She smiled, "Don't worry, you're not mine.
I just like men who sit."

He handed her a bar of dark,
"Bitter, " he said. "But so are we."
She held it close, like one would hold
A memory that brewed in tea.

No declarations. No demands.
Just steam, and glances, and some rain.
Two strangers met each Wednesday night —
And left a little less in pain.