The Rooster King of Old Lahore
The Rooster King of Old Lahore
There is a tea shop somewhere inside the Walled City, down a lane you will walk past twice before finding it, and it hasn’t been quiet for longer than anyone can remember.
The cushions don’t match. Neither do the tables. Ancient teapots hang from the walls like retired generals, and a ceiling fan turns so slowly it seems to be thinking about quitting.
Lawrence, who had come to Lahore in search of silence and a working typewriter, sat across from Roshni at a wobbly table. Between them lay an antique chess set: carved elephants, tigers, and, in place of a king, a rooster with the expression of a man who has just been told his flight is cancelled.
“Is this historically accurate?” Lawrence asked.
“Partly,” said Roshni. “The elephant is. Shatranj came through Persia, and the piece we call the bishop was a fil, an elephant. The rooster is local enterprise.”
“What’s his story?”
“He once ruled the jungle. Then he discovered he couldn’t roar and retired to a life of crowing at dawn.”
“I suppose even kings need a career change.”
A teenage boy appeared, carrying two chipped cups of chai and a plate of jalebis glistening with syrup. He had enough energy for the entire room.
“Best chai in Lahore! So strong it’ll show you your past lives!”
“I’ll settle for staying in this one,” said Lawrence.
“Careful,” said Roshni. “You might discover you were a parrot.”
He took a sip. His eyebrows climbed. Cardamom, cloves, and something deeper he couldn’t quite name.
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“What exactly is in this?”
“The pot,” she said gravely. “Forty years. Never properly washed. He calls it seasoning.”
At the next table, a group of old men with henna-dyed beards and faded waistcoats began singing. A harmonium wheezed beneath their hands as a verse of Bulleh Shah drifted through the room, full of mischief and longing.
Bulleh, ki jaana main kaun?
Bulleh, what do I know of who I am?
One of them looked over. “Newcomer! Too proper to join us?”
“I’m properly terrible at singing.”
“Even roosters sing at dawn,” Roshni said, nudging him.
A dholak came flying across the room. Lawrence caught it with all the grace of a man receiving a baby.
“Just hit it,” she grinned. “Like that typewriter you curse when it jams.”
He rolled his eyes and tapped the drum, once, uncertainly.
The room exploded.
Cheers, clapping, a second harmonium from somewhere, someone banging a spoon against a teapot. The boy danced between the tables, tray held high. The sun slipped behind the rooftops, lanterns flickered on, and Lawrence, who had never in his life been loud on purpose, found himself keeping a rhythm that was wrong in all the right places.
Nobody corrected him. Nobody wanted to.
Around the fourth chorus, the wobbly table finally gave up. It tilted. The chess pieces shivered. The rooster king slid off his square, rolled across the board, and dropped to the floor.
Nobody noticed the fallen king. Outside, somewhere beyond the rooftops, another rooster began to sing.
Asad Ali
