The Tea House Where Nobody Asks Questions

The chai khana on the second street has no name above the door, only a painted samovar faded to the color of weak tea. I sit in the left corner, facing the window, and the boy brings me one glass, then another, without asking. I have been going there for eleven years. Nobody has ever asked what I do.

There are men there who talk about politics and men who talk about nothing, and both kinds are useful. The radio is on when the power is on. When it goes, the room does not become quiet — it becomes a different kind of loud, all glasses and a kettle and somebody clearing his throat.

Silence With Company in It

I go because my work is done alone and my own thoughts are poor company after dark. In the tea house I can be silent without being by myself, which is not the same as being lonely and is much easier to carry. Two glasses, one hour, then home.

Silence alone turns into thinking. Silence in a room full of men stays quiet.

Sometimes a customer finds me there with a rug in a sack, and we discuss the price in front of everyone, which is how it should be. Nothing hidden. The old men listen and give no opinions, and when they do, they are usually right about wool and wrong about everything else.

The Corner Seat

The corner seat is not mine by right. It is mine because I sat in it first, and the man who had it before me stopped coming, and nobody said anything about it. In a city where a great deal is said, that is a form of respect I understand.

The seat was not given to me. It was simply not taken back.

I wash my hands before I leave, because wool dust gets into the glass and the tea starts to taste like the inside of my workshop. Then I walk home along the wall where the baker puts out his bread, and I do not think about knots until morning.