My Gandhi moment in Chandigarh’s Indian Coffee House

A few months ago, I had my “Gandhi moment” in Sector 17’s Indian Coffee House. I was virtually thrown out by the manager because I had not ordered anything. I was only reading something on my phone. To the manager, I looked like someone occupying a table when paying customers were waiting.

For thirty years, the Indian Coffee House had been my second home. Back then, coffee cost only ten rupees. I would sit there for hours, reading or observing people and sometimes writing.

I knew almost all waiters by their names. They were friends who had served me coffee enthusiastically. On Diwali or New Year, I gave them some money or sweets, or sometimes a bottle of whisky. Sometimes I invited them for a drink at the Gymkhana Beer Bar across the street. Those small gestures made me feel part of their world, and them part of mine.

But over the years, coffee became expensive, and rent went up. I had less money, so I often came just to read. I believed I had the poetic right to sit there quietly, even without ordering.

Writers like Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir had done the same in Paris cafés. If they could write philosophy over one coffee, why couldn’t I read over none?

But that evening, the manager thought otherwise. “Who will pay the monthly rent of six lakh rupees?” he shouted. The words hit me hard. I mumbled something about friendship, loyalty, and my years there. But he was unmoved. For him, I was just another customer taking up space. I left quietly, promising never to return.

Walking out of the Coffee House that day felt like losing a piece of myself. That place had shaped me. I had written poems, argued over ideas, and shared small joys with those waiters. I never imagined I’d be pushed out of it.

It reminded me of Gandhi being thrown off the train in South Africa. Of course, my humiliation was smaller, but it had the same sting—being told you don’t belong in a place you thought was yours.

Several months have passed, and I haven’t gone back. Each time I walk through Sector 17, I look at the Coffee House signboard and feel a quiet ache. It is no longer a poet’s refuge. It now belongs to customers who can pay, not those who dream. Yet in some corner of memory, the old Coffee House still lives, alive with laughter, and the smell of strong coffee that once welcomed everyone.

Manu Kant, Chandigarh