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- He remembered orders, recognised preferences and delivered tea wherever it was needed—under a tree, in a classroom, along the lanes of a newly developed colony or beside the college’s open-air theatre.
- It was a modest tea stall near an octroi post—and the man who brought it to life was Ishwer.
- Known for its industrial legacy as the “Iron Bird City of Asia”, the town also occupies an important place in Punjab’s religious, literary and cultural history.
Batala carries many identities within its narrow streets and crowded bazaars. Known for its industrial legacy as the “Iron Bird City of Asia”, the town also occupies an important place in Punjab’s religious, literary and cultural history. It gave the celebrated poet Shiv Kumar his enduring literary name, Shiv Batalvi, and once attracted film star Dev Anand, whose visits stirred dreams of cinema among local admirers.
Yet for generations of students at Baring College, especially those associated with its postgraduate department, the most memorable landmark was neither a monument nor an institution. It was a modest tea stall near an octroi post—and the man who brought it to life was Ishwer.
Officially, Ishwer worked as a helper at the stall run by his brother-in-law. In spirit, however, he was its proprietor, messenger and public face. Every morning, at precisely 11, he arrived at the postgraduate department carrying nearly 30 cups of tea for students and teachers.
His timing was so dependable that some joked they could set their watches by the sound of his approaching bicycle. Rain, heat or winter fog rarely disturbed his routine. A ringing cycle bell would announce both the arrival of tea and, in an informal way, the interval between classes.
Ishwer had a slight squint and seldom made direct eye contact, but there was never any uncertainty in his manner. His sincerity required no elaborate expression. He remembered orders, recognised preferences and delivered tea wherever it was needed—under a tree, in a classroom, along the lanes of a newly developed colony or beside the college’s open-air theatre.
He appeared particularly delighted when students rehearsed for the annual English play. The language of Shakespearean speeches and dramatic soliloquies may have been unfamiliar to him, but the excitement surrounding the production was not. He would stand nearby, smiling as he served tea, becoming part of the performance without ever stepping onto the stage.
Two cyclists were especially familiar figures on the campus. One was Dr Paul L. Love, the whistling head of the English department. The other was Ishwer, ringing the bell of his bicycle as he moved from one group to another. One represented scholarship and academic authority; the other, through quiet service, helped sustain the daily rhythm of college life.
His courtesy and cheerful disposition earned him unusual access across the campus. He could enter administrative areas and even the girls’ hostel without creating discomfort or suspicion. Everyone knew him, and he knew almost everyone.
He rarely asked for favours. Instead, he offered assistance whenever it was required. He sometimes joined students for film screenings, yet managed to ensure that work at the shop was never neglected. In an age before mobile phones and instant messaging, Ishwer often became the invisible link connecting different groups of students and teachers.
The tea stall was also an unlikely extension of the classroom.
Baring College attracted distinguished teachers and visitors from India and abroad, including scholars from the United States, Britain and Israel. Around Ishwer’s tea, conversations moved effortlessly between religion, literature, science, history and politics.
One moment, the discussion might centre on Gurdwara Sri Kandh Sahib or the spiritual significance of the Achaleshwar temple. The next, it might turn to Christmas celebrations in the college church. Shakespeare, Newton, Gandhi and Mandela appeared regularly in these exchanges, not as distant figures from textbooks but as living presences in animated conversation.
Tea arrived with pieces of besan and crisp mathees, served without ceremony but with unmistakable warmth. The intermittent sip from a cup often provided the pause between one idea and another.
For young students, these gatherings offered an education beyond the syllabus. They listened respectfully, conscious of the formal distance expected between students and senior professors. Ishwer, however, seemed exempt from such boundaries. Although he had received little formal education, he spoke to eminent teachers and senior officers with unaffected familiarity. He could even address some of them by their nicknames.
No one appeared to mind.
Perhaps that was because Ishwer possessed a kind of social intelligence that cannot be acquired through degrees. He understood when to speak, when to remain silent and when a cup of tea was needed without anyone asking for it. His presence placed people at ease.
Years later, a return to Batala reveals how much has changed.
The college palace, the church and the open-air theatre still stand. The buildings retain their architecture, and the familiar spaces continue to receive new batches of students. But Ishwer is no longer there, and the culture of leisurely intellectual exchange that once flourished around his tea appears to have diminished.
It is said that he eventually moved to Gurdaspur to look after his parents and later married. His departure may have seemed like an ordinary event at the time, but memory has transformed it into the end of an era.
What is missed is not merely the taste of tea. It is the atmosphere that surrounded it—the ringing bicycle bell, conversations beneath trees, rehearsals that stretched into the evening, professors speaking freely with students, and an unlettered tea seller moving among them all as an equal.
Standing again in those familiar surroundings, one is reminded of the old question: where have the songs of spring gone?
Perhaps the places remain while the voices disappear. Or perhaps the singers are still among us, sitting quietly in separate rooms, their attention fixed on glowing mobile screens, unaware that a community once gathered every morning around 30 cups of tea.
