The Scent of Cardamom

I always believed that the atmosphere of Lahore is very conducive to the birth of heart-warming ‎stories. This story is also about old Lahore, whose narrow streets still smell of cardamom mixed with ‎the smoke of tandoors. There lived a tea seller named Rafiq who owned a small stall—an old wooden ‎table, a brass samovar, and a shabby umbrella to protect from the sun and rain. These were his total ‎assets. ‎
But Rafiq's tea had a legendary taste—a mixture of tea leaves, cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, and ‎ground ginger. His interesting stories attracted his customers—stories that he spun ‎like silk threads on a loom. ‎
One rainy afternoon, as the winds of Sawan played in the streets, a stranger approached Rafiq’s stall. ‎His attire was strange—a long coat catching the raindrops, and mysterious eyes holding secrets older ‎than the Mughal era. ‎
‎“Tea!” the stranger said, his voice low. ‎
Rafiq offered him the steaming tea, the aroma of cardamom wafting through the air. “Drink, and a ‎story,” he added. “For free!” ‎
The stranger raised an eyebrow. “What kind of story?” ‎
‎“A love story,” Rafiq said. “A love that transcends time.” ‎
The stranger leaned closer—drops were dripping from his hat. “Tell me.” ‎
Rafiq began the story thus:‎
‎---‎
In the time of Emperor Akbar, when countless flowers bloomed in the gardens of Lahore and poets ‎wrote poems under the arches of Shalimar Bagh on moonlit nights, there lived a noblewoman named ‎Zeenat. Galaxies sparkled in her mascara-filled eyes. ‎
Zeenat’s mansion was near the Badshahi Mosque—where qawwali echoed in the marble ‎courtyards and the flames of candles danced like wandering souls searching for salvation. ‎
Akbar was the Emperor of India, but Zeenat’s heart was ruled by Farid, a young artist who created ‎works of art with colours borrowed from peacock feathers. Their love was pure but flawed in the eyes ‎of the times. Therefore, they used to meet secretly under an ancient banyan tree on the banks of the ‎Ravi. ‎
Such is the story of their meeting. Zeenat, dressed in a pomegranate-colored silk robe, looked like an ‎apsara. Irfan sang ghazals of her beauty—her voice was bursting with life in Zeenat's veins. ‎
But perhaps even the sky is the enemy of love. One night in Sawan, as darkness spread its wings, ‎Zeenat filled Irfan's life with gloom by saying, "My word has been given somewhere else—I have been ‎associated with a person who smells of deceit and greed." ‎
Irfan's heart was torn to pieces—he saw his dreams shattering. He said, "We will run away. Across the ‎rivers and mountains—outside Akbar's empire." ‎
And so they planned their escape. But like dreams, secrets also have a price to pay. Unfortunately, the ‎one who keeps secrets also receives his prize. Their secret was also revealed. ‎
On the night of their last meeting, Zeenat gifted Irfan a bottle of cardamom oil—a fragrance that ‎lingers like a memory long after their separation. ‎
‎"Remember me!" Zeenat said, clearing a mixture of rain and tears from her throat. ‎
And then she disappeared into the dark corridors of her mansion. ‎
That same night, Irfan left Lahore—across rivers and mountains—but his heart continued to chant ‎Zeenat's name until its last beat.‎
‎---‎
Rafiq finished the story and fell silent—the stranger's eyes were sparkling with moisture. ‎
‎"Didn't they look for each other?" the stranger asked. ‎
Rafiq smiled—the steam rising from his tea was scattering like a mist of memories. "Some people say ‎they did," he replied. "But another love story was written in another life—on the banks of the Ravi River, under a banyan tree—in ‎blood fragrant with cardamom and drenched in rain. But times had ‎changed, the sky was the same. So how could the ending have been different?" ‎
The stranger felt that the bitterness had suddenly dissolved in the last sip of tea.‎