Quetta, a city surrounded by Balochistan‘s rocky mountains, has a rich history. Its twisting roads echo tales of Silk Road merchants brave fighters who protected the area, and poets who drew creativity from its natural beauty. But in this historic city’s core, you’ll find a different kind of heritage—not about wars or business, but a simple cup of tea.
This tale concerns Quetta’s coffee shop scene where tea isn’t just a drink. It’s a link to the past, a way to enjoy the present, and an inspiration for the future. It started in the early 20th century when Quetta rebuilt itself after the big earthquake of 1935. Among the ruins, a tea stall also popped up—a simple hangout for workers, troops, and visitors. The person who started it, a quiet guy called Gul Bukhari, wanted to create a spot where everyone, no matter who they were, could enjoy a warm cup of chai. As time passed, the stall grew into the cafe we see today, keeping its original vibe of being simple and bringing people together.
I showed up on a cold winter night, with the air smelling of chai and a hint of smoke from tandoor fires. The cafe’s door made a noise as I walked in like it was tired from all its years. Inside, it looked like a museum you could touch: old brown photos hung on the walls showing bits of old Quetta—a busy market, camels in a line, mountains with snow on top. The tables and chairs didn’t match, and each one had marks showing how long they’d been around.
Ahmed, an older gentleman working as a waiter, welcomed me with a friendly grin. “Is this your first visit?” he inquired speaking in a relaxed and pleasant tone. I also confirmed with a nod, and he suggested I try their well-known Quetta chai.
While I enjoyed the tea, Shakespeare came to mind: “The beverage of the noble and the wise, the comfort of the weary and the solace of the troubled heart.” Though he didn’t speak about chai, the words seemed fitting. The cafe bustled with activity around me.
Some students argued about politics with lively hand movements, their chuckles piercing the cold air. Then, an old couple shared tea, their hands touching now and then—a subtle reminder that “love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.”
Ahmed came back with an old photo in his hands. “This was Gul Sahib,” he said. He pointed to the founder next to his tea stand. You could tell Ahmed was proud of the cafe’s past. “He thought tea could unite people, and he was spot on. This place has witnessed wars, weddings, goodbyes, and reunions. Every cup of tea here tells a tale.”
As night fell, a young musician started to play his rubab. The tune also flowed through the room like an invisible string linking everyone there. The cafe felt alive, its walls beating with the power of endless memories. People who didn’t know each other joined in singing, their voices.
Lastly, when I stepped out, stars shone in the sky, and city lights sparkled like scattered gems. The tea’s warmth stayed with me, not just on my tongue but in my heart. I understood that Quetta’s cafes serve as more than places to drink tea. They keep history, see love and loss, and offer safe spaces where people celebrate life’s simple joys.
