India, May 8 -- The Indian Coffee House culture took root in Chandigarh as early as 1964 and later moved to the red-brick structure in Sector 17, once hailed as the Connaught Place of the city. In good old days, there were two coffee houses in the sector. Now, the one in line of Neelam Cinema remains. At one time, it was the hub of writers, artists, theatre actors, clerks and many others who loved the ease and aroma of South Indian coffee beans. As people grew wealthier, the city spread its wings far and wide, and many fancy eateries came up, the place gradually became infra dig for some. But there are those, like this scribbler, who simply cannot bid adieu to old acquaintances and the friendly staff, and still makes the journey there from the outskirts of the city. Of course, one always wonders if anyone familiar will be there or not. Recently, when I got a chance to visit, I was delighted to run into poet Manu Kant, one of the staunch leftovers of the Left, whom I had interviewed many years ago over a cup of coffee and mutton cutlet. To top it all, he was carrying his mint-fresh book of poems titled 'Chandigarh: The Urban Poor - A Street Diary'. The city designed by Le Corbusier has often been challenged by critics for trying to hide its poor, or even the middle class, from sight, exposing the sharp class divide of the Madhya Marg - the middle path. The saving grace of Sector 17 is the many government offices where middle-class people come to work, creating the need for reasonably priced stalls selling tea, sugarcane juice, fruit chaat, sweet potatoes, roasted corn on the cob and more. It is here that Kant's poetry finds its people, not in the posh showrooms and eateries. He brings the unseen to centre stage with empathy, not just in this coveted sector but across the City Beautiful, brought alive through the wages of labour. His verses linger with images shaped in the merry month of May. 'Hot May afternoon, a roadside chaiwala returning to his tea stall, with a Mirinda bottle'; 'May evening, inside an AC car, drinking beer; outside, a waste picker collecting abandoned bottles near a liquor shop'. It is a warm experience encountering the verses of Kant, a product of a model school who studied journalism in Russia. He combines both sides of the story in his haiku creations, whereas poets of the genre usually dwell on nature and seasons. He has penned and published 15 collections of poetry. I return from the poetry date elated, do some shopping, dine at the Chandigarh Press Club and head home in a cab, only to realise I have lost my phone. It turns into a day and a quarter of nomophobia - a term coined for the irrational anxiety of being without a phone. Then I go looking for it and, sure enough, a young Coffee House waiter who had served us coffee and mutton cutlets returns it with a smile, saying, "You left it on the chair next to you." It is good that some things do not change: neither the themes of Kant's poetry, nor the shining smile of the waiter, or the taste of the coffee and the cutlet....