Tousif Raza
As we know, some speak, and some poems whisper. Masroofa Quadir’s untitled poem belongs to the latter—delicate yet daring, a murmur in the ear of conscience. Currently serving as Assistant Professor of Urdu at the Women’s Degree College, Anantnag, Quadir brings to her poetry the quiet resistance of lived experience and the subtle rage of reflection. Before, let’s read the poem in English
Poem
I often wonder—
these perfectly pleasant people,
how cheerfully they say,
“Come, let’s sit for a while,
have some coffee together—
just a nice cup of coffee!”
Yes—
they sip it with such fondness.
But the making of coffee—
how full of labor it is!
How those beans are first
extracted with effort,
how each grain
is weighed and priced differently,
then ground down to dust—
and even then,
mercilessly stirred and dissolved.
And in the cups,
sweet and bitter stories
steep and settle quietly.
Those who drink,
crinkle their noses and say,
“Something’s missing.”
Isn’t every woman,
in some way or another,
just like that?
On the surface, her poem is about coffee. The familiar ritual of sharing a cup, wrapped in cordiality and comfort, becomes a metaphor so layered, so intimate, that it stirs the very grounds of social consciousness. “Let’s sit for a while / and share a nice cup of coffee,” someone says with a smile. But the poet gently peels that smile back, and beneath it, she reveals the aching labor that brews behind each cup.
The coffee bean, in her hands, ceases to be a commodity. It becomes a symbol of invisible toil—plucked, sorted, ground, brewed—until it transforms into the very warmth others consume thoughtlessly. The metaphor then unfolds like steam from a hot cup, wrapping around the contours of womanhood. “Isn’t that just how / every woman feels— / in bits and sips, / ground, brewed, poured, / and still never enough?”
This closing is not an outcry—it is a whisper with the weight of centuries. In just a few deft lines, Quadir connects domesticity with erasure, ritual with resilience, and silence with sacrifice. The poem’s tone is deceptively calm, almost conversational. Yet, beneath its surface runs a current of quiet defiance. There is no rage here, only recognition. And it is this restraint that makes the poem all the more powerful.
One cannot ignore the craftsmanship behind the poem’s structure. The shift from the external act of drinking coffee to the internal state of being the coffee is seamless. The repetition of the word “coffee”—first exclaimed, then dissected—marks the shift from passive consumption to critical reflection. The imagery is tactile, almost cinematic; one can feel the grind, the heat, the swirl. It is poetry that not only evokes but implicates.
Quadir’s voice, though soft, carries the strength of countless women who have been too long reduced to roles—mother, wife, daughter, worker—each role another brew of expectations, another dainty cup in which identity dissolves. She does not claim victimhood, nor does she seek pity. Instead, she invites understanding—and perhaps, transformation.
Masroofa Quadir’s untitled poem reminds us that even the most ordinary of acts can be reservoirs of meaning. In the act of drinking coffee, she finds the entire arc of womanhood—its sweetness, its bitterness, its unseen labor, and its unacknowledged grace. She turns the everyday into the eternal, and in doing so, gives voice to those whose stories have been brewed in silence.
(The author is a student of English literature. Hailing from Tangmarg, he can be reached at tousifeqbal555@gmail.com)