A space to call their own

It is Sunday morning and the roads leading to Chandni Chowk are deserted. We cross the chaotic merry-go-round of Connaught Place in a trice and head to old Delhi. Where are all the people? The buffaloes that amble through the roads listlessly? The children who dart at unexpected moments across the road? It is so quiet. Where are all the vehicles? There is no orchestra of blaring horns, no tinkle of cycle rickshaw bells as they weave their way through the narrow lanes, just managing to miss running over innocent feet and getting run over by speeding cars. Before I realize it, the Red Fort is to my right, imposing and grey in the early morning light, not fully awake.

And inside the Jama Masjid, the sense of stillness follows us. On an earlier trip late one afternoon a few months ago, I remember the contrast the interiors of Jama Masjid presented to the Babel of the streets and market surrounding it. At one of the gates, the cap seller is just taking out his stock, arranging them carefully into a delicate house of cards. He ignores my intrusive camera, shrugging his indifference even when I show him his photographs. I can see he is pleased though; he summons his friend to see them and then calls out to me a few minutes later to share the meagre breakfast of parathas they have all carefully carried from home.

I stand near the gate that looks on to the Red Fort, sharing the moment with families sitting on the steps. And later, from the top, having made our way up the narrow, winding steps, we see old Delhi sprawling before us, bursting at the seams. My mind keeps going back to the past, to the place this must have been, to the better days this area has seen. Now, people are washing their clothes on a tiny stream between the mosque and the fort, vendors are setting up shop all along the road, children are running around trying to catch chicken and each other in a game that makes sense only to childhood.

Back again on ground level, people are quietly doing their own thing. Near the pool in the preliminary cleansing ritual, under the arch staring out blankly into space, on the corridor offering prayer, behind the pillars fast asleep; all outside noises are filtered by the thick red walls along with their worries and anxieties.

Inside Jama Masjid, each individual seems to have found his own space.

***
Published in the Mumbai edition of Sunday Mid-day…

Sin and the city: street snacks in old Delhi

And if all the oil and spice of parathewaligali has not left you sated and/or with heart-burn, walk on…

As you walk out of Chandni Chowk station towards parathewaligali, ignore the Haldirams on your right. Or not. Of all things to eat in Delhi, I found their khandvi of the rare melt-in-the-mouth variety. So Stop there for a quick snack or two. Or head on to unhealthier things.

There was some news a couple of years ago about street snack stalls in Delhi facing the chop but nothing came of it finally. So now there are the samosas and kachoris, the moong and mirchi pakoras, the fried papad (especially in winter), the fruit and alu chaat.

End with a dessert of nankhatai biscuits…

And finally the lassi, to wash down – sadly not away, all the sins… Or in peak summer, nimbu paani.

I am not enough of a Delhi person to tell you where to go for what – I know people who insist on eating kachori only at a particular place and then walking a few hundred metres for the next thing – me, I just stop where the eyes and nose lead me – and the camera. And then all those sari shops and sign-boards along the way. But that is another post in itself…

Sin and the city: in parathewaligali

Established in 1875, says the board. Five generations. That is what Kanhaiya Lal Durga Parshad Dixit’s strangely spelt parawthe are about. It is easy to believe it. True, now the employees wear spiffy red T-shirts with yellow aprons and matching yellow caps, all carrying the shop logo; there is no such thing as too much advertising.

There is something elemental about the way parathe are fried and served in the tiny shops of the famous parathewali gali of old Dilli. It is almost as if nobody there has heard of cholesterol and fat and the nasty thing these can do to the human heart.

But why think of such things when you have the most delicious parathe fried right in front of you? And a range larger then you can ever sample. From the staple aloo and gobi to the mildly adventurous papad and mirchi (both rock, I am glad to report) to the outright bizarre fillings of karela (bitter gourd – which my husband insists on sampling) and rabri (a milk sweet).

The four of us, we squeeze our way through the narrow benches and find a place by the wall at the end of the room. The boy who is obviously too young to be working there places the steel plates in front of us, small crevices filled with the chhole and alu sabji. Who needs all these when each of the parathas comes bursting with flavours? Accha, methi chahiye, yeh lo mein gobi ka laaya, yeh kha lo, says the waiter with a benign smile; we are already down several bits of parathe – shared generously across the four plates, each with different flavours – and we can only weakly nod and take the gobi, begging him to forget the earlier order of methi.

It is fascinating to watch how fast the entire process is; the waiter takes our order (that is just to make you feel happy – in his mind he has already decided what you are going to eat), he goes near the counter and yells the order to the man with the dough. He places a handful of the stuffing in the middle of the rolled out disc and folds it carefully and lets his hands fly lightly over the atta, he then passes it on to the oil man and in a minute, another paratha has made its way into the world.

A kind word of advice: it is best to close your other senses and let taste rule in the time you are there. Focus on the food.

And when you wearily stumble out, try not to think of the teddy bear which told the world, I am stuffed.

Morning at Jama Masjid

It’s Sunday morning and the roads leading to Chandni Chowk are deserted. We cross the chaotic merry go round of Connaught Place in a trice and head to old Delhi. Where are all the people? The buffaloes that carry on listlessly and children who dart at unexpected moments across the road. It is so quiet. Where are all the vehicles? There is no orchestra of blaring horns, no tinkle of cycle rickshaw bells as they weave their way through the narrow lanes, just managing to miss running over innocent feet and getting run over by speeding cars. And before I realize it, the Red Fort is to my right, imposing and grey in the early morning light, not fully awake.

And inside the Jama Masjid, the sense of stillness follows us. On an earlier trip late one afternoon last September, I remember the contrast the interiors of Jama Masjid presented to the babel of the streets and market surrounding it. Once inside, it is another world, people finding themselves quiet corners to pray and meditate and even sleep, all outside noises filtered by the thick red walls along with their worries and anxieties.

The cap seller is just taking out his stock, arranging them carefully into a delicate house of cards. He looks indifferent to my intrusive camera; even when I show him his photo on the camera he shrugs in a careless manner. I can see he is pleased – he calls his friend to show him the image and then calls out to me a few minutes later to share the meagre breakfast they have all started eating from the packets carefully carried from home.

I stand near the gate that looks on to the Red Fort, sharing the moment with families sitting on the steps. My mind keeps going back to the past, to the place this must have been, to the better days this area has seen… Now, people are washing their clothes on a tiny stream between the mosque and the fort, vendors are setting up shop all along the road, children are running about trying to catch chicken and each other in a game that makes sense only to childhood.

Inside the mosque, people are quietly doing their own thing. Near the pool in the preliminary cleansing ritual , under the arch staring out blankly into space, on the corridor offering prayer, near the pillars fast asleep…

Each individual has found his own space.

And from the top, from another day, another time… life inside and outside the mosque goes on as usual…

***
Also see: Jama Masjid photo gallery

And then night in Delhi

If days in Delhi are about long hot cab rides with drivers insisting on playing CDs of Kumar Sanu hits, or have the FM stations belting out the latest Hindi filmi hits, the nights are almost magical. The heat of the day is gone, there are early signs of winter in the air. As most of New Delhi is slowly drifting to sleep, Old Delhi continues to bustle with chaos. Traffic piles up at 10 p.m. on a Sunday night at the intersection outside the Red Fort, horns blare with abandon and fist fights threaten to break out any moment.

The fort meanwhile has shut for the day for visitors, but is illuminated, coyly waiting for the sound and light show to commence. We walk through group after group of policemen, and barricade after yellow barricade (which incidentally, I do not grudge since they serve me very well in the absence of a tripod).

I stop in front of Lahore Gate for this crooked view at the majestic fort, making a mental note to return sometime during the day. More metal detectors and frisks later, we are suddenly walking through the covered bazaar which now boasts of some of the ugliest touristy trash that can be found in Delhi…

And well inside the fort, we sit in the open, facing the diwan-e-khas, watching the lights dance and the sounds roll through the open spaces; the laughter of women at the all-women Thursday bazaar, Shah Jahan’s vision for the Taj, Aurangazeb’s bigoted pronouncements all the way to the call for independence early last century. We shiver slightly in the nippy air, as the son-et-lumiere brings alive centuries of Mughal Delhi.

We walk out after the show, hurried along by the slightly impatient securitymen who are waiting to lock up behind us and leave for the day. A quick dinner and a strange desire for late night ice-cream at India Gate expressed by the husband later, we find ourselves at the said gate.

India Gate is strangely dark and inaccessible; more policemen, more yellow barricades. However, all around is activity – balloon sellers and buyers, icecream vendors on their cycles and icecream eaters, photographers and the photographed, cops going round and round in their vans, children at their loudest best and couples very quiet on the lawns…

Bahut sari tasveeren khichvayi hai humne… I have had lots of pictures taken, said the balloon man, feigning great reluctance, and promptly putting his hands out and his smile on for this perfect pose. All is almost well with the world, if I can bring myself to ignore the number of security checks and police vans I encountered in a single evening…

From Delhi…

Been in Delhi the last few days – haven’t been blogging regularly… Have been so spoilt as a Bombaiya, am still trying to come to terms with the work culture in Delhi (or total lack of it)…

Spent my first day in Delhi riding in a cab all day with Night Queen stickered on both the front and rear glass. Still musing on what the cab does for an alternate source of income…

Spotted : on a sign-board in Janakpuri in West Delhi : DO NOT BEG TO THE BEGGARS. Ok, whatever you say !

Delhi through the centuries

Just finished reading Delhi by Khushwant Singh (I cannot stand Khushwant Singh and do not like Delhi, so why did I even bother?) Discounting Singh’s sex fetish that pervades the narration, the book is an excellent treatise on the psyche of Delhi, the city. As it has been through the ages. As it is today. Ravaged.

The entire commentary is through the eyes of the author (with his obsession for Bhagmati, a hijda prostitute, symbolizing the simultaneous allure and decay of the city), interspersed with stories of the various invaders and rulers recounted by the rulers themselves.

Like I said, this book leaves the reader with a clear understanding of what drives the city today. Instinct. For survival. Of the fittest. As a city that has seen innumerable invaders and plunderers, Delhi has learnt to survive. People come and go…. But Delhi goes on. And the people go on, the only instinct that keeps them going being their innate aggression. The same is true of all of North India as such. It is each one for himself there.

People pouring in from all over into Delhi. True the Turks and Persians no longer inhabit Delhi, but for UPites, Biharis, Punjabis, Delhi still is asylum…… Post partition, Sindhis and Punjabis flocked to Delhi and rebuilt their businesses and lives. The commercial instinct survives to this day.

As opposed to this, look at the South of India (and the West to a large extent, notwithstanding the Portuguese and their love affair with Goa). This region has been away from the action, so to say, and left to mind its own business. A sheltered existence through the centuries. Untouched (literally and figuratively) by what happened in the North. Free to concentrate on their scholarly pursuits, no business-shusiness for them, folks!

And this also reflects in the attitude of each region towards women. After all, what else is left to plunder once the gems and gold have been seized?

A reader had left this comment on my blog a few days ago – about Bangalore – The most surprising thing I encountered was people leave you alone on the road, they don’t innocently bumped into you, as the guys in North do

As a researcher who has traveled through the hinterlands of this country, I know what she means. There is a persecution complex that attaches itself to the women as soon as she steps into the North. Let me assure you that this is not mere imagination but the truth. In the North, prepare to be ogled at, pinched and harassed in other ways. Not just in the interiors but in good old Delhi itself.

And it is true (again I say this from personal experience) that a woman feels much safer in the South and the West (like most others, I have no idea of the East of India).

I remember what I had read about Human Instinct as described by Robert Winston. To me, it is amazing how instincts survive through centuries and centuries…. And define the lives of people in this day and age.….