Day 17: South Ex., Part I and II; Bus Route 540 (Kendriya Terminal to Tara Apartments) - Check.
“If you’ve never gotten lost, you need to live your life more aggressively.”
Trust me, if it wasn’t for the bus ride today, this piece wouldn’t have held any credibility for being pinned up.
The first stop was South Extension Part I. The market seemed to look the same, sharing the gratitude of not being counted as a Metro victimized area. I travelled the length of the market, absorbing in a distinctive feel of the market, and a small inlet through the market that leads to the Aakash Institute.
Aakash Institute and I share a long story – one that began 7 years ago, and lasted for a year. The same year where I scrubbed off my youthful exuberance at the price for a petty ‘medical’ teaching. It’s depressing, so I’ll save it.
Experiments can turn out to be unexpectedly amusing, even if it’s a casual sip at Barista. Amongst the three of us, we ordered a Watermelon Mojito, a Lemon Ice Tea and a cold coffee. Now, as customary, the experimental bit, the Watermelon Mojito, fell in my share. And ironically, it turned out to be the best. Served with watermelon flavoured drink, in a glassful of crushed ice and a hint of lemon, nourished perfectly by a mint leaf, Mojito exceeded in its taste against the standing contenders on the table.
The Lemon Ice Tea was pretty usual, and although I find the Mc Donald’s the best, the one my friend had was nowhere close to it.
The cold coffee was again, a disaster. In simple explanation, it seemed like a splurge of coffee beans, without being beaten, were stirred in a glass of cold water with thick unmixable chocolate swimming at the bottom. And to top it up, there was definitely no milk in it because of the liquid’s inexplicable thinness.
The subsequent stop was over at South Ex. Part II, on the other side of the road. A plateful of vegetarian Momos, which are steamed balls of flour stuffed with vegetables, a specialty particularly in Tibet. However, there are numerous stalls in Delhi that run their business by selling Momos. Along with vegetarian, there are paneer (cottage cheese) and non vegetarian (with an option of chicken and very seldom, mutton). Next stop, was the typical Aloo Chaat, which are basically pieces of friend potato tossed in a splash of lemon juice and various chaat masalas.
The last eating stop was again, across the road, at South Ex. Part I; and god knows why we kept switching. Gol Gappa, which by the end of today, seemed to have become my staple meal. I’ve shared the recipe of it before, so I’ll save it this time.
Apart from the overwhelming meet up that was stuffed with disastrous experimental drinks and discussing my inability to find a girlfriend in the UK, the bus ride on my way back home spiced the day up.
Bus route 540, which runs from Kendriya Terminal to Tara Apartments; I got on to the bus at South Ex., this being one of the routes I hadn’t tried before.
(One thing that should be understood, before I go on glorifying my embarrassing escapade, is that people who’re not so good with directions can turn vulnerable when it comes to judging ways and routes in a place being visited the first time in 7 months.)
So after sitting in the bus, while I’m merrily plugged into the guitar crashing riffs of Green Day, I skipped my own stop. Green Day was a spoiler for having me distracted from the conductor’s scream that my stop had arrived. As a result, I was driven till the end of the bus route, after which the conductor asked me to buy another ticket because the ticket I help in my hands was for South Ex. till the completion of the journey.
Unknowingly, after sitting at South Ex. and having crossed my stop, I went on till Chittaranjan Park, Greater Kailash until the bus reached it terminal stop. There, being the only person sitting in the bus, I realized my idiocy upon an epiphany – an epiphany that dawned as a reason of hilarity and amusement for the conductor when I asked him the time it’ll take for my stop to come.
At the end of it, with an entertained, yet completely puzzled for stumbling upon my dazzling sense of directions, he saved me from an extra ticket. The only fresh of breath air I sighed was after getting down while the bus rode on its way back.
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
Gleefulness riding on exhaustion.
Day 16: Lajpat Nagar; Central Market – Check.
“This is an Indian man convincing their shit: Sir, I’m telling you. Best price, take it and go. Take it... and go. Take it and go.” – Russell Peters.
It was day 16 of my Delhi trip, and being my 12th post, I’m being nourished with this overwhelming sense of pride. Absurd may be, and many people may concur that roaming around markets with open rooftops in blazing Indian summer isn’t really the best idea, but then that is what travel writing is all about, isn’t it?
Laid out in what seems to be more or less like a grid, with the streets occupying the interlaced lines and the shops and stores aligned on the inner segments, Lajpat Nagar’s Central Market is an unparallel shopping hub. Crowded by a healthy population of women, all shops welcome bargaining with arms wide open. From clothing wear to accessories, leather belts to bags, there is every room for a sliding price tag. So, don’t be astonished if, after recurring negotiation trials, you manage to bring down a Rs. 300 product to a mere price of Rs. 50.
And the best part, for commodities like hand bags and handkerchiefs, you don’t even have to look for a definite shop. There are mobile shops, a term which I suppose has been introduced in a post before. It’s basically a one man shop, who holds huge packets of handkerchiefs with him and walks throughout the market, trying to sell them off at negotiable prices. After a certain point of time, you feel there’s a virtual obligation that he’s holding onto, because although he may start pinning the price at an unaffordable scale, but won’t take much time to get him well below what you asked for.
It gets funnier when you come across a young man trying to sell sunglasses; they won’t approach you with a customary smile, or even an attractive tone in their voice. They come up, wearing a godfather like personality and slipped into a tight leather shirt, sparklingly designed jeans and brimming with self confidence, putting on a suspecting look on their faces as if they’re trying to slip packets of nicotine in your bag.
The next thing on my shopping list was shoe laces. But how is it appropriate to set the rates in a shop that has only a torn umbrella as its roof with the owner sitting on a rag, equivalent to what you can expect to get in a high end store. 20 bucks for a pair of laces! Well, I bought five, and being grateful to my mother’s incredible skills at bargaining, I got them for 75.
Food, as we go again, was the customary gold dust. We began with a bite at Mc. Donald’s where, after engaging myself in an exhausting feast with chips at Cardiff, I again fed myself those long potato sticks. Not really much to talk about that. Nevertheless, the one thing I have failed to comprehend is the sudden fall of relish I used to have for Chaat, which now I don’t. Throughout the trip, the only fodder I relied on was a glassful of heavenly Banta (a bottle of lemon drink with an addition of a slash of lemon juice and masala) that rejuvenated my lungs, Chhole Bhature at Rozy restaurant (I know the name sounds bogus, but apparently the place has been a popular eating joint for many people, and is running in its 25th year), and a Pan flavoured stick kulfi (the normal stick kulfi, with the exception of its green ‘pan’ colour , a distinct flavour and some pan pieces that replenish your breath in its last bite).
Monday, 5 April 2010
Fret machine.
Day 10: Amity University, Route 493 (Amity Chowk Sector 44 to Nehru Place) – Check.
“Aal iiz well” – 3 Idiots
There cannot be qualms in relating to the quote with this column. Here’s the preview: engineering college, not really knowing why I got, swinging my line of study after acquiring a degree.
More than collecting my degree, it was about revisiting the place I spent four strenuous years, seeing and touching ups and downs, going to as far as suicidal notions and clawing back with anything but insatiableness, and practicing the method of study that fetches a 70% with a one night stand with books.
But as the saying goes, if at all there is, Amity would still give me enough reasons to fret than to praise its association to the IPL as a university partner – that, being my first dope. Alright, so what is a ‘university partner’, as a definition, again? Throughout the campus, I saw banners of Delhi Daredevils hanging from roof tops. It won’t surprise me if the authorities just may start hoisting the Delhi Daredevils flag in anticipated morning assemblies.
As glad I was to be back, walking through the corridor that has shared my anxiety and fears over my revaluations and supplementary examinations, there was a definite surge of inexplicability. I use the word inexplicability to refer to a mixture of feelings of anticipation, nostalgia, curiosity and a hint of vexation.
Some of the spots inside the E2 building I revisited, or to say, was made to revisit were Batra’s office, the corridor connection E3 to E1 and the examination department. I know it sounds a bit off the hook, for a corridor to bring back surges of nostalgia, but surprisingly it did. All the more I recognized the fear I held the last time I entered Batra’s office, in hopes for preponing my viva.
But then, nothing completes an Amity visit unless you’re made to sit for hours and walk around two diagonally positioned buildings multimillion number of times. Firstly, I do not understand why I have to pay Rs. 500 for my own degree. Secondly, why would the college authorities have my name categorized in a totally different course, after I’m done with the course; just certain things that although you might want to stand elusive towards, but it just doesn’t seem to surface.
Enough with the fretting, I suppose. The most wonderful part, apart from meeting a friend in the campus (if she’s reading this) was the journey back to Nehru Place. This time, I didn’t take the bus; probably as a tribute to my increased inabilities of bearing the heat, and the bus rides. Taking the same route for four years, again, reprised the echoes of the days I spent desperately looking for a seat in the bus. Yamuna bridge, Kaindi Kunj, Sarita Vihar, Apollo, Okhla and Nehru Place – all looked exactly the same, with the only exception of the widening of the road margins at Kalindi Kunj.
“Aal iiz well” – 3 Idiots
There cannot be qualms in relating to the quote with this column. Here’s the preview: engineering college, not really knowing why I got, swinging my line of study after acquiring a degree.
More than collecting my degree, it was about revisiting the place I spent four strenuous years, seeing and touching ups and downs, going to as far as suicidal notions and clawing back with anything but insatiableness, and practicing the method of study that fetches a 70% with a one night stand with books.
But as the saying goes, if at all there is, Amity would still give me enough reasons to fret than to praise its association to the IPL as a university partner – that, being my first dope. Alright, so what is a ‘university partner’, as a definition, again? Throughout the campus, I saw banners of Delhi Daredevils hanging from roof tops. It won’t surprise me if the authorities just may start hoisting the Delhi Daredevils flag in anticipated morning assemblies.
As glad I was to be back, walking through the corridor that has shared my anxiety and fears over my revaluations and supplementary examinations, there was a definite surge of inexplicability. I use the word inexplicability to refer to a mixture of feelings of anticipation, nostalgia, curiosity and a hint of vexation.
Some of the spots inside the E2 building I revisited, or to say, was made to revisit were Batra’s office, the corridor connection E3 to E1 and the examination department. I know it sounds a bit off the hook, for a corridor to bring back surges of nostalgia, but surprisingly it did. All the more I recognized the fear I held the last time I entered Batra’s office, in hopes for preponing my viva.
But then, nothing completes an Amity visit unless you’re made to sit for hours and walk around two diagonally positioned buildings multimillion number of times. Firstly, I do not understand why I have to pay Rs. 500 for my own degree. Secondly, why would the college authorities have my name categorized in a totally different course, after I’m done with the course; just certain things that although you might want to stand elusive towards, but it just doesn’t seem to surface.
Enough with the fretting, I suppose. The most wonderful part, apart from meeting a friend in the campus (if she’s reading this) was the journey back to Nehru Place. This time, I didn’t take the bus; probably as a tribute to my increased inabilities of bearing the heat, and the bus rides. Taking the same route for four years, again, reprised the echoes of the days I spent desperately looking for a seat in the bus. Yamuna bridge, Kaindi Kunj, Sarita Vihar, Apollo, Okhla and Nehru Place – all looked exactly the same, with the only exception of the widening of the road margins at Kalindi Kunj.
Three pair legs, two pair wheels – our small Delhi tour.
Day 9: Kailash Colony, Some road alongside Humayun’s Tomb, Khan Market, Greenpark, GK I (M Block market), Nehru Place; Bus route 764 (Nehru Place to Nizammudin Railway Station) – Check.
“And here we… Go!” – Heath Ledger, The Joker, The Dark Knight.
This package was by far the most interesting one. Not just did it include strolling around several spots in Delhi, but this time I had people accompanying me. Majorly, the trip was led by food, and so was the topic of discussion in most of our conversations.
The ride instigated from Bluebells School International, Kailash Colony. I would have loved to say it was fun, but standing in the blazing heat waiting for my friend outside the school doesn’t count as such. However, with the exception of having to stand on the road opposite LSR (Lady Sri Ram) College, which has been a sanctuary for exclusive bird watching in my 11th standard, partially lifted the heat off.
Other than the splendid view Bluebells has to offer, I was amazed at the Metro construction. The road wasn’t subjected to gravel clutter hampering the traffic flow anymore. Or to say, it wasn’t as worse as it was when I left. Nonetheless, it was one of those pockets that have made a definite progression.
From Kailash Colony, we headed to Mount Kailash; our cold drink station. Being only a pick up stop, where I conveniently lost the front seat (let aside the jokes), we headed to “a place”.
I can only describe our next stop as “a place”, because I hardly knew where we were. As a matter of fact, all that was to the place was a curved road, smooth enough to enjoy a hassle free drive without having to “push through”, or “break in”, or even “take over”.
On the left, the surroundings were governed particularly by wastelands with thatched roofed huts and a small room with walls that I can assume would’ve belonged to the medieval times (ironically, there used to be a college there a couple of years ago, but was sealed whilst the Delhi-sealing-rampage was at its peak).
(Forgive me, for this was the first trip where my love for Delhi woke up from the dead, yet I did misspell Delhi in the above paragraph, and it took me a minute to figure out where I went wrong.)
On the right, from what my friend told me, was the Humayun’s Tomb; another site whose corners serve lovers’ secrecy. Again, we didn’t go in there, so I’ll save the details.
Khan Market: our next stop. What we had here were the Indian version of Mc. Donald’s burgers. I hate to repeat this, but British flavours cannot EVER find a place for the finest of Indian ones. And I’m not putting the Mc. Aloo Tikki on top of the ladder of my ‘scrumptious-Indian-delights’ list, but even the European burgers and pizzas – the indigenous food – aren’t ready to prepare its Asian versions.
I have to admit I am terrible with directions; terrible being only an underrated, underwhelmed undercurrent. Considering that, if I say I can guide from Malviya Nagar (where I stay) to Greenpark, it makes sense. However, if someone asks a person who is, by definition, dumb with directions and understanding roadmaps, then how exactly does he deserve being accused (and taunted upon) if he cannot steer the ship safely from Khan Market to Greenpark? (Just to let you know I’m talking of two completely different routes here.)
We drove through residential complexes, main roads, came across two markets which could never qualify to be the main Greenpark market, until finding salvage in an auto driver’s direction sense. It was amazing how people talk a great deal in a quick snap of words – “third left, second right”, was all that he filled us with – and we were there!
And then came in the real food. I really wish I could post pictures here (that being, if I had them), but the Indian flavours we had were nothing short of stupendous. “Evergreen” was our stop, a restaurant cum sweet shop that looms over its adjacent Madras cafes and takes twice their size.
The list was mouth watering: Pav Bhaji, Chole Bhature, Gol Gappe, Aloo Tikki and Papri Chaat. And for desert, which by the way no one shared, leaving me overwhelmed with gratefulness, I had the saffron flavoured Ras Malai. It is far beyond understanding the desperation I held towards these food items, being the perfect extension after last night’s fantabulous Mughalai feast.
So much so, owing to the plethora of food items we ordered, we even saved the bill. That is being planned to be pinned up on the board in our rooms.
Out of all, Gol Gappe is in particular, the dearest to me. Yes, food can sometimes be your lover! It’s quite intriguing to make your own set of Gol Gappe by filling it firstly with potatoes and sweet chutney, and then filling it up with cold, green, tangy flavoured water. If you ask my friends, food could perhaps prove to be the sole reason why I would want to stay back in Delhi.
I quite don’t understand why does the M Block market in GK I get the attention it does not quite deserve. If you’re asking for newness, there is none, apart from a fountain throwing out uneven streams of water from a considerable height. All that M Block engulfs in its rectangular framed market, with a par in the center that acts as a playground for toddlers, are international brands of clothing, restaurants and coffee shops; street shopping is an active facility for the shoppers, be it dirt cheap tee shirts, accessories or books; the mind numbing traffic.
The final drive was from GK I to Nehru Place. Nehru Place still retains the quintessential Delhi charm – crowdedness and street shopping. However, the part I covered was its bus station. Well, primarily because that is where I had to catch the bus from.
Route 764 – something that has served me for years. Right through my under graduation, to my training at HCL Noida, or being the not so quiet frequent visits to my friends; route 764, which originates from Nehru Place and drops me off at Sadhana Enclave, has been the nucleus of my commutation. Standing at the spot I normally would stand, with the Rs. 5 ticket in my hand, it was unimaginable how the journey, (which normally would be a tormenting 15 minute ride, hopping over three flyovers and trying to take over a million cars at one time) would turn out to be pleasing. Through Chittranjan Park, Chirag Delhi, Soami Nagar and finally Sadhana Enclave, there was no pain to be experienced, even in a bus where I stood surrounded by people emanating their sweat stink.
“And here we… Go!” – Heath Ledger, The Joker, The Dark Knight.
This package was by far the most interesting one. Not just did it include strolling around several spots in Delhi, but this time I had people accompanying me. Majorly, the trip was led by food, and so was the topic of discussion in most of our conversations.
The ride instigated from Bluebells School International, Kailash Colony. I would have loved to say it was fun, but standing in the blazing heat waiting for my friend outside the school doesn’t count as such. However, with the exception of having to stand on the road opposite LSR (Lady Sri Ram) College, which has been a sanctuary for exclusive bird watching in my 11th standard, partially lifted the heat off.
Other than the splendid view Bluebells has to offer, I was amazed at the Metro construction. The road wasn’t subjected to gravel clutter hampering the traffic flow anymore. Or to say, it wasn’t as worse as it was when I left. Nonetheless, it was one of those pockets that have made a definite progression.
From Kailash Colony, we headed to Mount Kailash; our cold drink station. Being only a pick up stop, where I conveniently lost the front seat (let aside the jokes), we headed to “a place”.
I can only describe our next stop as “a place”, because I hardly knew where we were. As a matter of fact, all that was to the place was a curved road, smooth enough to enjoy a hassle free drive without having to “push through”, or “break in”, or even “take over”.
On the left, the surroundings were governed particularly by wastelands with thatched roofed huts and a small room with walls that I can assume would’ve belonged to the medieval times (ironically, there used to be a college there a couple of years ago, but was sealed whilst the Delhi-sealing-rampage was at its peak).
(Forgive me, for this was the first trip where my love for Delhi woke up from the dead, yet I did misspell Delhi in the above paragraph, and it took me a minute to figure out where I went wrong.)
On the right, from what my friend told me, was the Humayun’s Tomb; another site whose corners serve lovers’ secrecy. Again, we didn’t go in there, so I’ll save the details.
Khan Market: our next stop. What we had here were the Indian version of Mc. Donald’s burgers. I hate to repeat this, but British flavours cannot EVER find a place for the finest of Indian ones. And I’m not putting the Mc. Aloo Tikki on top of the ladder of my ‘scrumptious-Indian-delights’ list, but even the European burgers and pizzas – the indigenous food – aren’t ready to prepare its Asian versions.
I have to admit I am terrible with directions; terrible being only an underrated, underwhelmed undercurrent. Considering that, if I say I can guide from Malviya Nagar (where I stay) to Greenpark, it makes sense. However, if someone asks a person who is, by definition, dumb with directions and understanding roadmaps, then how exactly does he deserve being accused (and taunted upon) if he cannot steer the ship safely from Khan Market to Greenpark? (Just to let you know I’m talking of two completely different routes here.)
We drove through residential complexes, main roads, came across two markets which could never qualify to be the main Greenpark market, until finding salvage in an auto driver’s direction sense. It was amazing how people talk a great deal in a quick snap of words – “third left, second right”, was all that he filled us with – and we were there!
And then came in the real food. I really wish I could post pictures here (that being, if I had them), but the Indian flavours we had were nothing short of stupendous. “Evergreen” was our stop, a restaurant cum sweet shop that looms over its adjacent Madras cafes and takes twice their size.
The list was mouth watering: Pav Bhaji, Chole Bhature, Gol Gappe, Aloo Tikki and Papri Chaat. And for desert, which by the way no one shared, leaving me overwhelmed with gratefulness, I had the saffron flavoured Ras Malai. It is far beyond understanding the desperation I held towards these food items, being the perfect extension after last night’s fantabulous Mughalai feast.
So much so, owing to the plethora of food items we ordered, we even saved the bill. That is being planned to be pinned up on the board in our rooms.
Out of all, Gol Gappe is in particular, the dearest to me. Yes, food can sometimes be your lover! It’s quite intriguing to make your own set of Gol Gappe by filling it firstly with potatoes and sweet chutney, and then filling it up with cold, green, tangy flavoured water. If you ask my friends, food could perhaps prove to be the sole reason why I would want to stay back in Delhi.
I quite don’t understand why does the M Block market in GK I get the attention it does not quite deserve. If you’re asking for newness, there is none, apart from a fountain throwing out uneven streams of water from a considerable height. All that M Block engulfs in its rectangular framed market, with a par in the center that acts as a playground for toddlers, are international brands of clothing, restaurants and coffee shops; street shopping is an active facility for the shoppers, be it dirt cheap tee shirts, accessories or books; the mind numbing traffic.
The final drive was from GK I to Nehru Place. Nehru Place still retains the quintessential Delhi charm – crowdedness and street shopping. However, the part I covered was its bus station. Well, primarily because that is where I had to catch the bus from.
Route 764 – something that has served me for years. Right through my under graduation, to my training at HCL Noida, or being the not so quiet frequent visits to my friends; route 764, which originates from Nehru Place and drops me off at Sadhana Enclave, has been the nucleus of my commutation. Standing at the spot I normally would stand, with the Rs. 5 ticket in my hand, it was unimaginable how the journey, (which normally would be a tormenting 15 minute ride, hopping over three flyovers and trying to take over a million cars at one time) would turn out to be pleasing. Through Chittranjan Park, Chirag Delhi, Soami Nagar and finally Sadhana Enclave, there was no pain to be experienced, even in a bus where I stood surrounded by people emanating their sweat stink.
Thursday, 1 April 2010
And I ate in the empire again.
Day 8: Pandara road, Gulati’s restaurant – Check.
“The perfect way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” so feed him!
It is unimaginable, if you adore Mughlai food, to see the atrocities that restaurants in Wales subject the north Indian restaurants to. Needless I say, the Paneer (or the cottage cheese) in the ‘Kadayi Paneer’ we had at an eating joint, which seemed like a desperate impersonation of Gulati’s at Pandara Road, was not only swimming in a rich blend of artificial colours, it totally blew apart the taste as well!
And really, I think it makes sense if no one gets me started on the way those people respect the ‘Butter Naan’ (which in lay man’s terms is a flat bread made from flour) – it’s disguised as a loaf of pita bread! I mean, seriously, out of every Indian impersonation, please do not manhandle the taste.
One of the things on my list for my Delhi trip was to have a ‘proper’ north Indian, Mughlai meal; one that does not include artificialness or ingredients that overdo its texture. And this is where she makes an appearance: the beautiful, mouth watering and scrumptious meal at Gulati’s.
I won’t talk much about the jack that dad used to get us in while a flood of people were queued up on the waiting list, nor about the generosity the waiter showed after learning that currently I’m in the UK; we’ll talk about, THE FOOD!
Having Mughlai food after a tormenting 7 months of exposure to hideously presented north Indian food, the one thing on my mind was Butter Naan (and according to my sister, ‘Dal Makhani’, without which no meal becomes “complete”). After setting the base right, I decided to experiment a little. Among the vegetables, we ordered ‘Bhutta Palak Methi’, which when translated means Corn Spinach and Coriander, and Paneer dipped in thick gravy of vegetables and garlic.
It was a wholesome meal of exotic tastes to be honest. Picture this: a creamy layer of butter floating over the Dal’s surface, the sparkling glow of the gravy as you spoon it from the vessel and the ease and warmth with which it passes down your throat, flirting with your taste buds and seducing you like no woman can ever!
(Apologies for the overwhelming wave of words, but seeing heaven after that long can drive anyone crazy. Either that, or my friends rightly call me the drama queen.)
Out of the lot, the Bhutta Palak Methi contributed heavily to the aroma. Baby corn mixed with properly cooked coriander and spinach, to produce a smooth a thickly rich delicacy, served hot with cream on top.
The Paneer dish was again, an experiment, though it couldn’t level up to the spinach. Firstly, paneer, being given a chance to participate in every second dish on a Mughlai platter is inexplicable to me, and secondly, a heavy dose of garlic never does any good. It only ended up spoiling the romantic backdrop my taste buds were experiencing while engaging in a pleasant absorption of Dal and Bhutta.
Dal Makhani and Butter Naan – out of words for them; isn’t it magical when a curry, doped with an extravagant dash of butter and topped with cream, does not inflict your stomach with any heaviness? Can’t believe I overate.
Penultimate, and appropriately, a mouth freshener, or the “Sauf”. And no, you do not serve After Eight after a meal. Although nothing beats After Eight when it comes to replenishing the onion and garlic flavours left lingering in one’s mouth, but that is simply disrespecting the tradition!
Lastly, the perfection in sweetness was honoured by none other than a stick Kulfi. I have to agree it wasn’t the original stick kulfi, and pricing it at 40 bucks is upscale to click with Citywalk’s paradigm, and definitely nothing in comparison to the love I felt for it in Chandni Chowk. But having a Kaju Pista one and a Kesar one (both chosen by my mom and sister; I would’ve gone for blackcurrant) perfected the ‘yum’ of the yummiest.
“The perfect way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” so feed him!
It is unimaginable, if you adore Mughlai food, to see the atrocities that restaurants in Wales subject the north Indian restaurants to. Needless I say, the Paneer (or the cottage cheese) in the ‘Kadayi Paneer’ we had at an eating joint, which seemed like a desperate impersonation of Gulati’s at Pandara Road, was not only swimming in a rich blend of artificial colours, it totally blew apart the taste as well!
And really, I think it makes sense if no one gets me started on the way those people respect the ‘Butter Naan’ (which in lay man’s terms is a flat bread made from flour) – it’s disguised as a loaf of pita bread! I mean, seriously, out of every Indian impersonation, please do not manhandle the taste.
One of the things on my list for my Delhi trip was to have a ‘proper’ north Indian, Mughlai meal; one that does not include artificialness or ingredients that overdo its texture. And this is where she makes an appearance: the beautiful, mouth watering and scrumptious meal at Gulati’s.
I won’t talk much about the jack that dad used to get us in while a flood of people were queued up on the waiting list, nor about the generosity the waiter showed after learning that currently I’m in the UK; we’ll talk about, THE FOOD!
Having Mughlai food after a tormenting 7 months of exposure to hideously presented north Indian food, the one thing on my mind was Butter Naan (and according to my sister, ‘Dal Makhani’, without which no meal becomes “complete”). After setting the base right, I decided to experiment a little. Among the vegetables, we ordered ‘Bhutta Palak Methi’, which when translated means Corn Spinach and Coriander, and Paneer dipped in thick gravy of vegetables and garlic.
It was a wholesome meal of exotic tastes to be honest. Picture this: a creamy layer of butter floating over the Dal’s surface, the sparkling glow of the gravy as you spoon it from the vessel and the ease and warmth with which it passes down your throat, flirting with your taste buds and seducing you like no woman can ever!
(Apologies for the overwhelming wave of words, but seeing heaven after that long can drive anyone crazy. Either that, or my friends rightly call me the drama queen.)
Out of the lot, the Bhutta Palak Methi contributed heavily to the aroma. Baby corn mixed with properly cooked coriander and spinach, to produce a smooth a thickly rich delicacy, served hot with cream on top.
The Paneer dish was again, an experiment, though it couldn’t level up to the spinach. Firstly, paneer, being given a chance to participate in every second dish on a Mughlai platter is inexplicable to me, and secondly, a heavy dose of garlic never does any good. It only ended up spoiling the romantic backdrop my taste buds were experiencing while engaging in a pleasant absorption of Dal and Bhutta.
Dal Makhani and Butter Naan – out of words for them; isn’t it magical when a curry, doped with an extravagant dash of butter and topped with cream, does not inflict your stomach with any heaviness? Can’t believe I overate.
Penultimate, and appropriately, a mouth freshener, or the “Sauf”. And no, you do not serve After Eight after a meal. Although nothing beats After Eight when it comes to replenishing the onion and garlic flavours left lingering in one’s mouth, but that is simply disrespecting the tradition!
Lastly, the perfection in sweetness was honoured by none other than a stick Kulfi. I have to agree it wasn’t the original stick kulfi, and pricing it at 40 bucks is upscale to click with Citywalk’s paradigm, and definitely nothing in comparison to the love I felt for it in Chandni Chowk. But having a Kaju Pista one and a Kesar one (both chosen by my mom and sister; I would’ve gone for blackcurrant) perfected the ‘yum’ of the yummiest.
Just where the “City Walks”.
Day 7: Select Citywalk, Metropolitan, DLF malls – Check.
“People hardly notice things right in front of them, don’t you find.” - Leigh Teabing, The Da Vinci Code.
Honestly, there isn’t any association of the anecdote with the delightful visit to Select Citywalk, the only station of beautifulness at a distance of 10 minutes from my hut. Or even if there is, an aberration of it may show up at the end of this piece.
In fact, the place is a set of three malls built adjacently. However, being built the earliest and attracting the most number of people, the name “Citywalk” umbrellas this cluster of three malls - Select Citywalk, Metropolitan and DLF – in itself.
Moving on, strangely, Citywalk has always been one of the few places in Delhi that has brought peacefulness in my head. Yes, sounds definitely peculiar; especially since I’m talking about a spot that is relished by shopaholics, a hotspot for friends to meet up and play merry, and a sanctuary where birds are seen in a tantalizing attire of miniskirts and minitops. Yet, there’s been a definite atmosphere, which to date I’m still unfamiliar with, that gets me magnetized to the place.
It is undoubtedly a mall which is, by definition, upscale, classy and restores its quaintness despite shopaholics flooding the place. And it doesn’t seem devoid of any development. 7 months down the lane, which I hoped would seem like a lifetime, there’s been a load of advancement; and when I say advancement, I’m not making this piece familiarize with the socio-economic strata or the rich/poor ratios of bar graphs and statistics, although one can argue on it. I totally speak on what I observed.
A group of multiple fountains directed inwardly to produce amazingly shaped streams of water have opened in front of Citywalk, since summers have kicked in, of which, I do not intend to talk (or fret) anymore.
Things have shaken up with the DLF mall having been completely built. And to add to its already charming backdrop, it now accommodates The Great Kebab Factory and The Big Chill! Supported majorly by vacant gaps in between stores and a partial emptiness lingering in its corridors the last time I saw it, the DLF mall hardly attracted a crowd. In spite of its food court hosting brands of Mc Donald’s, Subway and Tikka Town, and the undisputed Hard Rock Cafe (where by the way I spent three and a half hours last year watching Delhi being assailed by Hyderabad in the IPL semi final), there was much more DLF had to achieve. As it turns out, that “much more” came in, swirled its magic wand and produced dazzles of incredibility.
The Costa Coffee is right at the centre, which makes it a “part of the mall” rather than being placed in a corner and standing elusive to the buzz. Two new artistic inclusions – a painting sale on the ground floor, and the Tantric tee shirt store – give it the artistic touch. I’d recommend a purchase from Tantric if you enjoy wordplay, ON YOUR TEE SHIRT; here’s a specimen – a tee shirt that had an illustration of Taj Mahal, with the accompanying caption, “Via Agra: the greatest male erection for a woman.” Moral: Think and purchase if your correspondence address matches with that of your parents’.
Clearly out of context, but I couldn’t resist stepping out of the store whilst checking out the tee shirts to listen to Amy Lee’s (whose name by the name is shared by my Irish flatmate too) track “Call me when you’re sober” playing in the corridor. Yeah, I got incredible ears.
An elegant, sensuously looking spa at the top floor ups the magic to another level. Predominantly illuminated by lights submerged under water bowls that produces a quintessential atmosphere relaxation, it seems to be set apart from titter and tatter of heels, weighty shopping bags and upscale purchases.
Out of all, I particularly liked the montage designed on the outside of its walls. Set on a red background, it seemed like a collage of every brand they were hosting.
“People hardly notice things right in front of them, don’t you find.” - Leigh Teabing, The Da Vinci Code.
Honestly, there isn’t any association of the anecdote with the delightful visit to Select Citywalk, the only station of beautifulness at a distance of 10 minutes from my hut. Or even if there is, an aberration of it may show up at the end of this piece.
In fact, the place is a set of three malls built adjacently. However, being built the earliest and attracting the most number of people, the name “Citywalk” umbrellas this cluster of three malls - Select Citywalk, Metropolitan and DLF – in itself.
Moving on, strangely, Citywalk has always been one of the few places in Delhi that has brought peacefulness in my head. Yes, sounds definitely peculiar; especially since I’m talking about a spot that is relished by shopaholics, a hotspot for friends to meet up and play merry, and a sanctuary where birds are seen in a tantalizing attire of miniskirts and minitops. Yet, there’s been a definite atmosphere, which to date I’m still unfamiliar with, that gets me magnetized to the place.
It is undoubtedly a mall which is, by definition, upscale, classy and restores its quaintness despite shopaholics flooding the place. And it doesn’t seem devoid of any development. 7 months down the lane, which I hoped would seem like a lifetime, there’s been a load of advancement; and when I say advancement, I’m not making this piece familiarize with the socio-economic strata or the rich/poor ratios of bar graphs and statistics, although one can argue on it. I totally speak on what I observed.
A group of multiple fountains directed inwardly to produce amazingly shaped streams of water have opened in front of Citywalk, since summers have kicked in, of which, I do not intend to talk (or fret) anymore.
Things have shaken up with the DLF mall having been completely built. And to add to its already charming backdrop, it now accommodates The Great Kebab Factory and The Big Chill! Supported majorly by vacant gaps in between stores and a partial emptiness lingering in its corridors the last time I saw it, the DLF mall hardly attracted a crowd. In spite of its food court hosting brands of Mc Donald’s, Subway and Tikka Town, and the undisputed Hard Rock Cafe (where by the way I spent three and a half hours last year watching Delhi being assailed by Hyderabad in the IPL semi final), there was much more DLF had to achieve. As it turns out, that “much more” came in, swirled its magic wand and produced dazzles of incredibility.
The Costa Coffee is right at the centre, which makes it a “part of the mall” rather than being placed in a corner and standing elusive to the buzz. Two new artistic inclusions – a painting sale on the ground floor, and the Tantric tee shirt store – give it the artistic touch. I’d recommend a purchase from Tantric if you enjoy wordplay, ON YOUR TEE SHIRT; here’s a specimen – a tee shirt that had an illustration of Taj Mahal, with the accompanying caption, “Via Agra: the greatest male erection for a woman.” Moral: Think and purchase if your correspondence address matches with that of your parents’.
Clearly out of context, but I couldn’t resist stepping out of the store whilst checking out the tee shirts to listen to Amy Lee’s (whose name by the name is shared by my Irish flatmate too) track “Call me when you’re sober” playing in the corridor. Yeah, I got incredible ears.
An elegant, sensuously looking spa at the top floor ups the magic to another level. Predominantly illuminated by lights submerged under water bowls that produces a quintessential atmosphere relaxation, it seems to be set apart from titter and tatter of heels, weighty shopping bags and upscale purchases.
Out of all, I particularly liked the montage designed on the outside of its walls. Set on a red background, it seemed like a collage of every brand they were hosting.
Refreshment in antiqueness.
Day 6: Chandni Chowk – Check.
“Old is definitely gold.”
The most anticipated place to visit on my list – Chandni Chowk. A part of Purani Dilli (Old Delhi), popularly termed as Delhi 6 with credits to Ramprakash Mehta for reviving the name, it stores in itself the heart of one of the oldest shops and stores, enough to fill your wardrobes with traditional clothing treasures, tantalizing aroma of delightful food stuffs, and a sight of the impeccable Red Fort.
At first, let me paint a picture of Chandni Chowk from the lens of a spectator: the streets remain over flooded cycle rickshaws and vehicles desperately trying to make their way in or out, and to add to the painful rush, pedestrians have a way of walking along the same paths; there are more shop employees working outside the shop than inside, with every one of them marking their territory and attracting people, and since most of the businesses involve ladies’ suits and sarees, their targets become marginally specific; and people sleeping under the scorching heat of the sun.
That’s not just it, by the way. Chandni Chowk, although being in the heart of a piece of land that breeds stereotypes, does spring out many surprising incidents. The first category is what I call the roofless shops – a one man staff that runs the entire business with his desk being not more than a mere stool and all his products of sales displayed on it, all without a roof on their heads.
Some noticeable examples I found were of a woman selling what she claimed to be ‘foreign strawberries’ on one hand, and the desi ‘Daatun’ (a branch of the Neem plant, used in the Indian tradition as a toothbrush and toothpaste.) on the other. (To me, that totally explained the Indo-western fusion concept.); a woman selling tobacco and cigarettes, and although I do not intend to indulge into any stereotypes, but yes, that seemed astonishing.
The second category involved the colourfulness of the Indian subcontinent’s lifestyle. Even in the sweating heat, where the mercury had climbed over 38 degrees, people took pride in dressing themselves up with bright and extravagant colours. From what I interpreted, it seemed out of all places, over here people do consider making themselves look good before stepping out of the house. Be it green, blue, yellow, red or violet, you’ll see women attired exclusively in their sarees and Indian suits without being anxious about the climate, and men dressed up in their crisp Punjabi and Lucknawi Kurta Pyjamas.
So our visit was basically all about roaming around, eat Paranthas (a thick stuffed Indian flatbread prepared from wheat) at the immensely popular ‘Paranthe Wali Galli’, visit the Gurudwara, have Falooda Kulfi, roam about a bit more and finally revert back.
The Paranthe Wali Galli was the gold dust of our trip. Currently being run by its 6th generation, the shop dates back to almost 100 to 120 years! When you talk about ambience, let me assure you, there is none. The person frying the paranthas sits at the entrance, and there are limited number of piers (without a backrest, mind you). Regardless of the ambience and a very distinctively repelling flavour of ghee squirming in the air, the paranthas are a sheer incredibility. Served with cooked and curried vegetables of pumpkin and potato, sweet chutney and pickled radish and carrot, our list of paranthas was huge.
I desbribe ‘huge’ here with reference to three stomachs, by the way.
So our list of pranthas included potato, onion, paneer, daal, parat, bhindi, rabdi, and mixed. It's quite amazing how one can have food which is not just fried in pure ghee, but is served with accompaniments that share high volumes of chilli in a traumatizing wave of heat outside.
Out of all, bhindi (lady finger) was particularly the best. It had a definite crispness, crunchiness to it, which the other didn’t. Besides, potato and onion paranthas form the household for housewives, so they weren’t much of a surprise. I would’ve loved to try the cashew and almond parantha though, but then nothing can beat a full stomach, can it?
The visit to the gurudwara was nothing extraordinary though. Forgive me for not being a God admirer, but there wasn’t much to a gurudwara that I could express. Nevertheless, I particularly liked the way Sikhs worship.
Before entering a gurudwara, I was supposed to deposit your footwear in a small room, since it is disrespectful to be wearing any footwear inside a place of worship. Just when I was climbing the stairs leading to the inside of the gurudwara, I had to dip my feet in the water that constantly keeps flowing in a depressed floor. As I climbed the stairs and step inside, I was asked to cover your heads with a piece of cloth; I do not know the exact historical reason for it, but I guess that particularly explains Sikhs’ turbans.
Inside the gurudwara, there is a very surprising wave of cool air blowing across the room, and for a second, an inexplicable surge of reverence seemed to mainline me. Kneeling down in front of the Lord, with the head touching the ground as a way to pay tribute, people come in here and sit for hours to seek peacefulness and serenity amongst the soft words of chanting being sung by what can be called the priests of the gurudwara.
On way out, prasad (equivalent to holy water given in a church), was handed. Steaming ‘Suji ka halwa’, which by the way I detest, was given; had to hand it over to ma and masi.
Not just all that, there always seems to be air of celebration throughout the streets of Chandni Chowk; be there any occasion or not. Not being accustomed to crowded places in Cardiff, and visiting a place where one can purchase anything but a quiet walk in the park, the air smelled of the festivity of Diwali.
“Old is definitely gold.”
The most anticipated place to visit on my list – Chandni Chowk. A part of Purani Dilli (Old Delhi), popularly termed as Delhi 6 with credits to Ramprakash Mehta for reviving the name, it stores in itself the heart of one of the oldest shops and stores, enough to fill your wardrobes with traditional clothing treasures, tantalizing aroma of delightful food stuffs, and a sight of the impeccable Red Fort.
At first, let me paint a picture of Chandni Chowk from the lens of a spectator: the streets remain over flooded cycle rickshaws and vehicles desperately trying to make their way in or out, and to add to the painful rush, pedestrians have a way of walking along the same paths; there are more shop employees working outside the shop than inside, with every one of them marking their territory and attracting people, and since most of the businesses involve ladies’ suits and sarees, their targets become marginally specific; and people sleeping under the scorching heat of the sun.
That’s not just it, by the way. Chandni Chowk, although being in the heart of a piece of land that breeds stereotypes, does spring out many surprising incidents. The first category is what I call the roofless shops – a one man staff that runs the entire business with his desk being not more than a mere stool and all his products of sales displayed on it, all without a roof on their heads.
Some noticeable examples I found were of a woman selling what she claimed to be ‘foreign strawberries’ on one hand, and the desi ‘Daatun’ (a branch of the Neem plant, used in the Indian tradition as a toothbrush and toothpaste.) on the other. (To me, that totally explained the Indo-western fusion concept.); a woman selling tobacco and cigarettes, and although I do not intend to indulge into any stereotypes, but yes, that seemed astonishing.
The second category involved the colourfulness of the Indian subcontinent’s lifestyle. Even in the sweating heat, where the mercury had climbed over 38 degrees, people took pride in dressing themselves up with bright and extravagant colours. From what I interpreted, it seemed out of all places, over here people do consider making themselves look good before stepping out of the house. Be it green, blue, yellow, red or violet, you’ll see women attired exclusively in their sarees and Indian suits without being anxious about the climate, and men dressed up in their crisp Punjabi and Lucknawi Kurta Pyjamas.
So our visit was basically all about roaming around, eat Paranthas (a thick stuffed Indian flatbread prepared from wheat) at the immensely popular ‘Paranthe Wali Galli’, visit the Gurudwara, have Falooda Kulfi, roam about a bit more and finally revert back.
The Paranthe Wali Galli was the gold dust of our trip. Currently being run by its 6th generation, the shop dates back to almost 100 to 120 years! When you talk about ambience, let me assure you, there is none. The person frying the paranthas sits at the entrance, and there are limited number of piers (without a backrest, mind you). Regardless of the ambience and a very distinctively repelling flavour of ghee squirming in the air, the paranthas are a sheer incredibility. Served with cooked and curried vegetables of pumpkin and potato, sweet chutney and pickled radish and carrot, our list of paranthas was huge.
I desbribe ‘huge’ here with reference to three stomachs, by the way.
So our list of pranthas included potato, onion, paneer, daal, parat, bhindi, rabdi, and mixed. It's quite amazing how one can have food which is not just fried in pure ghee, but is served with accompaniments that share high volumes of chilli in a traumatizing wave of heat outside.
Out of all, bhindi (lady finger) was particularly the best. It had a definite crispness, crunchiness to it, which the other didn’t. Besides, potato and onion paranthas form the household for housewives, so they weren’t much of a surprise. I would’ve loved to try the cashew and almond parantha though, but then nothing can beat a full stomach, can it?
The visit to the gurudwara was nothing extraordinary though. Forgive me for not being a God admirer, but there wasn’t much to a gurudwara that I could express. Nevertheless, I particularly liked the way Sikhs worship.
Before entering a gurudwara, I was supposed to deposit your footwear in a small room, since it is disrespectful to be wearing any footwear inside a place of worship. Just when I was climbing the stairs leading to the inside of the gurudwara, I had to dip my feet in the water that constantly keeps flowing in a depressed floor. As I climbed the stairs and step inside, I was asked to cover your heads with a piece of cloth; I do not know the exact historical reason for it, but I guess that particularly explains Sikhs’ turbans.
Inside the gurudwara, there is a very surprising wave of cool air blowing across the room, and for a second, an inexplicable surge of reverence seemed to mainline me. Kneeling down in front of the Lord, with the head touching the ground as a way to pay tribute, people come in here and sit for hours to seek peacefulness and serenity amongst the soft words of chanting being sung by what can be called the priests of the gurudwara.
On way out, prasad (equivalent to holy water given in a church), was handed. Steaming ‘Suji ka halwa’, which by the way I detest, was given; had to hand it over to ma and masi.
Not just all that, there always seems to be air of celebration throughout the streets of Chandni Chowk; be there any occasion or not. Not being accustomed to crowded places in Cardiff, and visiting a place where one can purchase anything but a quiet walk in the park, the air smelled of the festivity of Diwali.
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