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“If u haven’t been to chandhini chowk, then don’t ever tell anyone uv seen Delhi”, this is what the cook in my office told me recently and I suddenly remembered all the million people who’ve told me the same dialogue in different intensities. The moment I reached Delhi I decided to visit chandhini chowk ASAP, but somehow that never happened. Instead I decided to read about the place first and then venture out in “dillwallon ki dilli-chandini chowk”. Google does help you at the most crucial times in ur life, and it did not let me down this time as well. I read continuously for hours about this much discussed place. I concluded (with the help of Google and a few other books) that reading about chandini chowk is as useless as reading about KFC and its speciality. The thing is you already know what to expect, but the truth is u actually have no clue whatsoever.

After almost 10 days of constant begging and nagging and whining and bickering, my friend decided to be good to me and my urge and planned a trip to chandini chowk. I don’t know why but I was extremely excited. I honestly have never wanted to see a place so badly in my life, I mean it’s not like new York or something, so I asked myself why on god’s name am I dying to see the place. As usual I was left with no answer and a significant increase in the level of my curiouslty. The day arrived. It had to be a Saturday (something told me it will be a Saturday or Sunday) (I secretly wanted to see the place with maximum crowd).

We woke up early that day, got get ready and headed out. I was told that the place is quite far and taking the car there would be a sin. So we had to reach Connaught place, from where we supposed to catch the metro to chandini chowk. Now this made me even more childishly happy because I have given my heart away to the Delhi metro. It is probably one of the best things that’s happened to India. Anyways so we got to Connaught place and walked to the metro station (which is underground) (full on clean and beautiful). The temperature outside was being very kind to human race and blessed us with a mere 39 degrees (only). Entering the metro station was a brilliant rescue plan and must say it worked quite. The metro picked us up and dropped us at chandini chowk. Trust me when I say this but my heart was thumping, so loudly that I could hear it. I was in a very uncomfortable position suddenly because I dint want the place to dampen my expectations. I wanted it to be exactly the way it was described, the way it was hyped, or simply the way it is supposed to be. And then I entered CHANDINI CHOWK. Old Delhi, the much loved deewano ka shehar, the city of happiness, yet the city of poverty, yes I had finally stepped on Dilli 6.

The moment i entered the place, i saw almost a million people. A sea of people on my left, a million on my right a few million more in front of me and many more pushing me from behind. I always considered myself to be strong to handle mob mentality, but my logic defied me that time. I was genuinely scared of either being pushed or robbed or killed or a target of a crazy stampede. None of these things happened and that surprised me to a great extent. I dint understand why people were pushing me and the rest from all sides. People touching each other, a thousand different aromas (mostly of different sweat), people in hurry, people in extreme hurry, it all looked as though everyone’s running to the near by temple where they’ve announced to give away unlimited Prasad. So much happened even before I left the station, so I was anticipating more drama when I entered the area. I did. Was it drama or what?

I’m not all exaggerating when I say this but in one spectrum I think I saw 5000 people. 100 restaurants, 2000 colours, 1000000000 chat stalls. I prayed to god, to give me strength, strength to stand still for a second. But knowing the kind of people there, standing was something even an ant wouldn’t think about doing. My friend kept walking. Without once being perturbed, she just walked. Hordes of men trying to touch her, trying to push, she just kept walking, and I tried to follow her like the dog in the hutch ad, just that here I was a terrified dog. She suddenly decided that you get awesome dahi bhaati, and she suddenly turned and suddenly started walking again. I followed her. For reasons unknown to me and known to the people I’m talking about, almost everyone was staring at me. Staring at me continuously. My pant kept coming down (I think I lost weight from the station to tat place where I was standing), I was sweating from all angles of my body and my nose kept diverting everywhere (along with my eyes, ears and head).

We reached the place for dahi bhalla (the board read “world famous dahi bhalla in India”). Amusing. No, it was bloody scary. Men, women, and the rest were trying to grab their plate. If given a knife there would have been bloodshed. An epidemic (all for dahi bhalla) (what is it I wondered). My friend somehow (after pushing a few women) grabbed a plate and I was all glued to the way it was presented. I had a bite. My first chandini chowk food bite. It was not only magnificent; it was actually out of the world (screaming out loud). At that precise moment I had at least 10 adjectives in mind, and when I’m writing this right now, though speechless, I can actually smell the dahi bhalla. It was truly aromatic, beautiful looking and more than anything else, tasty. Delicious and way too delicious. The dahi looked like dahi but tasted like milk and had the texture of mayonnaise. The bhalla was something I don’t want to describe now and scramble my head (it was just 10 bucks). And that’s when I knew I reached chandini chowk truly.

Everyone in Delhi talks highly about the food. The ghar ka khana, the street food and the mall food. Food in Delhi consists of many things, mainly paranthas, paranthas and paranthas. Hundred varieties of paranthas mixed and mashed and yet finally mastered to the core. I’m sure they’ll introduce hundred more in the next month. And everyone in Delhi who loves parantha swears by “parantha walli galli” paranthas. The streets name itself whirls up various expectations. And does it live up to the expectation, no it doesn’t, it infact surpasses it beyond any wordily description actually don’t think I want to call them parantha. I want to call it a small packet of ghee. Actually a big packet. It was dripping ghee and I was dripping BP. I had all the doubts if that ghee was good, but there are two things u shouldn’t do in chandini chowk – think and the second thing is think. Don’t ever dare to doubt any food available there. You might not get beaten up by anyone, but the food that you chose to miss, will haunt u after that. Forever. So I stopped doubting and just ate the parantha. It was better than the dahi bhalla; hence I’m not going to waste time and explain (in my most melodramatic way) how tasty it was. All I will say is that it was like home food. Like the way your mom would cook. Like the way your favourite aunt would cook for u once she comes to know your coming back from America (with gifts ofcoz).

The heat was not the only thing that was twirling my head up. It was the galli. It was as big as my waist size, and I found it extremely difficult to move around the place. In this galli were, at least 20 stalls selling 100 types of paranthas. They were all hidden from the real world. A world were buggers and pizzas have successfully invaded. A world where there is no differentiation in people. They are all the same. They were all hungry and wanted to eat yummy food. Those paranthas invite you from a far off place and when you get there no religion or caste or creed can stop you from eating there. It was a dirty place, filled with garbage, but no one seemed to bother, and in that no one was me also, sitting in a small 20 inch table eating paranthas which Jawaharlal Nehru once relished. I felt satisfied, felt my hunger evaporated slowly. An awesome feeling, something that I haven’t felt in months post my entry in Delhi.

My heart suddenly demanded some meat. Actually stomach, but nevermind. I heard about the famous meat dishes savoured in chandini chowk and for hell I would have missed the opportunity. I insisted that we head to a non veg restaurant to eat some of the finest kebabs and curries. The ones that were eaten by probably from an Akbar to a Manmohan to a Sheila to a roadside Romeo. And then, my friend suggested “KARIMS”. The place sounded like somewhere, where goats aren’t spared and chickens are killed for the stomach. I agreed in a second, and within the next we’re in a rickshaw heading to tat place. Apparently it was near the jama masjid. I had once seen the picture of jama masjid in my school history text book, and I thought to myself “god, that must be a dirty place”. Oh yes it is.

If there was a word that could replace dirty from the dictionary it would be jama masjid. Its is not only dirty, it is densely populated. Like there are atleast 8 ppl standing right next to u at a radius of 1 cm. The place is Muslim dominated place (like duh!) and every brick there has history written on it. it is very close to the red fort and myth has it that Akbar hired a 1000 cooks every month from this place to cook a meal for him every day, and mysteriously they were shifted to some other place month after month, cos he never wanted anyone to eat the same food that he ate. I honestly think he sucked at that job, because I ate the food. We’ll come to that a little later. First let’s tackle the traffic. Akbar left, and what remains is our very own, maruthi 800. Almost 4 every metre (I know it’s not possible but please excuse my exaggeration). It was like visual diarrhoea. I went crazy. I suddenly felt people were conspiring to kill me. Everyone walks with an unusual attitude. They all probably still live with the misconception that they are the cooks Akbar screwed or something. And the aunties in burkha. Oh my god, I have never seen so many burkhas at the same time. I felt dizzzzzzzzzy. And then god sent karims to my rescue. The restaurant is tucked away in a by galli of a galli which is now a big galli. It is silently treasured inside the galli right opposite to jama masjid. The road leading to this restaurant is nothing less than a butcher’s ideal dream. Goat heads, brain, intestines, stomach bags and legs. The sight, though appalling, is visually breathtaking. More than anything I saw the jama masjid. And yes to my horror (or wonder) it was dirty at its best meaning. The evening prayers had just begun, there was a hustle everywhere and all around the place is Sufi music being played loudly till your ears get used to it. Muslim men and women in their attire riding past all the shops and restaurants never looked so stunning. The jama masjid (though dirty) looked like a well shot colourful and vibrant picture.

I reached karims after much ado about nothing. It was right there somewhere and we kept searching for it. We eventually reached and the colourful board welcomed us. It was home coming of sorts for me (I feel this way every time I enter a non veg restaurant). The place had three sections. One for non veg, the other for non veg and the last one for non veg. All around the restaurant were other competing restaurants, slightly sober and lull. We entered the place and to my wildest of surprises I saw many phirangies. They were in awe of the place as much as I was, and that was the only similarity. Though I walked into the restaurant as if I owned it. I wanted them to see, the pride in my eyes that this is my land they are on. I sat on a table and ordered for the world famous karims sheek kebab. I also ordered for the mutton bharra kebab and a plate of chicken biriyani. When the food arrived, time stopped. The clocks hung out and the waves in the ocean stopped, a nuclear missile exploded in my head and I suddenly realised my tongue gave way to Akbar’s secret. Right from the meat to the salt to the masala, hit my senses harder than any of my exam results. I was numbed for some time. When I tasted it, my tongue begged me to stop this injustice. A hundred explosions were taking place all around me, I felt, yet I ate. In peace and every piece. It was my moment of truth and no god dammit world trade centre’s collision could have stopped me. The kebab melted its way into my bone and the biriyani’s flavour reminded me of how amazing the mughals life was, their appetite was. Clove never tasted so earthy and mutton never seemed so right. I was praying that the time could stop for a few more years till I cherish the taste in its complete form. By the time I finished eating, the chair seemed like a better place to halt. That’s because I was full (not content but full). I knew the time had come for me to leave the place. I did though with a volume of regret and a bag full of hope to come back. I also acted a little foreigner types by taking snaps with the cook. Must say I felt proud, that I stood next to someone who made me happy even if it was for an hour. I left the place, but not its wonderful aroma. It still lingers at the tip of my agonised tongue. I don’t see why it shouldn’t.

I walked back all the way till the rickshaw stand to catch an auto to Connaught place (skipping the return metro journey) to head back home. But god and his vicious plans have always amazed me. We were stuck in traffic (for the 400^th time) for almost an hour. Honestly now, it was unbearable. Vehicles were trying to pierce through somehow, making the rickshaws journey gruesome. But the show must go on they say, and the rickshaw did too. It dropped us to Connaught place. I realized I left chandini chowk. The jama masjid and the contrast of tastes behind. How that made me want to cry, but it also consoled me to come back. When I reached home, I thought to myself “why the hell was I reading books about chandini chowk and trying to damage its real identity, its real version”. Why on earth was I trying to unmask it, through the means of mere paper help, when I could have unravelled its pomp and glory with the world’s best camera – eyes. Too many things ran into my rather small head, but they all had common inferences. That “uv never seen Delhi, until uv seen chandini chowk. True “yeh shehar nahi, mehafil hai, yeh shehar nahi mehfil hain”. Cheers.