Thursday, November 29, 2007

Eating - Winter Breakfast in Old Delhi

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Winter Breakfast in Old Delhi

Paya-Nihari under the shadow of Jama Masjid.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Shahjahanabad was a city of emperors and courtesans, kaftans and the Kohinoor, beef and ghee. This morning I am searching for its past splendor. The ancient alleys of Matia Mahal bazaar, under the watchful eyes of Jama Masjid, are redolent of morning meals. Kesar-flavored milk. Sewai. Jalebis. Soon a rich, meaty aroma tempts me. Paya-nihari. But it is burra - Buffalo meat. (I don't like burra meat.) A true nihari carries the upper thigh of a cow. In its absence, I will perhaps have to resort to goat instead. I continue walking.

My quest ends at Jawahar Hotel. A no-frills eatery, it is teeming with breakfast people. Men in skullcaps and pajamas are supping on paya and nihari. I too place my order. The cashier claims that Jawaharlal Nehru inaugurated the restaurant around sixty years ago. Hence the name. As we chat, the steward appears. Nihari (Rs. 90) and paya (Rs. 90) are glistening in a pool of oil. The roti (Rs. 3) is fresh off the tandoor and the extra plate of lime wedges, chopped chillies, and slivered ginger completes the meal.

I don't really miss the beef. The boneless mutton nihari is supple and succulent. The garlicky gravy, liberally spiced with javitri and dhaniya, is hearty. Its warmth is believed to have restorative qualities. This is true. Each bite of the tender flesh is infusing my own flesh with a vigor that easily explains why nihari came to be a morning food for the 'working-class' men. In truth, however, the delicacy originated in the genteel dastarkhwans of Muslim Delhi, before it percolated down to other classes, following the decline and fall of the Mughal Empire.

Like the nihari, paya (or trotters), is also a wonderfully satisfying winter dish and prepared in a similar fashion - simmered overnight in a stew until the marrow is softened and the bones free of gelatine. I'm told that two cooks start their nihari preparation in the freezing cold of the night. They leave as the sun rises.

In my portion, the chunks of meat (so soft they instantly melt in your mouth) have already parted from the bones. Yet, I lick off all the juice from the latter. The stew is also so fulfilling that it is a meal in its own right. As I reach the end, I use the last piece of khameeri roti to polish the plates clean of the remaining broth. I'm now content. This was truly a kingly breakfast that has long outlived the kings.

Where Street Stalls Matia Mahal, Jama Masjid (Bura nihari available between 6am-10pm); Jawahar Hotel 9-10 Matia Mahal, Jama Masjid (23269241; 7am-11am) Karim's 16 Gali Kababiyan, Jama Masjid (23269880, 7am-9pm); Kallu Nihari Shop No. 80, Chattan Lal Mian, Jama Masjid (6am-7:30am); Haji Noora Near Hindu Rao Hospital (7am-9am); Haji Shabrati Nihariwale Shop No. 722, Haveli Azam Khan, Jama Masjid (6am-9am); Saeed Nihari Baradari, Ballimaran, Jama Masjid (6am-10pm)

7 am, Jama Masjid

Once Was Shahjanabad - II

One More Roti, Please

Winter Breakfast in Old Delhi

No One is Tempted?

Winter Breakfast in Old Delhi

Do Not Disturb

Winter Breakfast in Old Delhi

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Diary - Living in Jangpura Extension

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Jangpura

House hunting in Delhi’s middle-class neighbourhood.

[Text by Lesley E. The author runs the blogsite Bombay Boy. Picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]

In August, 2006, I moved to Jangpura Extension. So many people I know love Jangpura Extension. I wanted to love it too. So what if the legendary Om Hotel serves awful oily glop. And so what if the equally legendary ham sandwich of Novelty Stores is of a type that only those with very low standards would call the best in Delhi. (The pudina chutney they serve with it is God-like.)

Its numerous parks are full of gorgeous stray dogs and huge cats, all lovingly fed by residents. Its chaotic market in Bhogal is one of the few places outside Khan Market where you can find the right ingredients for Christmas cake in season, at non-Khan Market prices. Jangpura is 10 minutes from everywhere, yet has the most reasonable rents in south-central Delhi. And the neighbouring Basti Hazrat Nizamuddin stays wide awake well past midnight. Pretty soon I too became one of the tribe that asked why more people don't live in Jangpura.

Then I found out that people have indeed discovered Jangpura. Many of these are the broker's beloved — the foreigner — and rents have gone through the roof. The lease on my house was expiring and I've been trying to find another house here for a month. There are none available for someone like me, with a budget like mine. I knew rentals had risen, but by how much? I was paying Rs 18,000 for a three-bedroom. After speaking to six brokers, Rs 22,000 is the first offer for a three-bedroom house that's grabbed before I even get a chance to see it. Fine, I'll stop drinking, and revise my budget to Rs 25,000. Brokers sound doubtful. Fine, I'll quite smoking and go up to 28. Still not enough. Ok, I'll pay 30 and get a night job. With my much fattened budget, I felt confident that I would soon be choosing between a variety of nice houses in the colony I love.

We first got to look at three monstrosities, but at least we discovered Jangpura's Telegraph Office in A Block, all but forgotten in this SMS-age. We loved the board with its suggested greetings: 'Heartiest wishes on the anniversary of the Republic'. 'Congratulations on passing board exam'. 'Greetings on the occasion of Bihu'. We promptly sent off two telegrams that caused panic to the receivers, who thought someone somewhere had died. We determined to look till the end but not leave this lovely colony.

Then I got a promising call. The house in O Block was gorgeous. "Are you a Christian", the lady asked, seeing my card. Yes, I said, you could say that. "Ek to aap aurat hai aur woh bhi Christian. You must be eating a lot of meat." This I was not prepared for. Misogyny and homophobia I know how to handle. No matter how ridiculous it feels as a lesbian to hear landlords concerns that you are unmarried single women, and all kinds of men will come visiting at all kinds of hours, that I am prepared for. Yes, I said, I eat all kinds of meat. "How often do you eat it?" "As often as I can." The broker is making goo-goo eyes at me. I think he wants me to stop speaking. I tell the broker despite their rudeness I will take their house anyway. They tell him out on three counts – woman, Christian, journalist. The broker implores me to tell landlords I am vegetarian. "Bolne mein kya hai, paisa to nahi lagta na."

The next house I see is a bargain. A 3-bedroom duplex right opposite where I live. I can just throw my bed over the balcony and across the street to move. I speak to the owner. He asks what I do. I tell him I am a journalist with the Outlook group. He asks if this is an Indian company. Obviously, I say, this is India. No thanks, he says, only MNCs will do.

A week goes by. Finally I hear of a place in D Block. I set off to see it but halfway there the broker calls to say it is owned by a vegetarian family, and they say no point in even bringing a Christian to see their flat. There was just something about the way it was said, which made me feel like a pollutant. I wanted to give someone a very tight slap.

Another two weeks pass and finally the phone rings. Again I set off to see a house. Again I'm stopped on my way there: No, because I am a journalist. What on earth could be the issue with journalists? Apparently, we 'make trouble' for landlords.

I finally spoke to no less than 17 brokers, all of whom have bhajans as ringtones. Brokers in Jangpura seem to largely worship Mata Vaishno Devi. Having trawled through the lot in this colony populated by scared people, scared of every kind of Other, I think I finally know the profile. So if this fits you, Jangpura is the place for you: A) Non-Indian, yaani ki white. B) If Indian (kya kare), family man with only male issues, non-smoking, non-drinking, vegetarian devotee of Mata Vaishno Devi, working for non-media industry blue-chip MNC company in Fortune 500 list.

As for me, I gave up. But despite the torment of the past month, I still love Jangpura. You see, I am Christian. I prevailed on my landlady to extend my lease. Bless her heart, she will. All my scared neighbours should note, the meat-eating, trouble-making freak remains in your midst. Keep your doors locked!

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Living - My Life in G. B. Road

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A sex worker on living in Delhi's red light district.

[As told to Mayank Austen Soofi; pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi. No picture can be used, either in internet or in print, without the prior permisiion of the author.]

You will perhaps never invite me to visit your family. For I am one of the 4,500 sex workers who live and work at Garstin bastion Road, the city's red-light area. No pity, please. I have no objection to selling my body for the sake of roti. Besides, I have become used to this neighbourhood. My three boys were born here. The best friendships of my life were made here. My six co-workers live together like sisters. This kotha is my home.

G.B. Road has 20 buildings. Dark corridors with steep stone stairs lead to kothas (96 in all) on the first and second floors. Mine is on the first. I usually wake up around noon. The bustle starts an hour earlier when the shops downstairs roll up their shutters. They say it is Asia's largest hardware market. It could be true. Stores are forever stocked with pumps and paints, tiles and toilet seats. But what's there for us? No parks, no playgrounds, not even a beauty saloon. It is the pethi walla who brings nakhun-polish and lipsticks around midnight.

We face many problems here. The kerosene sold in the ration shop is so diluted that we are forced to buy it in black from Kamla Market. The sweepers demand a monthly bribe of Rs 500 or else they dump rubbish on our stairs. If latrines get choked, plumbers ask for Rs 2,500. We can't even complain to the authorities. There is always the risk of harassment.

While we entertain customers throughout the day, evenings are busier. We dress up, apply powder, body lotion, and lipstick; and stand out in the balcony. By then the thoroughfare has started teeming with cars, scooters, rickshaws and pull-carts. Men stare up at us while the women, passing by in rickshaws, throw discreet glances. Sometimes, when we spot photographers, we take out our sandals and threaten them.

G. B Road, of course, is a world of its own. But I can glimpse other worlds from here. Hotel Holiday Inn can be seen from our balcony. New Delhi railway station is 10 minutes away. Across the road is the Indian Railways Coach Care Centre from where firangi tourists secretly take our pictures. A theka stands next door. If a customer buys me a whisky bottle, we all share it. Dena Bank and HDFC Bank are down the lane but what do they have to do with us? We buy vegetables at Sitaram Bazaar, behind Ajmeri Gate. Niyambar meat shop sells good mutton.

There are two mosques in the back lane and a Hanuman Mandir in front. We celebrate all festivals. Have you walked beyond the mandir? Kothas there attract more crowds due to their fair-complexioned girls hailing from Nepal and Assam.

People say there were originally five red-light areas in the city, set up during the Mughal era. But the British closed all except the one at G.B. Road, which is named after a British collector. The name was officially changed to Swami Shradhanand Marg in 1965. It has now been 15 years since I moved here. I'm from a small village near Bangalore in Karanataka. We lived in poverty so I came here to support my old parents and younger sisters. There were other reasons, too. It is complicated.

G.B. Road had more life then. Our daily customers have gone down from 15 to 2. That we are growing old is not the only reason. A few dalals, in the payroll of wealthier kothas, solicit for customers in front of our stairs. Occasionally, they snatch the mobile phones and wallets of our regulars. When we ask these goons to go away, they dare us to complain to the police.

Nowadays we are able to get a good number of customers only on select occasions - like Republic Day, Independence Day, or during political rallies when men come visiting the city for a day or two. However, it is the immediate future that appears more worrisome. The government is bringing in a law that will class our clients as criminals. Who would then come to us? How would we earn? What would become of our children?

There's an MCD school here but I send my boys to the one at Minto Park. G.B. Road is a dangerous place and I don't want them to keep the wrong company while away from my eyes. Teachers are sympathetic and understand our problems. They have promised not to disclose our address to anyone. You see, my boys are always worried about their friends discovering where they live. Babu, my oldest, wants to be a maulana, and Chhotu a lawyer. I try to bring them up well. A tuition master comes in the evening to teach them Maths and English. The rest is up to their kismet.

Money is always a problem. Out of my monthly earnings of Rs 5,000, I spend Rs 1,500 on my children and another 1,000 on new saris and makeup items. The monthly rent of the kotha is Rs 500. I also regularly send a money-order worth Rs 1,500 to my parents in the village. But it becomes difficult to sustain your income as you grow older. Some women manage to save and start a new life outside G.B. Road but I will have to stay on.

It's My Life



We Face Many Problems



Best Friends



No Customers = No Earning



Our Kotha, Our Family



With the Author

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Photo Essay – Turkish Delight in Delhi

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When Konya’s whirling dervishes came to town.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Sufis of Delhi get their high through qawwalis. In Turkey, they whirl around. Here in Nizamuddin’s tomb they clap, sing, shout, smile, jump, and wave. There in Rumi’s shrine, they quietly spin themselves into a trance.

The other day the whirling dervishes came to the India International Center (IIC) where the open-air theater was packed with society ladies, retired bureaucrats, and goras of the expatriate community. Finally, a chance to see those white-robed performers you only see on National Geographic covers. And they were the real thing. Straight from Turkey. The troupe was sent by the Municipal Committee of Konya, the birthplace of the 13th century Sufi poet Maulana Jalaluddin Rumi. (A side thought: is Konya’s Muncipial Committee as corrupt as Delhi’s MCD?)

The concert began without much fuss. The five musicians settled down with their zither, drum, flute, and lute. Just the sound of the flute, and a song by a young man possessing an old man’s raspy voice, was enough to transport me to the Ottoman world. Topkapi Palace. Anatolian valleys. Amorous sultans. Harems. Eunuchs. The Armenian massacre. Hamams. The Battle of Kossovo. Janissaries. Orhan Pamuk. European Union. And Istanbul.

There was no ripple in my Turkish reverie as dancers appeared in black cloaks and conical hats. Slowly and in bird-like movements, they thrice walked around the stage, and thrice bowed to a red-colored sheepskin that symbolized the presence of Rumi. They then gathered in a row, and took off the cloaks to reveal white tunics underneath.

The dance, Sama, started. Solemnly. Heads tilted. One arm faced down to the earth, the other pointed up – towards the sky (eagles were flying). It is said that dervishes are neither here nor there. As intermediaries between heaven and earth, their job is to pass down wisdom from Allah to his chosen people. Their attire too is creased with deep meanings: the conical hat is their tombstone, the black cloak their coffin, and the white tunic their shroud.

But let’s go back to the whirling. The dervishes twirled and swirled in gentle motion. Their skirts swelled, bulged, and ballooned out. Their movements made graceful curves. While the singer continued singing and the musicians continued playing (flute overwhelmed the other instruments). Everything and everyone gradually dissolved into a blur. Sama tried to end up in Fanaa. Nothing remained tangible. All became unreal. But it soon ended. The dancers stopped, put on the cloaks, bowed before the audience, gathered the applause and left, leaving us back in Delhi.

Young Man with an Old Man's Voice



Straight from Turkey



Sufi with Shoes



White Tunics Underneath



Neither Here Nor There



Trance



Salaam Aleikum

Sunday, November 18, 2007

Special Report - New Stars in Delhi Theater

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[Clockwise from left: Aditee Biswas, Rudra Deep Chakrabarti, Amitesh Grover and Sankar Venkateswaran]

The emerging heroes of Mandi House.

[Text and picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]

A quick way to get noticed, even in the backslapping small world of Mandi House theatre, is to shock the audience. Reinterpret the classics, preferably heretically. Broach controversial themes (incest always helps). Ask questions, skip answers. Kick up dust. Stage acts that not many understand. Be post-post-postmodern. Indeed it is customary for the new generation, whose primary duty is to be ambitious, bold and different, to undergo this ritual. All this hard work,sometimes, concludes in stage thunder, strobe lightning, and glowing Sunday supplement reviews.

28-year-old director, actor, and musician, Sankar Venkateswaran carries with him the heavy odour of Gold Flake cigarettes. With a career that reads like an extended tour -theater studies in Calicut and Singapore; performances in Nairobi and Seoul; and workshop in a prestigious theater company in Tokyo – he certainly has the broad experience to match his ambition. Of his four-year-old actors' collective, Theater Roots & Wings, Sankar says, "The agenda is to prepare actors to initially communicate only through their bodies, then voice, text and finally to reach a point where an actor who isn't physically moving, is moving the audience."

Good luck to him but Delhi audience can be difficult to move. (They are usually indifferent) However another young stalwart, Rudra Deep Chakrabarty, a 27-year-old director from Kolkata, achieved the feat rather effortlessly on the opening night of City of Djinns. Based on William Dalrymple's book, the play received rave reviews and ran to full houses. Although Chakrabarty has directed five plays since graduating from the National school of Drama (NSD) five years ago, Dalrymple's play was his big break. The budget was massive (Rs. 35 lakh); the cast star-studded (Tom Alter and Zohra Segal); and the audience included luminaries like Alyque Padamsee. Dalrymple was also impressed. "It was a really good effort. I never imagined that the book could have been mounted on stage," he says. (Trust Dalrymple for phrases that could be interpreted in more than one way)

Chakrabarty's first major venture was an equally mind-boggling and eclectic production - Ladakhi language adaptation of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. His tendency to stage complex productions is perhaps due to his fixation with history, archeology and politics. Well, this long haired director will need all that for his next project. Mahabharat. Scripted by Farookh Dhondy, the epic is being produced by Bobby Bedi (of Bandit Queen fame). Meanwhile Chakrabarty is doing his research in Kuruskhetra, Mathura, Dwarka, and of course the ruins in Delhi to get his ideas right. "We are re-visualising the epic for a new generation and have plans to employ innovative technology that has never been used before," he says.

Slightly younger than Chakrabarty, UK actor and Delhi resident Steven Baker stands out in the city theatrescape. He is a gora. After studying Drama in London, he has been successful in finding a place in the Mandi House scene. "I wanted to become more familiar with the traditions of theatre in India, and was lucky enough to train with Barry John sir on his last course in Delhi, before he located to Mumbai," says Baker.

Baker is a case in reverse osmosis. While the trend is to move to Bollywood after a stint in theatre, he is doing the opposite. Having worked on 15 films including block busters like Krrish and Salaam-e-Ishq, and madcap comedies like The Loins of Punjab, he made his debut on the British Council stage, with the classic line 'Kitney aadmi the?' All his Hindi dialogues were inspired by the film Sholay. Baker's most recent performance was at Kamani in the light drama Khel Khel Mein. "Steve's acting is always convincing. He also has a gift of striking an immediate rapport with the audience," says director Naveen Kastaria who cast him as a British soldier in the play.

Baker is one of the lucky few to be linked with Bollywood. Another young talent, director Aditee Biswas does not rule out the possibility of working in Bombay studios if the opportunity arises. She addresses controversial themes such as suppressed female desires. Her diploma piece in NSD was German playwright Dea Loher's Tattoo, a vividly told tale of incest (yes, incest!).

The portrayal of a father-daughter relationship got her instant recognition. Immediately after graduating, she was hired by Mahesh Dattani as Set Designer for his Seven Steps Around the Fire. M K Raina took her on as Assistant Director for Meera. More recently Biswas returned from a theatre trip to Japan, as the Assistant Director of Helen, of the three segments of the play Performing Women. It was performed in Bunka-mura, Tokyo's hallowed art-house complex. Biswas' strength primarily lies in her ability to interpret characters in novel ways by exploring subtextual references. Intrigued by the human mind and how it can be used to drive plots and characters, her fellowhip play in NSD dealt with hysteria, a disorder that she describes as "striving to seek people's attention". (Hey, that's theatre!)

There are other ways of seeking attention. By manipulating the space, or interposing visuals. 27-year-old director Amitesh Grover used all that to show how a 90-year-old woman would look back on her life. One evening his actress sat down in the British Council courtyard as projectior beamed images on a giant Buddha sculpture behind her. The projection was split into separate frames that ran clips, videotaped on different occasions of the protagonist's life. The snippets appeared one at a time with no linear chronology. Here's the teenager. There's the middle-aged lady. Now a happy wife. Now a divorced woman. The old lady expressed wonder that those strangers were once a part of her.

"Memorable Equinox was about digitization and memory," says Grover. This Kirori Mal alumnus ("Keval Arora is the reason why I'm in theatre", he says) does a lot of crossover work where pre-recorded videos blend with live action and sound to create a uniquely different experience for theatregoers. Few months ago audience in Max Mueller Bhawan were mesmerized by Electronic City. A video camera placed on the roof captured the actor blowing bubbles on the floor. The effect on the screen, behind the stage, was that of a snowfall.

Grover, who studied 'visual language of Performance in London', has directed four plays in the city. All explored performance spaces and (ahem!) post-modern themes. His next play, in collaboration with Mayakrishna Rao, will deal with masculinity.

In December, theater lovers can decide for themselves if these talents have it in themselves or not. Sri Ram Center will premiere Sankar Venkateswaran's Quick Death. Scripted by Richard Murphet, it is the first time Delhi will witness the staging of a physical text, a genre in dramatics. NSD's Bharat Rang Mahotsav has invited Aditee Biswas to stage Portrait of Dora, Helénè Cixous' account of a Freud's patient suffering from hysteria. Amitesh Grover will discuss gender and sexuality in a new play with promises of "live images manipulation". Finally in February, Rudra Deep Chakrabarty will unleash the great war of Mahabharat. In Purana Qila, no less.

Monday, November 12, 2007

Diary - A Karachi Walla in Delhi

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Curses are same but Bhai becomes Bhaiyya.

[Text by Shandana Minhas; pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

The author, an eminent Pakistani writer, visited Delhi to launch her novel 'Tunnel Vision' in Jamia Millia Islamia University. She lives in Karachi.

This is a letter from a Karachiite in Delhi, which is somewhat akin to being an Englishman in New York. Same language, different rhythms. Most aptly illustrated by the use of the word bhai.

In Karachi we say bhai. Here in Delhi I have only heard bhaiyya (which assumes a whole different connotation across the border) or bhai sahib. But the curses, as curses generally do, flow fluidly and fluently on both sides. And there have been a lot of them as the city battled its pre-Diwali traffic madness.

I do not know whether this is unique to Delhi or a standard feature of road rage in cities across India, but the horn is like the inner voice of the driver. People are talking to each other, or on the phone, while the car is be moving, but the hand on the horn continues to pump pump pump. It serves no discernible purpose, since nobody actually responds to it, except perhaps to release frustration and/or puncture the eardrums of any infant unfortunate enough to be passing by.

Speaking of release - isn't that something we would all like - I landed in Delhi one late Saturday afternoon for the launch Roli Books, my publishers, had arranged for my first novel Tunnel Vision. It took place on Monday at the beautiful Jamia Millia campus. The book was 'released' by Professor Mushirul Hasan; and as he freed it from its spiffy wrapping and cast aside the ribbon that bound it and held it up I had a sudden urge to grab it from him and toss it up into the air like a carrier pigeon.

Then the rather excellent Sunit Tandon read selected extracts while I battled mosquitoes under the table, wondering whether Delhi had dengue too. There was also a brief Q&A followed by tea and snacks, and that was it. Book was launched, hopefully winging its way through the lower stratosphere like some bad tempered wildfowl wondering which head to crap on next.

Before the launch I had to do a few interviews with local reviewers, a couple of whom lacked the subtlety to disguise that they were more interested in the political drama unfolding back in my country than in the words between the front and the back cover of the text they bore with them. How were things back home?

Fine thank you for asking. Did I feel apprehensive about what I would find on my return? Not particularly. When I had spoken to friends and family back in Karachi had they said things were normal? Things were perfectly normal. Men and women were going to work. Children were going to school. And lawyers and protesters were going to jail.

Friday, November 09, 2007

Table for One – Nehru Memorial Canteen, Teen Murti Bhawan

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Food lovers’ guide to Delhi.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

This canteen profile is a part of the Table for One series.

The Raj, Britain’s empire in India, is no more, but its successor, the Nehru Gandhi family, remains. The sprawling mansion of Teen Murti Bhawan, built for the British Commander-in-Chief, was eventually taken up by the anglophilic Prime Minister Jawarharlal Nehru as his official residence. Today it is a museum striving to sustain the allure of his descendants. Resist the dynasty's charm and instead ask for directions to the canteen.

The Grand Mansion



The museum canteen, like the museum, (usually) remains as quiet as grave. The surrounding Amrak, Belpathua and Gurbelia trees serves as natural air-conditioners. Occasional sounds are that of peacocks' call. Chipmunks scurry through the leaves-strewn grass.

It is the canteen’s sunny outhouse, rather than the canteen itself, that is favored by professor-types, research scholars (taking break from their research in the members-only Nehru Memorial library), and museum visitors. Ladies smoke, men gossip, and families sup silently.

Here I became friendly with a lady who had settled in Delhi after working for several years as doctor in Berlin. Each afternoon she drives her Volkswagen from her home in Defense Colony to Teen Murti - just to have chai (served in a kettle with sugar in a separate caddy) in the outhouse. She requested me to keep the canteen a secret (“My only refuge in Delhi”, the lady says).

With apologies to the friend, I heartily recommend the outhouse to readers. Venture inside the canteen premises to re-live the Soviet-era romance (stained tabletops, gloomy lighting, empty shelves, sullen-faced attendants etc.). Popular among the museum staffers, the mood inside is more informal than in the outhouse. I have seen people resting their heads on the table. Always opt for the window seat where the daylight makes the reading experience easier to the eye. (I was carrying Irène Némirovsky's Suite Française in my last visit). Of course, the window also helps in discreet viewing of the beautiful people sitting outside.

The service, despite the lazy ambiance of the place, is quick. Food is ridiculously cheap. The honest thali, with two tawa rotis, rice, karhi, baingan curry, and sambhar was mere Rs. 15. The homely karhi had a smooth, creamy texture. The comforting sambhar pleased the palate with a decided curry-leaf essence as if the cooking pot had been forever on simmer all these years. Do try the elaichi-flavored samosas (Rs. 2) but refuse the accompanying green chutney. It's slimy. Also avoid the disgustingly-sweet gulab jamuns (Rs.2.50).

Teen Murti House, Teen Murti Lane
Ph NA
Since NA
Open daily from 9am – 7pm
45 Covers
Popular Specialties:
Lunch Thali, Samosas, Sandwiches
Essential Rates:
Coffee – Rs. 3
Tea – Rs. 2


Turn Left



Let Me Sleep



Nehru's Magic



The Honest & Humble Thali



Good Chai, Ignore the Gulab Jamun

tmbook1

There's the Exit

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

City Secret – Anjali Book World, Lajpat Nagar

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Here you get classic first editions for cheap.

[Text and picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Delhi is a city of surprises. Who could believe that great bibliophilic booty is lying right in the heart of Lajpat Nagar Central Market, of all places? This Alibaba's cave, innocuously called Anjali Book World, is unknown to many. Its patrons, some from as far as Chandigarh, are so protective about it that they wish it to remain a secret forever.

"If too many people know about this place, the wonderful books here will be sold out sooner and I'll be the loser," said a customer who comes here all the way from Dwarka.

More than 50,000 books are spread across more than 2,000 square feet — on the shelves, ceilings, and floor (sorry, no shelves on the roof) — and more than double that is claimed to be gathering dust in warehouses. "I have rare, out-of-print books," says owner Mr Ramesh Madaan.

A passion for books led him to fold his clothes trade in 1996 and open this bookshop. He named it after his daughter. In the beginning, Mr Madaan's book-loving friends assisted him in building the stock.

But it was his networking with collectors, importers and distributors, in addition to explorations in the Sunday Daryaganj Book Bazaar, which really sexed up the store.

The collection is maddening. From Julia Child's recipes to Mozart's letters, from Princess Diana's extra-marital flings to Monika Lewinski's scandal. A lucky day could get you the first edition of a William Styron or a Salman Rushdie.

Hindi is not ignored. I got my copy of Arundhati Roy's Mamooli Cheezon ka Devta (aka The God of Small Things) from here.

Bargain-basement prices are another incentive. Alexander Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago is available in paperback in 'first-hand' bookshops for Rs 700. Here, the handsomer, seemingly untouched hardbound copy of the same book cost
Rs 100, after bargaining, of course. That copy is in my library now!

Mills & Boon lovers needn't be disappointed. The bookshop owner is no snob. Jane Austen lies next to Danielle Steele and your regular M&Bs. "We all have different tastes," Mr Madaan says. Quiet, we're reading.

Where II-J-10, Central Market, Lajpat Nagar Ph 46572729

Monday, November 05, 2007

Delhi for Children – National Rail Museum

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National Railway Museum

A special Delhi guide for readers with children.

Don’t let malls, multiplexes, and video games be the only memories your child has of her childhood. The Delhi Walla has started a new series - Delhi for Children. It will recommend those special hangouts which the city has for its non-voting citizens. Take your children on these entertaining excursions and re-discover your childhood in the process.

National Rail Museum - Train to Trainistan

At an altitude of 206.70 meter, Museum Junction at the National Rail Museum is probably the safest train station in the city. No child-lifting gang operates here. Coaches don't move; steam engines don't hiss; signals don't flicker; and tracks are padded with overgrown grass.

Kids can easily clamber aboard the c. 1910 steam locomotive at the entrance. Once inside, Fairy Queen - the world's oldest working engine - is ideal for playing Hide & Seek. Peek inside the locked wagon of the Maharaja of Gaekwad. If not the children, their parents would certainly be impressed by the gold enameled ornate ceiling.

Don't panic if kids are not in sight and you hear real trains whistling by. A busy railway track lay across the boundary.

Be prepared for some real travel too. The Joy Express, with its box wagons and baby benches, chugs around after every few minutes. It is a chuk-chuk journey through the entire museum. A steam engine ride is a special treat reserved for Sundays.

Don't miss the museum gallery. A glass case here displays the skull of a wild elephant killed 113 years ago in a train collision. The train models are riveting. Push the button on a model steam engine to see fire glowing in the coal chamber. Another starts moving its axle with great sound and fury. It is understandable that kids would be unwilling to leave. But remember there is no train home.

Time 9 AM – 5 PM Tickets Rs 10 Where Chanakyapuri Ph 26881816

The Mystery of the Locked Wagon

National Railway Museum

Men at Work

National Railway Museum

Someone's Inside

National Railway Museum

Friday, November 02, 2007

Delhi Diary - Star Gazing in Khan Market

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Khan Market

Spotting filmstar Dimple Kapadia in Bahrisons bookshop.

[Picture of Khan Market taken by Thomas Kappler; text by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Yes, it was her. Dimple Kapadia. As I stepped inside Khan Market's Bahrisons bookshop, I saw her standing in front of the Lonely Planet shelf. Black top. Long black skirt. Auburn hair. Yes, she was Dimple.

Of course, it is normal to spot celebrities in Khan Market, Delhi's uppity bazaar favored by the wealthy, the beautiful, and the influential. One evening in Khan Market's Café Coffee Day outlet I had found myself sitting next to charismatic Kashmiri politician Omar Abduallah (I swear he looked at me for full 5 seconds). Few days later, I found myself standing alongside the plump Maharani of Gwalior, Madhavi Raje Scindia, as she picked People from the foreign magazines stall. (The Maharani asked her driver for the money!)

In Khan Market, I have also rubbed shoulders (well, almost) with classical singer Shubha Mudgal as she hurried past with her young husband (quite a mismatched couple in appearance). I have said hello to Manju Kapur while she autographed her newly-released novel Home in Bahrisons (she ties her saree a couple of inches off the floor). I have frequently seen Old Delhi MP Kapil Sibal buying books worth Rs. 6000 in this bookshop (he has an account here). But coming across these people never gave me thrill. They were typical Delhi VIPs – politicians, ex-kings, artists and writers.

But Dimple Kapadia was a film star from Bombay. Looking her age now (poor pet), it was still easy to imagine her as the same woman who once strutted her stuff in a red bikni in Bobby, 34 years ago (google YouTube). She was the glamor woman who appeared topless in Sagar. She was also the fiery cop of Zakhmi Aurat who avenged her rapists by bobbitising their penis. Dimple always oozed glamour but was also noted as somebody who could emote well. She was the fantasy of thinking man’s dirty dreams. She was Dimple Kapadia.

Pity the bookshop assistant. Since Mr. M Singh could not find the book she wanted (which book was she looking for anyway?), he promised to procure it the next day. Opening his notepad (as he always does), he asked for the lady’s mobile phone number. And Dimple Kapadia actually blurted it out loud (sorry, I'm not disclosing the number).

Now the unkind cut.

Mr. M Singh asked, "Madam, your name please"? A long pause. Perhaps I imagined there was a long pause. Dimple Kapadia, the estranged wife of superstar Rajesh Khanna, the ma-in-law of superstar Akshay Kumar, the sex symbol of the 80s, simply said "Ms. Kapadia" and left.