The Zayeqa of Good Food

Thousands of miles and almost half of earth’s circumference away from the perennially hostile Indo-Pak border, there exists a Pakistani restaurant where an Indian like me is welcomed with warm smiles, steaming plates of kebabs and biryanis and friendly conversations. This hole-in-the-wall establishment that goes by the name ‘Zayeqa’, was discovered by me the day I had my first hankering for succulent kebabs in Detroit. Having moved from Austin where an equally Lilliputian, Persian restaurant catered to my cravings, I was instantly on the lookout for something just as worthy, if not more, to fill the rather big shoes that I’d left behind. Lucky for me, Zayeqa fit the bill perfectly and I became one of its many frequent customers.

It all began one warm summer afternoon as I lay around salivating at the sight of hot shaami kebabs being fried by Kashaf’s ammi in the Hum TV series ‘Zindagi Gulzar Hai’ that I’d been binge watching all week long. A quick Google search gave me the names of the three most popular Pakistani restaurants in the area. On a whim I picked Zayeqa, perhaps because its name called to mind images of all those piquant treats that I had been longing for.

Mellifluous sentences in chaste Urdu poured out of my phone and into my ears as I heard Aunty Z for the first time. I was placing a take-away order for I wanted to sample their wares in the warm coziness of my own room so that if I had to, I could unselfconsciously screw my nose if it turned out to be a bad choice or conversely lick my fingers clean if I was pleased. Their signature ‘Chicken Bihari Kebab platter’ was my first order which immediately became a hot favourite. Tender strips of roasted chicken delicately enrobed in aromatic masalas and served with raw, sliced onions, a wedge of lime, mint chutney and naan fresh out of the tandoor – made for a meal that not just filled me up but also left an indelible mark on my satiated palate. Thus the deal between me and Zayeqa was sealed.

There was no looking back after that first experience. Each time the husband and I felt a carnivorous urge, we headed straight to Zayeqa. Along the way, some friends from work joined the fan club and these trips became more frequent. Soon enough, Uncle and Aunty Z started recognizing me as that tiny Indian girl with an elephant’s appetite, who brought them regular business. Uncle Z, a man close to Papa in age, wears a salt-and-pepper moustache and beard and possesses eyes that twinkle in merriment when he sees me. He brims with stories of his singular trip across the border to India. The unbridled excitement that filled him up as he set foot in Delhi, the adventures he had in Amritsar, the awestruck tourist he embodied  in Mumbai, are precious vignettes he shares with us every time we visit.

Aunty Z is a calm, ever-smiling, matronly figure. Like every other Indian/Pakistani parent, she too oozes pride from every pore when she speaks about her son who is a dentist or her daughter, who is studying to become a doctor. Tell her that you feel akin to a stuffed turkey after a large meal and she will give you a quick once-over and declare, much to your satisfaction, that you are nothing but a bag of bones that needs to be nourished with good protein in the form of her famous chicken and mutton qormas. Uncle Z and Aunty Z share an endearing camaraderie that can only develop when two individuals have faced years of thick and thin together. She loves pulling his leg ever so often and he enjoys gently chiding her over frivolous things like too much sugar in a batch of mango lassi. Once you are done savoring the food as well as their comical repartee, they see you off with an affectionate ‘Allah Hafiz beta. Mummy-Papa aayein toh unhe saath leke aana. Hum vegetarian khaana bhi badhiya banaate hain.’

Zayeqa is no longer just another restaurant for me. Within its cramped 6-table premise and amidst its stacks of disposable crockery and cutlery, beats a large, loving heart that does not comprehend man made differences based on culture, class, race or nationality. It is here that I find food, people, smells and sounds that remind me of home. These people and their ways do not appear different than what I am accustomed to. That such blatant animosity breeds between our two nations despite our very many similarities is all the more flummoxing especially on a tummy that rumbles in satisfaction.  

India Diary - The great Goan vacation of 2014 - Part 1

It is surprising how just 3 days of bone warming sun, soft sand, towering palm trees and chilled breezers with friends who have shared over a decade of my life, can expunge a couple of years of world-weariness. Which is why after a long hiatus, the first thing I felt compelled to write was a story of those 3 days, 5 friends, 1 shanty like cottage, 1 stolen iPhone, 2 gorgeous chocolate thalis, a crate of breezers, numerous plastic cups of coconut rum and plates of fried fish, a few dozen liqueur chocolates and an endless out-pour of chatter. 

With a year’s worth of planning, coordinating and dreaming behind us, we were fairly confident that nothing could possibly ruin our perfectly laid plans. After all, hours had been spent over long distance phone calls, Skype and Google hangout sessions and Whatsapp chat rallies to chalk out the awesomeness that we intended to pack in these 72 hours. Our plans seemed water tight and as I boarded the first of many flights that were to mark my trip, I wore a smile so wide that I am certain it made me look rather demented.

In our naiveté we had clearly forgotten that the best laid schemes of mice and (wo)men oft go awry. As the days of travel fast approached, the intents of some of our most confident co-conspirators started wobbling precariously like bowling pins that had been struck. After much dwindling, Mini and Arry finally gave up and fell off the merry bandwagon. It was disappointing, to say the very least. What is a girls’ trip sans Mini’s theatrics and Arry’s flakiness! On cold unforgiving nights, I still nurse bitter thoughts about that ill-timed malady that afflicted Mini’s family and that Army School Principal who made Arry stay back for a horrid school inspection.

A close shave with ‘delayed-flights-and-missed-connecting-flights’ later, I landed on Goan soil. As luck would have it, Pali’s flight had landed moments ago and was hitched to the jet bridge right next door. The sight of that elfin face was more than enough to make me believe that this trip was going to be fantastic. During the 2 hour cab ride to the ‘yoga-retreat’ that Pali had supposedly cherry-picked for us, we shared tales of eccentric bosses, kooky co-workers and other bizarre events and people that had coloured our lives lately. 

A metallic voice on the GPS chimed - "You have reached your destination". As we resurfaced from a haze of banter, it dawned on us that our cab driver had offloaded us in the middle of what looked like a dense forest with nothing but thick green foliage, zig-zag trails in the sand resembling snake tracks and a bunch of stray dogs lounging in the shade. A signboard with two arrows pointing in opposite directions made it quite impossible to figure out the location of our lodging. Much scouting brought us to a dirt track bejewelled by scorched cow dung cakes and dog excrement. At the other end of this track we found an insipid version of the resort that we had approved and reserved online. We also found an amused Joti and a very furious Tashi ma’am with her hands on her hips and imaginary smoke curling out of her nostrils and ears.

Between strings of angry expletives, Tashi ma’am explained how the lady at the front desk had thrown an unnecessary tantrum about something as trivial as a misunderstanding regarding the number of people in our party and as a result had jangled the nerves of an already travel weary Tashi ma’am who had been on the road for over 10 hours the previous night. Instantly it felt like we had regressed 10 years in time to our days in the hostel, witnessing Tashi ma’am at loggerheads with our bull-headed warden. Funny how some things never change and how happy their permanence makes me especially when life is hurling one unsettling change after another at me.

The aforesaid lady at the front desk also turned out to be the co-owner of the establishment, a yoga instructor, an erstwhile Dutch architect, the possessor of a weird clipped accent and an itra seller with a penchant for duping marijuana pumped foreigners. That she might have posted misleading, air-brushed pictures of her little ‘yoga-resort’ online now did not seem beyond her. This is not to say that I was entirely unhappy about the rickety, two floor, one bathroom, zero air conditioner hovel that we had ended up in. It was going to be an experience and it did not quite matter how the dwelling was as long as we were all together. Over chilly prawns, fish fried rice and Cabo – the locally made coconut liqueur, we fell right back into the good old arms of jaunty babble.

Plans for the evening were made. We were headed to a fancy restaurant called La Plage on Ashvem beach where the prices were sky-high, the clientèle was fashionably bohemian and the portions were minuscule. Sheer white curtains floated like delicate fairies around us as we sat on wicker chairs waiting for our food and making puns at Joti who even at 9:30 in the night was unable to get off her work phone and was delivering legal words nineteen to the dozen while doling out piles of work to her poor interns. Mere feet away from the crashing waves, even Joti wasn’t able to keep up her otherwise fierce sincerity towards her work for long. 

To be honest, I do not remember the names and forms of food we ate that night but I do remember that for chocolate aficionados like Sandesh and I, the chocolate thali at the end of our meal was like pure joy served on a plate. A sampler that beheld the choicest of La Plage’s chocolate offerings like a dense dark chocolate mousse, a sliver of a decadent seven layer chocolate cake, chocolate truffles and so on was devoured in the blink of an eyelid and chops were licked with gratification thereafter. On our way back we stumbled upon a flea market of sorts which looked like a fairy-light laced dream. Its purpose was clear – to provide a trendier version of common rummage sales for the crème de la crème to experience. We, the hoi-polloi, on the other hand could only afford a few very pretty pictures clicked by our very own ace photographer – Pali – against a backdrop of shimmering mirrors and lanterns.

In search of that most essential morning cup of tea without which massive headaches threatened to descend upon at least two of us (me included of course), we scoured the beaches of Mandrem the next day and finally found a scrawny beach side shack-owner who agreed to provide the desired cup of manna with a plateful of greasy omelettes. Like two water babies itching to envelope themselves in the silky silver, saline folds of ocean waves, Pali and Joti immediately plunged into the water. I, on the other hand, was perfectly content in lying on a beach chair, sipping chai, munching on hard as rock Goan bread and watching eastern European fitness freaks striking gravity-defying yoga poses (minus the sight of a dread locked, middle aged hippy in a thong that refused to cover parts of his anatomy that no one wanted to see). 

More fish, prawns, breezers, ocean-dips, chit-chat sessions followed as we got ourselves a cushioned spot in a shack overlooking the sea. Having turned a perfect shade of reddish-brown almost like fried crisp bacon, we dragged our feet back home. Once at the cottage, the thought of a nap made each one of us weak in the knees but we had to pull ourselves together to explore the alleys of ‘The Saturday Night Market’ – one of Goa’s largest flea markets held at Arpora. ...To be continued

India Diary - Of Animated Monkeys, Celebrity Parrots and Marble Elephants

Curtains of fog cloaked the ancient city of Agra at the crack of dawn one morning in early January. A fog so thick that walking through it felt like ferreting through a bucket of whipped cream. Despite the hindrance it posed to daily lives, the streets had already begun whirring into action. Store shutters were noisily rolled up by bedraggled shopkeepers, boys and girls with bands of oil-slicked hair stuck to their heads restlessly waited for school buses and milkmen donning snug balaclavas and sweaters pedaled their way through routes where dozens of families waited for them to ladle fresh milk into their milk-pots.

Amidst all of this, troops of red-faced monkeys casually went about their business, scouring rooftops for food, picking ticks off each other or simply watching their human descendants crank start a brand new workday. Dragging their coiled tails behind them, these dusty brown creatures ambled from one roof to the next with a confident air of being very much at home in the city. Had they been fashionable enough to dress up in a ‘conical hat and red jacket’ ensemble, they would have quite easily passed off as over-sized replicas of Abu the monkey from Aladdin. Even so, thanks to them and the vaulted exteriors of aging constructions, the city wore an esoteric, ‘Arabian Nights’ glow.

Negotiating a maze of arterial alleys, choked with piles of garbage and rows of houses stacked cheek to jowl; we made our way to the hallowed site of Mumtaz Mahal’s final resting place, the grandeur of which has earned it a place on the list of the Seven Wonders of the World. On our final mile, the congestion suddenly disappeared as the confined lane gave way to a wide cemented road. It appeared as though recovering from a bout of population and pollution induced flu, the city had finally blown its nose clean and was now taking a deep, refreshing breath. The russet walls of the Red Fort ran alongside, directing us to the parking lot at the monument’s doorstep which turned out to be a colourful mosaic of cars with hilariously corny bumper stickers (Gussa nahi, Pyaar chahiye), scooters with shiny tassels on their handles, flamboyantly decorated albeit malodorous camels with equally jazzed up carts hitched to their backs and battery operated rickshaws that looked like three-legged mules.

Like an apparition, the Taj Mahal rose from the grip of a cloud of fog that, instead of thinning, seemed to be getting denser by each passing hour. In the vicinity, a quintessential coterie of pale, light eyed foreigners clutching ‘Lonely Planet’ guide books and hi-tech cameras were fighting a losing battle to deter a pack of touts that had hungrily descended upon them. Steering clear of the smooth talking salesmen and the harried bunch, I slipped on the gauzy shoe covers that are required to be worn over footwear before entering the mausoleum and walked into the marble monolith. This wasn’t my first time at the Taj, yet it’s intricately carved and delicately filigreed features did not fail to enthrall me. Even though it is a mausoleum that is said to signify the angst of a bereft husband over the death of his beloved wife, the pulchritude of the Taj was sufficient to shoo away any lugubriousness that the story threatened to bring about. 

Shah Jehan’s second love – that for the cool confines of marble structures, seems to have rubbed onto Agra dwellers over centuries. Treated as a mark of prosperity, slabs of marble are still used extensively as building material here. If not the whole house, at least the floors in most houses are made of either the original mottled white marble or its fancier coloured variants. In the form of a small marble elephant with a lapis lazuli flower inlaid on its rump, a piece of this obsession made its way into my luggage as well.  

As it turned out, the poker-faced camels that welcomed us at the Taj weren’t meant to be the last animals to greet us that day. Our foray into the behemothic Agra Fort began with sighting a jalapeno coloured parrot with a bright red beak, lounging blithely in a slight nook in the wall while amusing itself by posing like a diva for the tourist cameras. The ease with which animals blend into public spaces in India has always tickled me. For instance, it is completely natural for traffic to come to a standstill as a cow parks herself in the middle of the road, lazily chewing her afternoon cud. Similarly, a horse trotting languidly next to a car on the main road is not a sight that will make the driver do a double take before succumbing to a stroke. Herds of goats making their way back to their barns at the end of a long day seem to commiserate in loud bleats with their human counterparts who share the same back alleys on their way home. It is thus a country where livestock is not confined to the countryside; it has equal rights to enjoy the glitter and glamour of city life as well.

Examples of enterprising Indians conjuring opportunities out of thin air can be seen in abundance at sites like the Taj Mahal and the Agra Fort. At the gates of the Agra Fort, my ears pricked up as the sound of a flurry of excited German commentary mouthed by a puny Indian lad with a shock of disheveled hair drifted by. Upon closer inspection I found that he was a tourist guide who made a living by showing German tourists around. The fact that he spoke their language made even the oft stingy Germans loosen their purse strings instantly. Later, as I explored the fort, I found Russian, Japanese, Mandarin and Cantonese speaking tourist guides too, seeking those who preferred listening to the enchanting tales of history in their own dialects. These tales mostly sounded authentic and got a thumbs-up from Google but they were also laced with a handful of fabricated figments, sprinkled on to add a pinch of drama.

Then there were those selling a deluge of articles on mobile carts. Cut from the same cloth as their ‘tourist-guide’ cousins, these hawkers were difficult to shake off as they attached themselves inextricably by our side while trying to convince us that theirs was the best deal in town and that ignoring them was a grave folly that would come to haunt us later. Quick to deduce the needs of their prospective clientele, their wares were a motley collection of plastic souvenirs, memory sticks for cameras, suspiciously flimsy plastic bottles with muddy ‘mineral water’, feeble key chains, tacky fridge magnets, pencil torches, picture postcards and a variety of quick bites packaged in transparent cellophane paper.

One of the most crucial messengers of love in India is food. Aaloo kachoris fried to a golden crisp, flaky bajre ke (pearl millet) paranthe ready to be dunked in flavourful curries, syrupy jalebis fried in skillets of bubbling hot shudh ghee and stuffed paranthas fresh off the stove with a blob of homemade butter melting atop into a rich pool of creamy indulgence – they all carry calorie laden tidings of deep rooted affection. The best season to partake of this largesse is the winter as our perennial love for food seems to peak just as the first winter chills start seeping into our houses. Luckily, I found myself quite in time for it. With each day starting with a steaming cup of sugary tea spiked alternately with black pepper and ginger and ending with a generous helping of flaming red gaajar halwa, I was in food paradise.

A few added inches to my waistline, a satiated tongue, a trumpeting marble elephant, a picture book brimming with stories and an undying urge to visit again are souvenirs from my days in Agra. They remind me of a city that is slowly but surely making its way into my heart.

India Diary - Exploring the Enchanting Ruins of Old Bhopal - Part 2

A pea-shaped face peeked from behind a set of rusted iron doors at the Taj Mahal palace as I firmly rapped the heavy door-knocker against its metal backrest. “I wish to look around”, I said determinedly in response to the quizzical expression that stared back at me. The possessor of the tiny, question-marked face – Abhinav, a young boy of perhaps 15 turned out to be one of the three caretakers who had been bestowed upon the responsibility of guarding the premise. At first, he seemed mighty reluctant to let me in, let alone explore, but a healthy dose of incessant cajoling and emotional blackmail made him buckle and agree to show me around. 

Moments ago, fuelled by the tea at Raju tea stall, I had been high as a kite at the thought of exploring the ruins of Begum Shah Jahan’s castle which, if I were to believe the rumors, was a magnificent structure, spread over a whopping 17 acres in the heart of the otherwise congested Jahangirabad locality. Threatening to burst my happy bubble of adventure though, was a rather sad vision that welcomed me at the venue. A decrepit, narrow frontispiece snuggled in an easy-to-miss recess by the main road. It was hard to envision a grand citadel hidden behind those doors. But, sure enough, as Abhinav cranked them open, a gargantuan forum of ruins unfurled magically like a page in a pop-up book. 

 

Within minutes of wandering with him, I realized that Abhinav’s bag-of-bones constitution was deceptive. Once he started regaling the castle’s history it was as if an electric wave of energy had coursed through his lanky frame. I could tell he loved every nook and corner of the crumbling acropolis as he bounced vivaciously from one section to the next. One of the fully intact features within the premise, he told me, was Saawan Bhado – an airy structure peppered with wrought iron spouts that were used to sprinkle cool underground water on the palace walls to temper down the excruciating summer heat. Standing beneath one of its red stone arches, I could almost smell the aroma exuded by a patch of earth, the cracked lips of which had just been caressed by a refreshing trickle.

Contrary to the hard-as-nails reputation earned by her mother and grandmother, Begum Shah Jahan (who was number 3 in the line of Bhopal’s 4 Begums) was said to be soft and lady like, with a penchant for all things beautiful like poetry, architecture and art. Her love for intricate architecture is evident from the mirror work and carvings found in the Sheesh Mahal, one of the many sub-sections of the palace. Even in its current state of abandon, the walls of Sheesh Mahal give an illusion of being studded with bits of precious stones; leading me to believe that in its hey-day, its glitter must have been quite a sight for sore eyes. From the jharokhas that hang over the adjoining Motia Talaab (Motia Lake), the twin minarets and the colossal dome of the Tajul Masjid can be seen along with their inverted mirror images reflecting in the lake. The mosque, which was also the Begum’s brainchild, is supposed to be one of the largest in Asia and is perhaps just as imposing as Delhi’s Jama Masjid or Lahore’s Badshahi Masjid.

It is said that those predisposed to literature and fine arts tend to be emotional fools by default. Begum Shah Jahan too seems to have conformed perfectly to this rule. From falling hopelessly in love with her ambitious, gold-digging tutor Syed Siddiq Hassan to upholding a 13-year long iciness towards her daughter, the then heir apparent - Kai Khusrau Jahan Begum, upon whom she squarely placed the blame for the untimely death of her first grand-daughter– there are plenty of stories that give an idea of how drama riddled the Begum’s life was. This is not to say that she was an inept ruler who turned a blind eye towards the welfare of her subjects while engaging solely in frivolous activities. A truly secular ruler, Begum Shah Jahan established a Hindu Property Trust for conserving Hindu properties. She also inaugurated the railway system in Bhopal, a project once spearheaded by her grandmother. It was projects like these and many others that made her a much loved sovereign. 

On one hand, the palace’s quiet seclusion and lack of publicity allows one to peacefully soak in its splendor without being distracted by packs of noisy tourists, annoying school children on class picnics, roguish touts trying to palm off cheap trinkets and fake guides concocting spicy stories to pique their clients’ interest. On the other hand, the government’s obliviousness towards its upkeep has forced the structure into accepting a life of neglect and subsequent decay. The flourishing jungles of wild grass that seem to have gobbled up portions of the palace, fungus laden walls that are lined with webs of pitiful fractures and rotting animal carcasses that can be found within the once sumptuous rock pile are sad reminders of the fact that the palace is fast approaching its own demise.

Yet, Abhinav seems hopeful. The local newspapers have reported that the property is soon to be converted into a fancy heritage hotel. He sees himself getting employed in some capacity as part of the enterprise and this pleases him immensely. I, on the flip side, can’t help feeling dismayed at the news even though it probably means a much needed face-lift for the palace. Chances are pretty high that this is the first and the last time that I have the luxury to pry around untroubled like a true adventurer examining prospective trapdoors or simply sit by the lake in a dreamy trance like a poet mulling over frilly ideas. 

As the sky changed into its evening garb of crimson streaked china-blue, with great difficulty I pulled my spellbound self away from the untouched beauty of a quaint castle. A castle that was once the loving abode of a wistful princess who dreamt of things like finding true love, creating a world where all faiths coexisted in harmony, providing for each of her subjects  and growing old gracefully, surrounded by a happy roost of children and grandchildren. Just as I exited, a band of grime-covered, wide-eyed urchins ambushed me, hungrily eyeing my knapsack, clawing at my arms and pointing towards their famished mouths. And just like that, the spell I was under broke, its shattered pieces taking on the form of these wretched souls who dragged me back to the real world.

India Diary - Exploring the Enchanting Ruins of Old Bhopal - Part 1

Picture courtesy - www.tripadvisor.in

The city of Bhopal is like a mysterious old bard. In a tattered gunny bag swung over one of his atrophied shoulders, he hides a treasure trove of rare gems plucked right out of history books. It takes effusive flattery, gentle persuasion and an unrelenting perseverance to get him to allow a peek into his sack of stories. But once he warms up, there is no stopping him. Not only does he whisper mystical tales from his past into eager ears, but also abets greedy eyes in shamelessly feasting upon sights that only few know exist. 

One chilly winter evening in Dec 2014, I found myself in the august company of this Methuselah of sorts, who after years of constant wheedling had finally agreed to chat with me. For the first time I experienced a Bhopal that I had never seen before – one that remains unsullied even though the rest of the city is undergoing rapid remolding in an effort to keep up with changing times. This is a section that represents an era of iron-willed Begums who ruled the city with a flair that is hard to find even today.

My peregrinations were flagged off as I stepped into the rose pink edifice of Gauhar Mahal – a 19th century palace built for the first female ruler of Bhopal – Begum Qudsia. Against its moss-encased arches a handicrafts exhibition was in full swing. In the center of the main courtyard sat a dried up marble fountain wearing yellow stains of age. Around it, the air was thick with the sweet essence of rose, lotus and sandalwood attar originating from the open vials of a hijab clad lady whose ingenious advertising gimmick was proving quite effective in luring customers. Hand-painted silk scarves hung from makeshift displays, fluttering tantalizingly in a cool breeze and life-like figures carved in brass silently beckoned clamoring patrons.

The mise-en-scene was such that it transcended all borders of time, invoking images from when Bhopal was 200 years younger. I could almost spot the sparkling anklet of a lady-in-waiting just as she disappeared behind a carved column or hear the hoof-beats as patrolling soldiers returned from their nightly vigil. Through the torch-illuminated corridors of this very palace the aristocratic Begum, who shunned the purdah amongst other regressive traditions, must have once walked, pearls tinkling and silk and brocade robes swishing around. With a shopping bag overflowing with goodies and a head overflowing with sepia toned ideas, I returned home, excited about the prospect of exploring other jewels of Old Bhopal in the coming days.

As the nebulous rays of winter sunshine escorted in a new day, another 19th century relic patiently waited for me to come calling. Hidden behind a coat of white-wash, in the busy lanes of Royal Enclave, I found Sadar Manzil. The pearl white paint that was deemed suitable for the ancient structure by new age ministers is in-fact totally inefficacious in concealing its true age. Built during the reign of Bhopal’s fourth and final female ruler - Kaikhusrau Jahan Begum, the palatial building was used as a hall of public audience where the Begum convened with her subjects. Despite the seemingly mundane administrative work that went on within its walls, it is apparent that no stone was left unturned in its beautification. The proof of this can be seen in a series of decadent murals that decorate its domed ceilings. Through charcoal wisps of decimated cobwebs and a thick blanket of dust, one can still trace the beautiful patterns of blossoming buds, dewy leaves and curling stems on the walls.

Wall Art at Sadar Manzil

Keeping up with its tradition, Sadar Manzil now houses government offices like those of the Municipal Corporation. As a result it has taken on the appearance of any other modern day government office in India. Every available inch of space bears towering stacks of old official files tied with pieces of frayed red string and brown with years of accumulated grime. Most corners and alcoves are encrusted with maroon spatters where scores of insouciant paan masticators over years have mercilessly regurgitated the contents of their mouths. Picking my way through haphazard rows of sealed Godrej almirahs, scurrying rats and piles of rubble, I made it to the terrace from where the Bhojtal or Upper Lake can be seen placidly stretched out in all its silvery grey glory. I can well imagine court poets of yore making use of this visage as inspiration for producing soul stirring poetry.

Breaking my fable-like journey for a cup of tea at the famous Raju Tea Stall at Sultania Road near Peer Gate was a revelation in itself. Who could have guessed that a seemingly footling tea stall which had innocuously elbowed its way between tightly packed hardware and kirana stores could serve the most succulent mawa jalebi and rabri, crisp pakodas and aromatic chai. Legend has it that despite its rather run-down veneer and common-man clientele, many an important government officials frequent it to get their regular fix of chai and snacks....To be continued