It was the summer of 2010 and I was in my final year of graduation in Delhi University. My father had come to the city with my sister for her college admission. His plan was to stay back with us for a few extra days. He had booked the same guest house in Model Town that we had stayed in the last time he was here. Which was in 2008.
The guest house was a proper two storey Delhi style bungalow with tall heavy gates. It was managed by a guy called B. B was the sole house keeper. He used to do everything from cleaning to cooking. I don’t know where B was from, but he was chatty. He was like those people who would show off a lot about a place to those who do not know the place or are new to the place. For instance, if you get a good bargain and tell B, he would tell you about a better bargain he could have negotiated. I found it irritating.
The set menu of the guest house was vegetarian, with meat/fish available once a week. Like most people from Assam, my father got bored of the Delhi food. It was too oily and spicy. So, he made a little arrangement with B. He would give him money to buy either fish or meat and later in the evening give special instructions on how to cook them. B would nick a small amount from that daily handout and my father would feast on fish, so it was a win-win situation for both. B thought he was playing smart, but my father knew all along.
Back in 2008 we didn’t know anything or anyone in Delhi, apart from a school senior who was kind enough to show us how the metro works, how to buy the tokens and read the metro map. There were only a few connections then, and it was easier to navigate. (Thanks to this, years later I could smoothly navigate the metro lines in Milan all by myself.) There was no metro station near Model Town at that time, but at a two minute distance from our guest house, we could see the construction work for the planned extension. Nearest was the University station which was about 3 km away. It’s not too far, but in Delhi that meagre distance feels like eternity.
When I think about it, I realise that we were such city novices that we couldn’t even find a restaurant in Kamla Nagar to sit down and enjoy a meal. We walked up and down the main high street and wondered why there were no food joints in this big market. There were street food stalls where people would just stand and eat in front of complete strangers. It was too much for us, plus neither of us had the appetite for street food. So, eating on the street while holding the plate was out of question.
Tired and exhausted we did manage to find a bakery. It sold everything from bakery items to birthday decorations. It was not too big in size. There was no tables or chairs to sit on, but it had enough floor space inside that we could stand and eat, away from the dust, pollution and strangers’ stare. We were so hungry that we scoffed off a few pastries, rolls, and cakes. I think my father even enjoyed a coke that day.
It was much later that my friends would show me the plethora of eateries available in that market, neatly tucked away from the high streets. The ones you can access only through the back lanes. Passing through those dark shady lanes with the nauseating smell of egg and smoke was unthinkable at first. I used to hold my breath everytime. But eventually I would get used to it, so much that I would hardly notice unless someone points out to me. Thanks to my friends, I would also learn to gorge on chole bhathure by holding the food laden hot plate in one hand and tearing the bhathure with the other, while swatting at flies and shooing away random kids who would cling to your legs unless you give them coins.
Now miles away, I occasionally dream of that plate of Chole bhathure with a dollop of spicy chutney. On the list of plans that I make with my college friends, this would always be on top. In fact, till date if any of us eat it from that special place in Kamla Nagar, we never forget to mention or send pictures to the others.
So, this time around I was excited to take my father and sister everywhere. To show them the city that now I have become a self claimed expert on. To show off, like B, how city-smart I had become in just two years. I took them to this Chinese restaurant which was famous among everyone in my hostel. I was hoping to make him try hakka noodles and chilli potatoes garnished with spring onion and white sesame seeds. Much to my amusement, he set aside the menu and asked me to get him one chai and two Mughlai parantha. I had a hard time explaining why they were not available in a Chinese restaurant.
On my sister’s admission day, I wore a polo red t-shirt and a denim short pants, which in those days were called hot pants. Before leaving the guest house, my father gave me a stern look but didn’t say anything because he knew I wouldn’t listen. He was more shocked when he noticed that no one in my sister’s new college batted an eye or said anything. Not even the principal, when I entered his room to clarify something.
We decided to go to Agra to see the Taj Mahal next day. ‘Get dressed decently tomorrow’, he told me the night before. I somehow managed to fish out a knee length pant for the trip. Thankfully, he considered it decent.
One day I even convinced him to come with me to Daryaganj. He had no idea what it was, because I just told him that we were going book shopping. This time, instead of walking 3km we boarded the newly started metro line from Model Town in just two minutes and my father was impressed. He made a comment on how massive things get constructed in Delhi in just two years, while in Assam the government was still making a bridge from the last 8 years and it was still far from done (at that time he had no Idea that it would take another 8 years!).
Within half an hour we were at Chandani Chowk. We took a rickshaw from outside the station and set off towards the mayhem, that is Old Delhi. We passed through narrow dusty lanes against the moving traffic of people, vehicle, and animals. Smell of chai and fried pakoda dominated the air. Dilapidated electric cables hanged out of ramshackle buildings before running the length of the street like a loose braid over our head. These cables were homes to pigeons, scraps of polythene bags, pieces of faded dupatta, and sometimes chappatis thrown out of the window for the cows for blessings.
Tangle of lanes and alleyways finally brought us to Daryaganj. While the tired city hustlers catch up on their sleep, book lovers gather here for a good bargain on early Sunday mornings. And for good reason too, because on this single street were many bookshops huddled together on either sides. Some of them were tiny with no windows. The shopkeeper sat outside with a heap of books. They also had weighing scales to sell the books by kilos. It doesn’t matter to them if the books are bestsellers or Pulitzer winners. It was all the same to them and they sell everything dirt cheap.
As we walked further on, decent sized shops started to emerge. The ones where there is space for the customer to enter and actually browse through the titles. I had heard so much about Daryaganj that my expectations were high. I don’t know what I imagined it would be, but certainly not this. I was not very impressed, but when you are a student and you have to choose between eating and reading, this was the place to be.
Some shops were makeshift and were on the pavement. The books were either sprawled on the roads or stacked as vertical towers. Some of these stacks were taller than me. Sometimes, the shopkeepers would sit on top of a well made stack, sweltering in the heat, and would shout out recommendation at passersby, “You want Agatha Christie? I have. I have. Many books. All titles”. Sometimes they even hand out books to make a sale, “Take this. Dan Brown. Number one”.
There was so many options to look at that I had forgotten my father was there with me. He was following me silently and patiently. Initially, I told him that I would be done in two hours, but that didn’t happen. After stuffing dozens of books in my bag, I was still looking for more. When it looked like he was getting bored, I would reassure, “this is the last stop. We will go get breakfast after this”.
While I browsed the books, he would pick some random classic by Bernard Shaw or Tolstoy and nudge me to buy them. Since childhood he holds the record of suggesting and buying me books that I am least inclined to read. He used to buy me dictionaries to read. Once he went to Chennai and I asked him to get me books like my friends’ fathers, and he got me ‘How to learn Tamil in 30 days’. I was in the eighth standard and he really did believe that I could teach myself Tamil if I tried!
Once he spent a lot of money to get me a beautiful hardbound book with smooth glossy paper. It was a book on ‘Rocks and Minerals’. I had it for more than 10 years. I only occasionally opened it to smell the pages and run my fingers on them. I would imagine that if I ever wrote a book it would be on pages like this that felt like butter.
Around mid morning, the bazaar started to get crowded. If you know Delhi, you would know how hot it gets in July. So, my tired and thirsty father helped himself to a couple of glasses of juices, while I was still busy shopping. Sometimes, he would get irritated and ask me to hurry up. Or he would find a shady spot and sit there for a while. I think at one point he even had paranthe and chai, and contemplated getting a haircut.
I was crouching by the side of a footpath to glance at the titles, when he got absolute furious. He started shouting at me. I don’t remember what exactly he said, but it was not too pleasant. Normally, I would have been embarrassed, but that day I didn’t care because I knew no one would understand Assamese in this remote book market. So, I ignored him for a while and bought those last few books.
When I was paying the shopkeeper, I noticed two guys behind me laughing uncontrollably. When I turned to see if they were doing something funny, one of them asked in Assamese if the irritated man was my father. I somehow kept a straight face and got out of there as soon as I could.
While leaving he said he would not accompany me to book shopping again. So, I bought the copy of Bernard Shaw to make him happy. I don’t remember what title it was, but it was orange in colour. I still have it somewhere among the hundreds of books that I own. This little gesture worked because three years later, we went book shopping again and he gifted me a copy of Jhumpa Lahiri’s then latest ‘Lowland’. I also made him write me a note on the front page because I was very much into note writing those days.
I was gutted when I lost that copy. It had huge emotional value for me.
P.S. Probably I will write about some more funny stories.
khimpidutta 