Delhi Belly

A resident of Delhi sees the city through the eyes of a newcomer

Feature by Susanna Wickes | 12 Aug 2011

As with most days in India, this one started with chai. My friend Jerome had just arrived in Delhi and I had promised him an exciting tour of the city, beginning with, at his request, the all-important ritual of morning tea. Normally, I make it myself – I’d been here long enough to get the ratio of milk, sugar, tea leaves and spices pretty much perfect – but since today was a bit special, I thought we could drink our chai in style. Indian style.

When we reached our destination, however, and I saw Jerome’s bewildered expression, I realised I might have talked the establishment up a bit too much. Aurora Tea Stall is hardly a landmark. In fact, it’s more like a small, old cupboard, with two wobbly benches, a few jars of questionably fresh biscuits and a vaguely spooky painting of Durga, the multiple-limbed Hindu goddess, on one of the peeling turquoise walls. But appearances aside, they probably make the best chai in Delhi – which, in a city so densely populated with chai wallahs, is no easy feat. We sat down on one of the wobbly benches.

“I’ve not seen you in ages. Where have you been?” said the chai ‘aunty’, in a slightly accusing tone, from behind the counter. This was one of the problems of being a foreigner living in India. Everyone knows you. I mumbled apologetically and ordered two cups of my favourite milky tea, extra sweet.

After living in Delhi for almost two years, I often forget how the sprawling, dusty metropolis must feel to a newcomer, but if I think back I can, of course, still recall the sensory rollercoaster that was my first day in the city. It was like stepping right off the plane into an Indian cliché. Cows were wandering the streets; ladies in radioactively bright sarees were carrying huge pottery urns on their heads; ear-shatteringly loud traffic was coming from all directions – it was exactly what you’d imagine India to look like.

Then there was the dusty, unforgiving heat; the thick, white layers of sky punctuated with the domes and spires of temples. The maddening touts, who, despite the sticky heat, would tirelessly follow you for kilometers, desperate to sell you train tickets, hotel rooms and Kashmiri carpets. And the overwhelming, ever-changing smells from bubbling tea and sizzling street food to pollution and piss. For a jet-lagged foreigner, it’s a lot to take in, and sadly, a lot of tourists will skip Delhi for that reason, favouring the more subdued settings of nearby Rajasthan and the Himalayas.

But Jerome was coping quite admirably, I thought. Hungry, we drained our miniature teacups and took to the streets in search of an early lunch. The central area of Gole Market is continually bustling, full of newsagents, tailors, saree shops and small restaurants, including one of my favourites, Gupta Sweet House. As well as selling delicious (but cholesterol-laden) syrupy snacks, this dhaba serves quick and cheap North Indian meals, and is famous for its vegetarian thali.

Two of these ‘a-bit-of-everything’ meals arrived at our table, served on metal plates divided into individual sections for the rice, naan bread, salad, daal and shahi paneer, a typical curry made from tomatoes and mild cheese. We ate with our hands, tearing off chunks of bread and folding them into little scoop shapes – a technique allowing you to spoon up and shovel down very effectively. Afterwards, everything was washed down with a bottle of Thums Up – India’s answer to Coke or Pepsi, only with several times more caffeine.

With Indian culture being probably one of the most overwhelming in the world, it can be difficult to absorb it all, especially in a city as vast as Delhi. There’s the subcontinent’s epic history, seen in the majestic Mughal architecture of the Red Fort and Humayun Tomb; the arts and crafts, dance and musical aspects are also incredible, and then there’s the spiritual side of things, with a multicultural mish-mash of different religions and traditions all culminating in the migrant-friendly Capital. When I first arrived I was hungry for all this, but there was something else, too: the food. It was nothing like the ‘Indian’ stuff that comes in a microwavable box from the supermarket; it was pungent but delicate, spicy but smooth, and varied beyond belief. Some people come to India to feed their minds on the yoga and meditation. Others feast on the history. But me? I just ate everything I could get my hands on.

Feeling re-energised after the king-size lunch, Jerome and I headed to the Delhi Metro, the city’s stainless steel, airconditioned arterial system. Just outside the Ramakrishna station we heard a small crash followed by a woman’s scream. On the roundabout an autorickshaw had hit a moped, knocking its driver and his wife onto the road. Nobody seemed hurt – even the rickety moped was still intact – but within a few seconds a medium-sized crowd had gathered at the scene. Naturally, Jerome and I stopped to watch. It was a classic, Indian, minor road accident, of which I’ve witnessed many. Nobody attempted to help the woman, instead everyone made a beeline for the autorickshaw driver, pulling the poor guy out of his seat and pummeling him several times to teach him a lesson. Jerome watched in muted astonishment as the crowd broke up as quickly as it had formed.

We took the Yellow Line north to Chandni Chowk, the thumping heart of Islamic, warren-like Old Delhi. The main thoroughfare is lined with market stalls selling beaded scarves, costume jewellery and handmade sandals. We meandered along, dodging the cows and rickshaws, first passing a church, then a Jain temple, a multicoloured Hindu temple, a Sikh Gurudwara, and finally arriving at the glorious Jama Masjid, India’s largest mosque. A water tank on wheels was stationed by the main entrance, with an umbrella propped up to shade the vendor from the afternoon sun. I gave the young man five rupees and he filled a glass with icy water, and added the juice of a tiny spherical lemon and a pinch of salt. This was nimboo paani, a quick energy-kick available all over the city.

After exploring the mosque, we followed the narrow, winding bazaars back to the metro station, and headed to Connaught Place. A navigationally perplexing circle-within-a-circle-within-a-circle, it’s the British-built business and commercial centre of Delhi. We surfaced from the underground station in the Inner Circle, and made our way past the modern, glass-fronted designer shops towards the uncharmingly named P-Block; the location of stylish South Indian restaurant, Saravana Bhavan. Getting there, however, involved crossing four lanes of traffic with no pedestrian crossing (actually, there is a pedestrian crossing, it’s just that everyone ignores it). The trick is to wait until there’s a few people waiting to cross, and then stick together closely as a group, perhaps using the others as a human shield. As proof that we survived, Jerome filmed the whole thing.

Still quite full from lunch, we ordered a light dinner – the classic South Indian masala dosa. These potato-stuffed, rice pancakes come served on fresh banana leaves, with coconut dip and a bowl of soup-like, spicy sambar. To go with them we had ‘sweet lassi’, a thick yoghurt drink with a name that, as a Scot, never fails to amuse me. The restaurant, like many on the subcontinent, is vegetarian – great news for travellers like Jerome who often have a hard time finding tasty, meat-free meals.

Outside it was getting dark, and, exhausted, we decided to call it a night. But as we left the restaurant we suddenly came face to face with what was literally the biggest excitement of the day – a gigantic, decorated elephant. “See the things I can arrange!”, I joked, as the beautiful animal lumbered past, its pink and blue-painted trunk swinging rhythmically with each heavy step.

The elephant was leading a wedding procession, with a sharply-dressed brass band playing not-quite in-tune Bollywood numbers, and groups of gorgeously colourful women dancing and shouting behind them. Some people had gathered to watch, but just as many carried on walking without giving the spectacle much attention. Because, in the end, this was just another day in Delhi. And that’s exactly why I love this city – it can drive you mad, yes, but one thing’s certain: you’re never bored here. And as I headed home, sleepy with a full stomach, I realised that in Delhi you’re never hungry either.

Return flights to Delhi cost around £500. For more information about visiting the Capital have a look at www.delhitourism.nic.in. The Delhi Walla website (www.thedelhiwalla.com) features masses of cultural insights, including many articles on Delhi's food, people and history, and also lists some of the city's best hang outs