DELHI BY HEART

by Raza Rumi

  However, the Tomar Rajputs, valiant warriors, ate meat at Lalkot, the area which now is broadly known as Mehrauli and constitutes pre-Muslim Delhi.

  Prior to the eighth century, there is no surviving written or oral account of a place called ‘Delhi’. Folklore and legends suggest that one Raja Dhilu was the maker of ancient Delhi in 800 BCE. It was the name of the first medieval township of Delhi, located on the south-western border of the present Delhi, in Mehrauli. The Persian traveller, Firishta, recorded that Delhi existed prior to Alexander the Great’s invasion of India. However, all these theories are perhaps oral histories; endearing yet unverifiable. It is now recorded by historians that Central Asian conquerors created the urban centre that we now know as Delhi. The Turks fashioned Delhi into a Muslim city during the thirteenth century. Essentially nomadic, the Turks were pretty basic like their supposed ‘grand ancestors’, the Aryans, about their dietary habits. Roasted sheep and milk were the main ingredients of their cuisine. Over time, medieval Persia became the inspiration for the Delhi-centred empire. In Persia, food was discussed in poetry and became a vital element of culture. Nuts were used to thicken and enrich sauces; the aroma of rose petals and orange blossoms graced the food cooked in the kitchens of the Persian nobility.

  Persian cooks were invited to Delhi. They were surprised to find that the commonly loved spices, supplied by Arab traders to Persia, were present in abundance here. Around Delhi, the fields were green and fertile unlike the rugged landscapes of Central Asia and Persia. A variety of spices and vegetables grew here and there was ample scope for introducing new ones.

  A little discovery that I made also subverts the standard associations concerning paneer or cottage cheese, namely, that it was the Turks and Persians who introduced it to the Indian platter. The term ‘paneer’ is derived from the Persian word ‘peynir’ and Muslims in northern India used it liberally. Over time, it was also adopted by the Hindus and soon became an integral item and accepted as part of a pure vegetarian diet.

  During the Sultanate of Delhi (eleventh to early sixteenth century), there was a rudimentary version of the biryani. It evolved during the Mughal era (sixteenth century onwards) and ever since, became a centrepiece of the Indian world of flavours cooked in numerous styles now. The early biryani had cashew nuts and raisins, making it the precursor of what we now know by the name of Kabuli Pulau which is a sensation across the world. Ibn Batuta chronicled the minutiae of Delhi life including its cuisine. He records how each meal of the sultans began with rosewater sherbet followed by roast meat, chapattis soaked in ghee, chicken and rice. A medieval version of the samosa was on the menu as well. Fuqqa, a mild alcoholic brew, was also served—so much for the puritanism of the mullah!

  As I stood among the ruins of the ASI park, Mehrauli, my wily imagination smelt the rose-tinted sherbet.

  Dishes such as halwa and shahi tukda became popular in the Sultanate period as did the jalebi. Each time I visited Hazrat Nizamuddin, I could not help but think how the Delhi-ites of yore would buy what the cluster of shops now sells—naan, kulcha, biryani, pulau, firni and kheer. The same shops are now considered to be in a Muslim ghetto, but are popular among Hindus too. Influential nobles of the Sultanate era relished Hindu vegetarian dishes such as saag that is now a permanent feature of Pakistani and Indian cuisine.

  Today’s ‘tandoori’ cuisine was perhaps a later development and did not exist in the Sultanate era. The Sultans were loyal to Delhi unlike the temperamental Mughals who would move between Delhi and Agra, often including Lahore in their capital-hopping sprees. But the Delhi Sultans, except Mohammad Bin Tughlaq who created Daulatabad, never left Delhi. It was their favourite grand capital and they kept on adding new sub-cities, courts and, of course, cooks. What was initiated by the Sultans was later polished by the Mughals. The splendour of the Delhi Sultanate and its court tales caused much envy to outsiders, especially the Mongols. Tragically, internal instability led to the demise of the Sultanate, enabling the ambitious and capricious Babur to capture Delhi and add further pages to Delhi’s annals of cookery.

  In Delhi, the chaat that I loved was made with a combination of fruits and masalas served in a dona, a little round dipped plate made from the dried leaves of the dhak tree. Authentic Dilli ki chaat was reputedly available in the narrow and filthy lanes of Old Delhi or Shahjahanabad. Often, afraid of the lack of public hygiene and the open sewers, I would resist the temptation and then give in, encouraged by the wisdom that sometimes one ought to be unsafe and unpredictable. The chaat-wala’s classic touch lies in the sonth, the sweet tamarind chutney, the recipe of which is, more often than not, a family secret and an inter-generational treasure. I wonder what masala is used. The chaat-walas give me vague answers. The spice mixtures taste as if all the world’s spices have culminated in the amalgamate—plain to rock salt, roasted cumin and pomegranate seeds buried under aam-choor. How can commercial chaat masala packets replace this magic mixing and taste intensity found on the streets of Shahjahanabad that may have lost its name but not the flavour?

  Funnily, there is even a Chinese version of chaat available in New Delhi’s Lajpat Nagar market. This peculiar ‘Chinese chaat’ at Manik’s, a small kiosk, serves chilli chicken on noodles. The Tibetans living in Delhi, on their part, would intrigue even the most qualified anthropologists.

  Today, across India and Pakistan, neon-lit fast-food joints serve chaat. Plastic and steel shops serve unreal chaat by shop assistants who use polythene gloves for increased hygiene. The spicy-soury, green-coloured tamarind water, used in pani puris, is now prepared with mineral water even in some of Delhi’s oldest chaat shops. While pani puri often gives the danger signal, ‘stay away’ (because it is chronically unhygienic), the Delhi version is simply irresistible. We call them gol gappas in dear homeland Pakistan and the tamarind water there is a bit more pungent.

  One afternoon under a blazing June sun, Sadia, her cousin and I, devotees of old-style chaat, gather in front of the legendary Prabhu Chaat Bhandar and await its magic in a suffocating alley dogged by the cars and filth of Old Delhi’s narrow gulleys. As in Pakistan, one has to sacrifice hygiene at the altar of taste, flies being a mandatory requirement. Prabhu’s pani puris, as it turned out, were authentic, refreshing and crisp, making them the best I have had so far.

  We ate and ate many portions of chaat. I remembered the evening when, after listening to Ghalib’s exalted poetry with writers, poets and Urdu scholars of Delhi, we stopped near the old State Bank building at Chandni Chowk and gorged on countless dahi vadas. Sadia remains unimpressed with the upmarket chaat joints found in the malls, saying, ‘If you want street food you go to the street.’

  Haldiram, a new commercial giant that packages traditional snacks for a contemporary clientele, has raj kachori and the Bengali Market has pani puri that begs to be as hard-hitting as the ones I am used to in Lahore. Pani puri, as packaged by Haldiram, is sold in sealed plastic bags, which need to be punctured and dipped in the water by the consumer. I see many a yuppie struggling with these packets in starched shirts and sleeveless blouses.

  A trendy restaurant called Punjabi by Nature offers an inventive cocktail built around the pani puri—two potato-filled shells are served with a shot of vodka infused with green chilli and lime and The Flame, another eatery, sells chaat with a glass of champagne.

  In her memoirs, Babur’s daughter remembers that her arrival in Delhi was celebrated with a welcome feast of roasted sheep, bread and fruit. By Akbar’s time, the Mughals were well integrated with the local environs and were set to firmly root their destiny within the complex world of India for the next three centuries. Hindustan had become home.

  Mughal cuisine developed partly in Agra and Lahore but Delhi created the menu as well as the cooks who shaped its elite sensibilities. The Taj is not the only example of Mughal extravagance; the thin silver and gold sheets that garnished their cuisine also reflect their grandeur. European visitors mention over fifty dishes at a single meal. Akbar took this fig
ure to 500. The Mughals were fond of wild game such as ducks and fowls and added these dishes to the cuisine by the time the court moved to Delhi. Fruits and nuts were essential ingredients in Mughal food, which has now been crudely termed ‘Mughlai’ cuisine, stuffing an otherwise delicate cuisine with cream and nuts, and sold across the globe as an exotic food experience.

  Under the Mughals, the biryani grew to great heights. A multi-staged cooking process heightened the flavours of each spice as it permeated through cooked rice, nuts, meats, curry and saffron. Haleem (comprising pulses, meat and spices) is another popular dish that still survives. It is a Delhi-Mughal invention, cooked for hours with minute attention to texture, flavours and aroma. They invented combinations of spice use. Chillies complemented indigenous black pepper, and cardamoms, opening up their buds in broths with Persian saffron, unleashed subtle colours and tastes in the same cauldron. With each creative stroke, Delhi found new flavours. Paan was served after meals while imported tea from China was served in cups (a precursor to modernity and an ominous indication of the South Asian tea addiction that was to grow under the Raj).

  Restaurants were not common in Mughal Delhi. However, things changed with the decline of the Mughal Empire. The royal cooks, often in organized family units, started popularizing court cuisine within the public domain. This democratization of royal cuisine took place in the same manner as it did in the Nizamuddin Basti and Mehrauli where the cooks introduced Sultanate flavours to ordinary people during the twilight of the regime. Sad circumstances can sometimes have meaningful results, since this Delhi cuisine now captures world palates.

  Not long after this migration of Delhi cuisine, the world started to (perhaps wrongly) recognize Mughal-Delhi cuisine as ‘Indian’ food. The skewered meats, naan, biryani, meat and vegetable curries in textured and spiced sauces, and a wide array of sweets became the hallmark of Indian food.

  My first experience of Karim’s was in the late hours of the evening. Karim’s is known for its kababs, naans and various types of rotis, roomali5 being my favourite, as also the brilliant nihari, very much of the Muslim Sultan-Mughal era. Nihari is a healthy, comprehensive meal which was invented for the Mughal army’s nutritional needs and often cooked with trotters or mutton. It has now become synonymous with Delhi. There is a branch of Karim’s in Nizamuddin as well, but for the original experience one has to go to Old Delhi.

  The items on the menu sound exotic—Shah Jahan Kabab, Akbari Murgh Masala, Badshahi Badaam Pasanda (a lean and tender cut) and Nayab Maghaz Masala. It is such an exciting list that I ask for a photocopy to show it to my family back home.

  Karim’s has a pedigree to boast of. Its present life, technically, began in 1913 but its origins are traced to Emperor Babur. The forefather of the Karim family came to India in the early sixteenth century and became a soldier in Babur’s army. But his talent for cooking surpassed his martial prowess and he ended up as Babur’s personal cook. And thus, a dynasty of imperial cooks was born. After the Mutiny of 1857, the royal chefs left their jobs to save their lives only to reappear in 1911. During this time many cooks remained in hiding or moved to regional kingdoms in search of employment.

  Then came the occasion known as the Delhi Durbar (literally the Court of Delhi), to mark the coronation of the King George V. Haji Karim set up a small street stall to serve the crowds gathered for the celebration. He served royal food to the public, aloo gosht being the main dish. Karim’s continues to uphold its traditions and even goes to the extent of manually grinding its masalas which are a family secret and mostly done in the dark inner chambers of the establishment.

  Later I was to discover the parathe-wali gali, literally, the alley selling parathas prepared with several types of fillings. I ate amazing jalebis—round, juicy and dripping with syrup, nothing like what I have had before.

  Whenever I’m in Delhi, I make sure to eat the widely popular dal makhani and countless vegetarian dishes. What I always love to try is bedmi puri and aloo found at several places including Nathu’s sweet shops. And the delicious, aromatic chana-bhaturas are ideal for those long Sunday breakfasts. I have also attempted to try the wide variety of cuisines from several parts of India. At Dilli Haat, I tried momos (stuffed steamed dumplings) from Arunachal Pradesh in the northeast of India. In fact, I saw momos everywhere sold by street vendors who looked more oriental than the regular ‘Delhi-Punjabi’.

  Posh restaurants such as the Bukhara at the ITC Maurya Sheraton, serve richly marinated and refined cuisine with authentic Mughal flavours. The Clintons ate here and a Clinton Platter is now an item on the menu. The silky reshmi kababs remain the best I have tasted so far.

  Shajahanabad’s Chandni Chowk is the hub for sweet sellers. Mughal Delhi perhaps initiated the current ritual of exchanging sweets as a means of social networking and bonding. The royals would frequent Chandni Chowk to eat sweets. Ghante Wallah has been selling sweets since the 1790s, catering, among others, to the later Mughal emperors. I found the famous sweets of Delhi—piste ki lauz, badam ki lauz and sohan halwa, which are quintessentially Mughal. Sohan halwa has travelled far. Multan and Karachi are the sohan halwa centres of Pakistan. I wonder if they know the Chandni Chowk connection.

  Centuries before ice cream, Akbar’s chroniclers were writing about kulfi and the fairly advanced technology that was used to make it. It is believed that relays of horsemen were used to transport ice from the Hindu Kush mountain range to the imperial capital Delhi. Preparation of fruit sorbets in Persian style was common in royal kitchens. Creamy, fragrant and melting, the kulfi is a fine example of Delhi’s fine Mughal cooking. Another Pakistani favourite, faluda, also invented for the courts, later reached the streets, many say, leaked by a class of cooks desperate to survive after royal employment was no longer available.

  The wide variety of fruits in Shahjahanabad was noted by Bernier during his travels. A passion for fruits gained currency during the latter part of the seventeenth century. Mangoes, mulberries and pomegranates were some of the exotic fruits. Anaar shorba, a soup made with pomegranate juice and spices bearing an intense aroma of the fruit was considered a delicacy. Today, pomegranate juice with a sprinkling of black salt is hugely popular across India and Pakistan. Chai khanas (coffee houses) of Chandni Chowk were the popular forerunners of Khan Market’s cafes where the literati and cultured epicurians of Delhi love to flock. Bernier also noted that the non-availability of alcohol was another reason for the popularity of coffee houses.

  The (Hindu) Kayasths of Shahjahanabad adopted Mughal tastes and improvised on their meat dishes. However, the mercantile class or the baniyas who ran huge business networks in Shahjahanabad never imbibed Muslim culinary influences. Baniya kitchens were and still remain purely vegetarian, even avoiding china plates as they may contain traces of animal bones. Kadhi, an ancient Indian favourite, is a classic ‘moneylender’ dish popular across North India and Pakistan.

  I was intrigued to discover that the water of the holy Ganga was used to make food in Mughal kitchens and mixed with normal drinking water. Water from the river was constantly replenished by those travelling on royal tours or conquests. Sanctity mixed well with extravagance! We know that Babur gave up onions and garlic while Akbar started his meals with rice and yogurt following Hindu practices. The introduction of vegetarian days at the Mughal Court under Akbar indicated the fusion of traditions and perhaps comes close to the reality of India today—sometimes vegetarian and many a time non-vegetarian, myths notwithstanding.

  The British first came to India attracted by its spices in the early seventeenth century. Within a century and a half, British residents of Delhi had integrated themselves within the subtleties of the city’s culture. Old Delhi-walas tell us how some British sahibs chewed paan in the evenings, smoked hookahs and ate Indian food.

  The Raj had its own cuisine, melded from within the well established and classical Delhi food. ‘Kedgeree’ is an anglicized version of the Harappan khichdi. Chota hazree, lunches and dinners were elaborate. The
mulligatawny soup is still a splendid Raj relic and served in many of India’s restaurants. Pakistan’s elite clubs, the last vestiges of the Raj, also serve mulligatawny soup and roast chicken made in the same style invented by British memsahibs. Jalfrezi is another British-Indian dish that is still served in clubs, restaurants and home parties.

  In today’s Delhi, the Maidens Hotel stands frozen in time. This was also a favourite haunt for Quaid-e-Azam Mohammad Ali Jinnah, who spent many days and nights here. After his marriage to Ruttie, the couple stayed here during their honeymoon. The Curzon Room still wafts the aromas of British India—mulligatawny soup, dak bungalow chicken, gin and lime, and English-style tea with biscuits. After all these years of freedom from Britain, one still finds a popular biscuit brand in India—Britannia.

  Events of 1857 broke down the walls to let in an inflow of outsiders into the city. Prior to the Partition, this was a key moment in Delhi’s opening up.

  My friends, Naina (a college mate at the LSE) and her Punjabi husband Vivek, show me the Not Just Paranthas restaurant that serves over hundred traditional contemporary versions of new-age parathas. The papad parathas, where lentil wafers make the stuffing, were a great innovation to the traditional chaat that we ate at Chandni Chowk.

  Naina and Vivek took me to Defence Colony market for a south Indian meal. Compared to our Defence Enclaves in Lahore and Karachi, this market appeared rather unkempt. The place, called Swagath, was an out-of-this-world experience with the north and the south of India jumbled up with global cuisine. Delectable thalis filled with sea food and prawns and curious sauces from the West can sometimes make meals quite unpredictable.