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Houses I have Lived In Since My Birth: My First Home #1


Yesterday I noticed a post on soulsisters about no.of houses a person moves in their lifetime, with an average being 8-9 it said. That got me counting and counting and counting…I did till 14 but it wasn’t the end. Having lived in 4 countries across 2 continents, I thought I will document them in a blog instead of counting them… This post may interest whose paths may have crossed our, in our life’s journey while in any of these houses.

My First Home:

“Jain Sweets wala makaan”…this is how this first house of my life is referred to by our family. It was in F Block Model Town Stop 2 in Delhi. When Papa and Ammi got married on 5th Jan 1964, within a month, Papa moved, with his new bride, out of his ancestral home in 120 Bazar Matia Mahal, Jama Masjid, Delhi 110006, to rent this modest 2 room portion of a home on the 1st floor in F Block Model Town 2, Delhi.

The house was the first floor, front portion of the house located on the main road and had Jain Sweets and other shops on the ground floor. Jain Sweets remained was one of the most important landmarks in Model Town for decades. Across the central open space at the back lived a widower father Mohan sb. with his 3 children in their late teens and early 20s- Anita, Neeru and their little brother Nanna. Within weeks Ammi became friends with Anita and Neeru Didis, while Papa and Mohan sb who they all ended up calling Daddy till the end, became buddies, discussing politics, books and other intellectual stuff. Papa was called Bhai Sb and Ammi Bhabi ji by the 3 kids. They all became one family. Ammi taught the girls how to cook ‘meat’, in varieties like “qorma”, aloo salan”, ‘koftas’ etc.It is in this home that I and then my twin brothers were born. And we literally grew up as toddlers play all day in the Daddy’s quarters.

The house was owned by a couple I remember as Chacha ji and Chachi ji. Chacha ji in my vision( as we kept in touch for decades later ttoo) was a lean and thin, inconspicuous, unassuming, old man. Chachiji, I swear am not exaggerating was the size of Tuntun, and was the real landlord for the two tenant families. As Ammi says, “she would suddenly appear on the floor peeping into ‘our quarters’ and of Anita Neeru to check if the houses were well kept.”
She would be particularly impressed that a Muslim couple had kept a tasteful teak sofa and a decent bedroom. And the kitchen was clean too. She would tell Ammi, “Ap log parhe likhe ho naa.. “

As the word spread that a Muslim family is living in the neighborhood, a poor Muslim woman from Rajasthan and her 15 year old son Nizam came up to see my Mom. Ammi was excited that she too was from Rajasthan, as Ammi had recently arrived after marriage from Jaipur too.
They were traditional tie and dyers from Jodhpur. Papa suggested them to start a small dyeing business in the corner of the road. Within years they became a roaring success, bought 2 shops, a van and a house. And until I got married, in 1990, Nizam remained our dyer and never charged us a penny.

Papa’s phupi amma lived with them most of the time in this small house as she was the one who had raised Papa. She was the only person who influenced control over him. Not even his father did, as Papa and Dada Abba had fallen apart on many issues, he being a maulana snd Papa being a ardent Leftist who chose Political Science as his field of study instead of Islamiyaat, at that time. In fact the reason for Papa to move out of Jama Masjids ancestral home was that Dada Abba had demanded, “Dulhan ko parda karwaogey…” and instead of arguing or confronting his father, Papa decided to move out. The excuse he gave was that, “Model Town is closer to my University.”
So this Phupi Amma was the only one Papa would listen to.

Of course, in those days, especially in old conservative minds like Phupi Amma, privacy was not a thing, not even for a newly married couple. She would insist Ammi to sleep with her as she was afraid of the chupkalis (lizards) that navigated all night all across the walls of her room. According to Ammi, “Your Papa would be strolling in the open verandah, anxiously waiting when would Phupi Amma sleep and when I would slip out of her room.”
Once, just to pull her leg, I told Ammi, “Come on, Ammi. You had all your kids in that house. Don’t blame Phupi Amma for not letting you be with Papa.” She didn’t find it funny. 😀

It is in this house that my parents with me as a few month old baby, saw the 1965 Indo-Pak war. There used to be back outs in Delhi. Once Ammi said she got up to make a milk bottle for me at night and lighted a candle and there was a scream from someone in the neighbors, “Shut off the light. What are you trying to do?” Ammi said being a muslim, she was so scared if they would be misunderstood, as the Hindu-Muslim tensions always rose high in such times. Although in 1965, it was still much safer that what if the same scenario had to repeat in 2021.

I was told by Papa that even though his family had grown from 2 to 5, they felt living in that house with wonderful neighbors was a huge plus point so they never moved until the following happened:
I was 3 and my baby brother were still infants. So I was sent to a cutest Nursery school nearby called, Jack n Jill School. So I had gotten wiser and my imagination was growing wider. Papa used to ride a Vespa scooter then, and he would pick me up from school and drop himself. I would stand in the front as he rode the scooter, and we would ride back home chatting about what happened in the school. One day, I told him, “Papa hum gate wale ghar meyn kyun nahin rehtey?” (Why don’t we live in a gated house?). What i had meant was, “Why don’t we live in a bungalow?”
Papa was so moved by this innocent query that he decided to move out and rent a bungalow.
That house will be the next story in the next blog.

I wonder, is the famous Jain Sweets still there?
Is that house still there or demolished?
Is Nizam’s Dyers shop still there. He must be an old man in 70s now.
It merits a visit to this area on my next visit to Delhi.

Unfortunately, despite a lot of searches, i have not been able to find Anita or Neeru Didi on social media. They must be in their 70s now.
Nanne bhaiya, called Deepak Mohan had become a Sous Chef in Taj Intercontinental and was last I know posted in Hyderabad and living on Banjara Hills. He must have retired now.

Wonder if this post might reach them? Social media is powerful. YOU NEVER KNOW.

PS: Next houses in next blogposts.
Pic below was taken at Jain Sweets house rooftop by Papas photographer friend Nisar Bharti. Lost touch with Nisar uncle since Papa’s death in 1998.

Ammi’s Pandaan


I have many pleasant memories of this pandaan from my childhood.
Papa used to eat pan and this pandaan was a functional part of our house.
However it had a different look then. It had a silver qalai(coat) on all the pieces of this beauty, as it sat on the outermost edge of the kitchen slab. Fresh crispy pans that Ammi bought regularly from her trips to Jama Masjid area, wrapped in wet cloth were placed on the top tray. A sarauta (beetlenut cutter), missing here also shared the space on the tray along with pans.
The containers under the tray all had their specific contents:
The two mini handias with the flat spoons were for Choona (white) and katha (brown) pastes. The tiny spoons were applicators for their contents on the pan. I even remember how Ammi bought dry solid katha and then cooked it with water to melt it, which finally was transferred in the little handiya.
The two big canisters housed- chhaliya(betelnut)- one as full rounded nuts and the other cut into small pieces by the sarauta. The third canister contained saunf(anise). The thin canister in the middle contained tobacco leaves.
Each time papa wanted a pan, either ammi or sometimes Papa himself followed the process of ‘making a pan’ applying the contents in the following order- choona, katha, chaliya and tambaku- and finally the whole pan was folded into a conical form called gilori.
Interestingly the only person who ate pan was papa. Ammi made them several times in a day, but I never saw her eating herself. We kids also never seemed interested in trying one.
When I was in high school, papa decided to give up tobacco. He just left it cold turkey. Pandaan still remained functional. But some years down the road he realized pan was unhealthy and he must cut down if not stop it altogether. So the pandaan was wrapped up and he chose to get a single pan in a day from the panwala.
This pandaan from 1930s that came to our household in Ammi’s jahez(dowry) in 1964 was carefully packed in a plastic bag and kept on the topmost shelf in the kitchen.
With tarnished and dull look, the pandaan rested on the shelf for about 25 years. Out of sight is out of mind and we all forgot about its existence.
About 15 years, as my siblings renovated the kitchen, this pandaan again came down on the kitchen slab. I happened to visit them during that period, and the sight of an ugly big ‘thing’ brought back the memories of its heydays.
Seeing my interest in it, I was chosen to be the next owner of this treasure by my siblings and Ammi saying, “You treasure such things.”

I brought it with me and it became a part of our desi decor in Makkah. As we moved from there it was dumped in a carton for almost a decade. Periodically I looked around for a trusted person who would repair it, refurbish it and can bring out it’s original copper instead of the silver enamel.

Today, on the last day of 2019, the person who agreed to follow my instructions, and did this job chose to come himself with the finished form and proudly present it to us, tell us how precious this piece is, and most importantly to inform us how much personal efforts he has put in to bring this pandaan to a new life.
The sight of this sparkling gem not just made my day, but also made me feel accomplished in life. 😀
I hope the next decade also brings such wonderful outcomes and happiness for us and for you all.
Happy 2020 folks !

Old Fashioned Sweet and Sour Pickle


Eons ago as a teenager I had a delicious pickle at an aunts place.
For almost 4 decades I hunted for it in the aisles for pickles in desi grocery stores, searched for it on family or friends tables. I even asked if anyone knew or made it.
Some friends knew about the pickle but I never had the luck to find it ready anywhere.

So one day I hunted for its recipe on the net. And there it was,  at several places.

To my utter surprise the method of preparation was very simple. So there was no excuse left to not make it myself.  So here it is:

Sweet and Sour Pickle of Carrots, Turnips and Cauliflower with Jaggery.

Ingredients:
Carrots: half pound
Turnip: half pound
Cauliflower: 1 pound
Anise seeds(saunf): 1tsp
Black seed(Kalonji): 1tsp
Fenugreek seeds(methi): 1tsp
Mustard seeds(Rye ): 1tsp
Jaggery (Gurr): 1 pound
Mustard Oil: 2 tbsp
Salt, chillipowder, garam masala powder:  to taste

Cooking method is described with the pictures:

Step 1: Chop washed carrots, turnips into medium thickness sticks and break cauliflower into medium sized florets.pic1

Step 2: Mix half a cup of apple cider vinegar and half pound of jaggery in a pan and leave on slow flame till all the jaggery melts.
pic2

Step 3: Boil water in a large deep pan till it bubbles. Once boiling, add the chopped vegetables and cook for 5-7 minutes until vegetables are blanched. Drain off water and spread the vegetables on a kitchen towel till dry. (I did for about an hour).
pic3

 

Step 4: Heat 2 tbsp mustard oil in a wok. Add mustard seeds, anise, fenugreek and black seeds and let them splatter for half a minute. Then add salt, ground garam masala and red chilli powder. Finally added the vegetables. Stir fry them.
pic4

Step 5: Stir fry the vegetables with seeds and spices.

Step 6: Add vegetables mixed with spices  & seeds into vinegar and melted jaggery mixture. Cook till most liquid evaporates.
pic5

Step 7: Once cooked and cooled, store it in a sterilized air tight cannister and leave in the sun for 2 days to pickle well. 

Step 8: Once ready(in my case in 2 days) enjoy it with parathas and hot steaming chai. 🙂
pic6

This pickle is a delicacy prepared in winter in Northern India specially because that is the time carrots are available.

Its easy and very delicious. I wonder why did I just keep looking for it everywhere and did  not try it myself all these years? Do try it out in a smaller amount as a trial. You will not regret it.

Happy Pickling !

Of Faith, Culture and the Personal Touch


Down the Memory Lane

Once upon a time, when we lived in Srinagar, Kashmir, no sooner than I turned five, a formal Bismillah was held. I remember clearly Ammi stitched an orange satin Sharara from scratch and embellished it with gota for me.
An elaborate yet home based dawat(dinner), was held in which a few family friends were invited.
From the next day I was taken every day by Papa to a family friend, Hashmi Uncle’s house with a beginners Qaeda and the dupatta (from the sharara set) folded in a bag together. Hashmi Uncle’s aunt who was called Phuphijan gave sabaq(lessons) to me and Rana.

Rana was from the same household as Phupijan. The idea of going to their house to read Qaeda was more fun than learning. I distinctly remember Phupijan never beat us or shout at us, though she was strict at times. She did not let us girls giggle while reading our lessons.
In about an year, or so I finished the Qaeda, and there was a celebration(graduation) for it. Phupijan invited my parents to their home, prepared some dessert, and presented us girls with batwas (pouches) filled with candied saunf, nuts and misri (sugar crystals). The batwa was stitched by Phupijan herself during the months we were reading Qaeda with her. Incidentally I also remember thinking that she gave the more decorated batwa to me than to Rana. I have yet to see a more intricately stitched batwa which had strings and even a partition within the space.
I graduated to the 30th Sipara as the stepping stone for Quran.
In a few months Hashmi Family left Srinagar. So I was passed on to Mubarak Auntie. After a while they left the place too and we also came to Delhi.

In Delhi too, Ammi arranged an Ustani Saheba who taught Quran to girls in different homes as a means of livelihood. Ammi asked her permission if she would teach my 10 year old twin brothers too. She kindly obliged. In some years, we completed the 30 Siparas.
Again an elaborate Ameen was held at home. Close family and friends were called. Ustani Saheba was also invited and she was given a special jora(dress) and cash.
She brought for me a book of prayers as a present and instructed, “Keep practicing your fluency (qirat).”
Ammi kept in touch with Ustani Saheba as she visited us a few times after that.

A decade later Ustani Sahiba was invited in my wedding too. She came with a Quran contained in a decorated Juzdaan (special bag) which she had hand-stitched and decorated with gotta. She said she began working on it as soon as she heard I was getting married. Again the instructions from the gentle lady were, “Keep reading this to maintain your fluency.”

(I had almost forgotten the whole experience until a day ago it was reminded by a discussion on Qaris teaching Quran these days. Although there is much stress about religious preaching these days, but the personal & cultural touch to it has gone missing).
P.S. Below are the examples of Batwa and Juzdan quite close to that I was given.

Batwa: a pouch to keep candy, nuts etc.Batwa2

Juzdan: A decorated cloth case for keeping QuranJuzdan

 

When hatred reigns.


It was with helplessness that I read an article in one of the newspapers about how school kids in certain areas of Karachi were not able to attend their school safely because of prevailing tensions between two ethnic groups- both Pakistanis, both Muslims of the same sect. A kid claimed he was friends with his schoolmates from the other ethnic community and they even played together after school, but now the same friends say they could not play with him anymore.

Another article read of how Hindus in Baluchistan who have been living there for centuries were fearful of sending their kids to schools due to escalated kidnappings for ransom and killings of the community. Although they have no animosity with the Muslims in neighborhood,  they all scared to mingle.

In brief, the hatred of a handful prevailed over the helplessness of the lot.

Before I could finish, the news broke of Karachi blast in the DHA where along with others, an innocent passerby mom and her 5 year old son got killed.
What prevailed here too was nothing but hatred.

I know first hand, exactly how it feels to be helpless in the face of hatred.

I was a first year medical student in  Lady Hardinge Medical College, situated in the heart of New Delhi, when Indira Gandhi was assassinated on 31 October 1984. The mayhem spread as faster than the spread of the news. As if a riot button was switched on. Delhi’s panorama was puking smoke of hatred from every direction.

Parents were coming to pick up their daughters, from the college hostel, and narrating the harrowing tales of watching limbs and other body parts splattered across the killing fileds that Delhi roads had turned into. I remember how a Sikh girl from my class sat cautiously frozen in the crowd of girls in the hostel’s TV room.  She broke down when she learnt that her brother had left home an hour ago to pick her up. No one reassured her not to cry or to worry for her brothers safety.  Not a single parent even offered to drop her home. Why would I blame others, when I felt the same helplessness, and feared what will happen when my parents come, will they be reluctant to take her too.

Ultimately, along with her and a few other girls, I ended up staying back to spend the terrible night in the hostel. The city had turned into an open house of looting and rampage. Next day on my way back home,  all I saw was roads stained with fresh blood, a charred and empty shop after every few well preserved shops and selectively  burn’t buildings along the way to home. Though I did not have the courage to give a second look, but I did see a glimpse of most likely a charred body lying inside a burnt shop.

At home everyone shared their eye witness accounts. Our house boy Jung Bahadur described how the shacks(jhuggis) in the slums of Mangolpuri and Sultanpuri were stocked with stacks of VCRs, TVs and other electronics. He even shared how some dead bodies were piled together, doused with kerosene and burnt to ashes. Papa had witnessed a headless body being carried in an autorickshaw.

I do not remember how and when did the Sikh girl go home, but we learnt days later that her brother could neither arrive at the college, nor ever return back home. His body was  identified some days later in the morgue.

Again, amidst the helplessness of us all, hatred prevailed like a king.

The same story was repeated with my parents, as they were left in the cold, during the riots in December 1992, that followed Babri Masjid demolition. Many Muslim houses were chalked in Delhi, including those of IAS officers, doctors, cricketers, poets etc.

In fact some like Bashir Badr’s house in Meerut was actually attacked. It was after this incident that Bashir Badr wrote this shair:
Log toot jaatey hain, ek ghar banane mein
Tum taras nahin khaatey bastiyaan jalane mein.

Being  staunch beleivers of Indian secularism, my parents had proudly built a house in 1977 in a University housing cooperative compound where his colleagues and other University professors resided. We were only 2 Muslim houses in a colony of 238 lots, but that was besides the point. However, that cold and lonely December night none of our neighbors, his University colleagues or friends came forward to even reassure them of support in case of any danger. There was a criminal silence from friends and neighbors.

As my mother narrated later, that was the first time she saw my father cry with tears, not for his life, but at the ‘sudden’ transformation in hearts of trusted and indeological friends for several decades. My parents had packed their car with valuables, in case they had to leave. Once the crisis was over, a few friends did come up, begging their helplessness.

Once again, amidst the intelligentsia of the society, hatred took an upper hand .

My grandfather often narrated of an incident when during the 1947 riots a Sikh boy had come to drop a pregnant Muslim woman to Matia Mahal,  Jama Masjid area, but was not let to go back alive, despite the helpless cries from the woman’s family to spare her saviour.

The helpless family members could do nothing as the hatred reigned.

I know I can never be able to guess from where this business of hatred all began, but can we really dare dream a day when the hatred propagated by a handful of vested interests will not prevail over the helpless masses ?

This reminded me of a discourse I had read about the controversy between Tagore and Gandhi during the non-cooperation movement against the British in 1930s.

Tagore had warned Gandhi by saying: “….besides, hatred of the foreigner could later turn into a hatred of Indians different from oneself.”

Gandhi on the other hand believed that this non-cooperation would dissolve  Hindu-Muslims differences.

Ultimately Tagore was proved right, and Gandhi had to shift his  non cooperation  against the British into a non violent movement.

The same corollary of Tagore’s could easily be applied to the situation in Pakistan, too.

What began as a hatred for the foreign faiths has turned into hatred among Pakistanis different from each other.

And ironically a handful of vested interest first made the helpless common Pakistanis hate the foreign faiths and now have turned the Pakistanis of different sects and ethnicities hate each other.

This business of hate has to stop somewhere. Whether it is for a fellow Indian/ Pakistani of different ethnicity, of a different faith or of a foreigner of different color, we have to shout in the face of hatred: “Enough is enough”.

Or else, as poet E E Cummings lamented: Hatred bounces.

Nihari, here and there


The story goes back to two decades ago, when as newlywed and I had just arrived in Karachi.
An aunt ( Phuphi) of my husband invited us for a dinner on some ‘special’ delicacy (in her own words). There were a few other dishes, but all the focus was on the ‘special’ dish.

In the first glance, it looked like a thick curry with some extra large pieces of boneless meatloaves lying in it. Garnished with greens and some baghar, the aroma was appetising, I must admit.

While eating my Phuphi-in-law asked; “Do you know what this is?”
I said, “Some salan (curry) I guess.”

That must have really hurt her. She twisted her mouth with a wicked smile. My husband, too, looked wide eyed at me. So did everyone else present there. They all had that ‘poor her’ expression on their face, which generally Pakistanis had in 1970s, when their austere Indian cousins visited them.

“You don’t know this?” someone asked.
I was regretting to have guessed. It wasn’t the regret of having annoyed the aunt, but of those piercing eyes that were focussed on my ignorance of the dish.

My husband came to my rescue, “Phupho Amma, she isn’t very fond of non vegetarian food. So perhaps she doesn’t have any idea.”

My younger brother in law and a friend teased: “Yeah, bechare Indians don’t get to eat gosht so often, and beef is absolutely a taboo for them. ”

PhuphoAmma charged on me in a mother-in-law tone, “Tum kaisi Dilliwali ho, tum Nihari nahin janteen” (What sort of Delhiite are you, you are not aware of Nihari?)

I screamed before I could check my volume, “Nihari? This is not Nihari.”

Before I could blurt something else, I saw my husband giving me a look to shut up. And like an obedient new wife, I did, but with a huge turmoil within.

Back to our room, my husband assured me that perhaps this was homemade and hence not as delicious as the Khan ki Nihari famous in Karachi. Over a period of few months, we tried Niharis at several places, but I could not find what we in Delhi called  Nihari.

I admit I wasn’t very fond of Nihari till then, nor was I really conscious of Nihari being associated with Delhi. In Delhi, I had heard from my father that Nihari is a Avadhi delicacy, from Lucknow.

Anyways I wasn’t a foodie especially for non vegetarian delicacies, nor a culinary expert, nor did I have any ambitions to be one. It was an open secret at home that I had chosen to be a medical professional, so that it would save me from domestic responsibilities, especially cooking. (It turned out to be an illusion, though. But, that’s another story to tell, anyways)

Knowing very well that I was marrying a goshtkhor( meat-eater) Pakistani who was fond of good food, and who’s mother was a culinary expert, I had made it pretty clear to him that I don’t like to cook.
He had in all sincerity reassured, Anda to fry karna ata hai na? Kaafi hai.”

But as we hunted for the real Nihari, my craving for Dilli ki Nihari became stronger.

After an year and a half when I first visited my parents in Delhi, apart from the million other things on list, one on the top was to go to Jama Masjid and relish ‘the’ Nihari, which is sold right at the corner of Matia Mahal, just a furlong from Dadi Amma’s house.

As the tradition goes, Nihari is cooked  from the special shank meat of the beef, with trots in over two dozen spices, the most dominant being the saunf (anise seeds) which gives it the aroma. on slow heat and takes  several hours to get tender.  Hence usually over night as shab degh. The degh( a giant round bottomed pot)  is opened at certain times only –mostly at dawn around 7am or now, even at dusk (at Maghrib). And one has to be there at the right period of time to be able to grab it, otherwise degh lut chuki hoti hai.(It gets sold out fast).

 True to its name ‘nihari’ means pertaining to daytime, it is usually eaten at breakfast, at dawn.
Many a times I had seen Dadi Amma or any of the phuphis in the household send one of the shagirds ( disciples who come to her for learning Quran), a night earlier, to keep the pan with the shopkeeper. And as the cook would  the degh early next morning, the he would kept aside some in  her reserved pot.

The mere mention on phone of my desire to eat Nihari was enough, Dadi Amma promised to keep it reserved for me. I remember her doing the same for us with Shaadi ka Qorma and sheermal whenever any left overs arrived from a kin’s wedding, knowing that we craved for it. (Aah Dilli ka Qorma is another delicacy, not seen anywhere, which deserves another blog).

At first opportunity, we went to see Dadi Amma and others at our ancestral home in Purani Dilli.

Dadi Amma’s place, is a  house, typical  in the walled city. There is a sehan ( courtyard) at the entrance which leads to a room inside another , both of which used to have spic white chandnis spread wall to wall, and no sign of any furniture.

In addition to sleeping over, eating at Dadi Amma’s place had always been a fascinating experience. With a dastarkhwan( sheet to lay the food)  laid on chandni( the spotless white spread on the floor to sit) covered floor across the length of the room. I wonder why, but as kid, I remember vying for a place at the corner of the spread. Some of the senior family members, referred to the plates, in salees-shusta Urdu, as rakabis. And although it had since long become a routine to use glasses for water, there would always be a couple of silver plated copper katoras sitting on dastarkhwan. (Drinking water in katoras (wide bowl) was an old tradition of purani dilli).

That day too, we sat at the dastarkhwan all set to enjoy Nihari. My agenda was personal, while others were eager to see my husband’s response to Nihari. (Thanks to my negative publicity of Karachi Nihari)

With red glazing, aromatic nihari in sight, we waited till the boy brought in hot crispy nans wrapped in newspaper straight from the tan door in the gali, just a few steps away.

The first bite was like a dream come true to the nerve endings of my olfactory and taste buds. But in just a couple of seconds to my tongue, it was a reign of terror unleashed. The poor tastebuds caught fire and laid their arms in the next few bites. As if in a bid to dampen the fire, the eyes started to pour water. But I had to put a brave front, and no matter how hot the tongue burned, the ego stood firm to confirm, this is the  true “Nihari”.

All ears, including my red hot ones, were dying to hear my ‘Pakistani’ husband’s reaction on the ‘Indian’ dish. Being courteous, he remarked, It is delicious, but a bit hot for my liking.”

However, later when we went home, he revealed lightly, that he still preferred his Karachi ki maghaz Nihari. I was devastated, absolutely.  But soon rationalised that, perhaps his tastebuds, and his brain cells were conditioned to call that thick curry as Nihari. His loss not mine, I consoled myself.

My ego wanted to have this Nihari more often, though a bit less spicy, so I got keen to get its exact recipe. My mother could not believe her ears that a cooking rebel like me was asking for a recipe. She and a phuphi had their recipes to offer, but they all admitted not being experts in the dish.

It is generally a tradition in purani Dilli that women do not cook Nihari at home and when needed, they just get it ready made from outside. Probably apart from convenience, it is because of the non availability of beef and also that it needs to be cooked overnight. In Delhi we have gas cylinders, not gas through a pipeline like in Pakistan. (In the days I lived there, cylinders too were rationed).

My Dadi Amma’s wisdom guided me to go to Rehmatullah (the cook and owner of the restaurant) and get the recipe from him.

Being in a flourishing business, Rehmatullah, was unwilling to part with his secret recipe. However, knowing that I wasn’t living there, he was kind enough to offer some from the readymade mixture of spice powder, that he prepared for his recipe. He was generous, and his masala lasted almost an year, till my mom found a place which sold indigenous masala.

Repeated cooking over the years for friends and family has given enough expertise and repute of being able to cook what most taste buds recognise as good Nihari.

Now I can claim to have mastered the details of the difference between the maghaz nihari they make in Karachi and the nalli nihari that we Dilliwalas have in Delhi. (However, I wonder, if there was any difference in them, earlier).

And now that the froth of my ego has flattened quite a bit, I am able to accept the Karachi one as a different version of Nihari, which acquired its own distinct character after crossing the border.

Unfortunately, now in Delhi, even the Muslims residing outside purani Dilli do not seem to yearn for Nihari during the breakfast, while in Karachi, Nihari seems to have taken the place of a national dish which is available at any hour of the day and at every corner of the city. But it still manages to retain the tag of being a Delhi dish.

Interestingly, instead of suspecting some secret readymade masala, most of my kin and friends from Pakistan attribute ‘my’ Nihari flavour to my Dilliwala origins.

Even more interesting is the secret, that it was in Pakistan that I was made to realise for the first time that I was a Dilliwali. And thanks to the Dilliwala tag that was thrust upon me , I now love it and quite often brag about it.

PuraniDilli- sketch by Shilpa Wadhwa

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