The gullies of Chandni Chowk

Sir Maurice Gwyer, the legendary VC of Delhi University, had a vague idea that Chandni Chowk was the source of all things evil from petty thievery to nautch girls to crime and murder. When the loveliest members of D University Drama club, the Kaul sisters were introduced to Sir Maurice as residents of Chandni Chowk he very nearly had an apoplectic fit. “You don’t say so, you don’t say so”, he spluttered staring at Miss Mistry in utter dismay. “Indeed I do say so, Sir Maurice, I do say so,” giggled Miss Mistry.

“You know Pandit Nehru’s wife Kamala Devi hails from the famed Sitaram Bazaar in Chandni Chowk. Chandni Chowk, Sir, is a world in itself, big business houses standing cheek by jowl with small traders, temples and havelis and mosques all choc a block with eateries, not to forget Ghalib’s dilapidated house with the blue walls. A never-ending cacophony resounds in the air throughout the day and part of the night too. A centuries old cornucopia of cultures is alive and kicking here, Sir.”

Sir Maurice was not amused.

My own introduction to Chandni Chowk was much after Sir Maurice Gwyer’s era but I daresay not much had changed from the fabulous pile of legends it was once. I do recollect my first visit to the famous paratha gully, the main attraction in this mohalla of gullies. We were on a sightseeing tour which included the Jama Masjid and the adjoining Jain Temple. From tinkers to tailors, a distracting universe of centuries old human activity unfolded before our eyes. One had no time to stand and stare; we had to hurry for our lunch date.

The whole experience was an adventure to me, fresh from the sober south. Sitting at a rough bench, I faced the narrow street which overflowed with a constant stream of people, from Jain acolytes to women in colourful veils perched in rolling cycle rickshaws.

The parathas came sizzling hot with a slew of chutneys and sauces. Need I say that the ambience of the place had me hooked and the following week I visited Chandni Chowk with a friend. Of course, she complained of the dirt and the noise, warning me never to come to the place again for one could never say what might happen in the crowded streets. She shuddered at the streaks of paan juice on the walls.

As for me the romance of the place only blossomed over the years I was in Delhi. I discovered newer and newer attractions every time I went there. One afternoon, I went to get my bead necklace strung. I learnt the life story of the youth who took joy in sitting by the roadside stringing coloured beads every day of his life. “This is lapis,” he said, showing me some blue beads. “Ha, this is just cut glass, no lapis,” I retorted. “Madam,” he swore, “you can cut my throat, if it is cut glass. This is genuine lapis, from Persia.” Could I trust him? How much? He quoted some amount but there is no fun in shopping unless you bargain. The encounter ended with my returning home with the lapis. Going over the whole transaction I realised I had been gypped into shelling out twice the amount of what he had originally quoted!