City Hangout – Frangipani Yard, Nehru Park & Elsewhere Hangouts by The Delhi Walla - May 5, 2023May 5, 20230 Heaven on earth. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] Last night the moon broke and fell into pieces. Some of those pieces fell in central Delhi, close to the prime minister’s residence. In Nehru Park. See photo. Citizens obsessed with verifiable empirical evidence might challenge the assertion, dismissing these moon shards as fallen frangipani flowers (tomayto, tomahto!). Whatever, this little yard in Nehru Park, confined within intersecting walking tracks, is among the most beautiful sights in the capital region these days. This evening, the ground is studded with these frangipanis. The flowers have obviously dropped from the yard’s many trees, leaving their branches totally nude. To gaze upon a lone frangipani is like being absorbed by a timeless Vermeer or Van Gogh. So
City Life – Villages of Gurgugram, Gurgaon Village Life by The Delhi Walla - May 5, 20230 Village in the city. [Text and photo by Mayank Austen Soofi] You see those buildings? Those were the khet, carpeted with gehu, once upon a recent time. The housing block there was a baagh of ber, the very berries that Shabri offered to Bhagwan Ram. The man remarked one afternoon, pointing out these places. Turning around, he asked sarcastically: “Do you know roti ka atta comes from gehu, and rice comes from dhan?” This wise citizen actually lives in a village. His village falls within Gurugram, the Millennium City of high-rises. And the village he is showing off with such a strong sense of ownership is Gurgaon (not to be confused with Gurugram, albeit this village originally gave its name to the whole
City Food – Shikanji, Matia Mahal & Elsewhere Food by The Delhi Walla - May 5, 20230 The machine lemonade. [Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi] He fills up the glass with “machine ka thanda paani.” Flicks into it a chammach-full of cheeni. Squeezes a lemon. Tosses in ice cubes. Salt too. Stirs. Your shikanji please. This is Babloo Bhai’s refrigerated cold water cart in Gurgaon’s Shankar Chowk. His sugary shikanji is simple to make. Now board a Yellow Line Metro up north to Old Delhi’s labyrinthine galis-kuchas-katras. Here, shikanji-making is more complicated, involving stirring as well as shaking. In a Mohalla Qabristan alley, this rainy afternoon, shikanji maker Hamid is standing behind his “shikanji machine” — a wooden cylindrical vessel wrapped in red. The scene is precious. To spot a shikanji walla with this hefty apparatus is becoming as