Tag Archives: Cultural Heritage

Nahari at Nahar: A Morning in Purani Dilli

Uncategorized, , , , , , ,

In our fast-paced world, there are moments when a sight or a sound takes you back, when life feels lived, not rushed. I belong to that in-between generation that grew up analogue and stepped into digital adulthood. Lately, I’ve found myself pausing more often, trying to catch my breath in the whirlwind of the way we live now.

About a month ago, over dinner at The Kunj, Chef Sadaf Hussain remarked that Delhites won’t wake up early for nihari. This week, an email landed in my inbox about a food walk in Purani Dilli, enticingly titled “Nahari and Nashta” by Tales of City, led by Chef Sadaf. It began at 10:00 a.m. Manifestly, Delhites were not trusted to wake up early.

Purani Dilli, for me, is where centuries coexist. It’s also the part of the city that makes me more curious the more I see. So on Saturday morning, braving the cold and the fog, I joined a group of fellow foodies outside Gate No. 1 of Jama Masjid. The city was wrapped in mist, but it was awake; the area was already crowded. You could sense preparations for Ramzaan beginning.

Maneuvering through winding lanes, we reached Shabrati, a small joint with a big reputation for serving truly delicious nahari. Now, I’ve always called it nihari. It was only today that I learned it is actually nahari, a dish eaten at nahar, or dawn. Traditionally, food for the masses, sold on carts across the old city, it was later adopted by royalty. We huddled inside the compact eatery and dug into nahari with khameeri roti. Soon a quiet descended, the kind that arrives only with good food, punctuated by extra servings and satisfied, happy nods.

Tea followed, of course. Standing outside Shabrati, we spoke about the journey of food as we know it, from the 14th century onwards. As we were about to move on, we noticed the kitchen preparing nahari for the evening. While we clicked photos, Chef Sadaf tried his hand at stirring the enormous handi. It was quite funny to watch the chef at the eatery look on with deep suspicion, apparently not trusting another chef to stir it “properly.”

We moved through more lanes, past vendors selling offals by the side. The scene reminded me of growing up in Arunachal, when the local butcher would inform my father if good mutton had come in. Mutton was always bought in person. The foodie and brilliant cook that my father was, he would decide what he wanted to make on Sunday and choose the cuts accordingly.

At Sheeren Bhawan, as our discussion drifted towards sugar and its journey across the world, a pale, creamy halwa arrived. On the counter lay a whitish tuber. It turned out to be safed gajar or white carrot, an indigenous variety, more fibrous than the popular red one, and the halwa was made from it. It was the first time any of us had even seen a white carrot, let alone tasted halwa made from it.

As we moved through the maze of Purani Dilli, a slower slice of life revealed itself, unhurried, detailed, and oddly comforting. A store selling betel nuts and the condiments necessary for paan. A Rafu Ghar, almost extinct in today’s use-and-throw world, a skill fading into memory. A shop selling only parathas. An ear cleaner. And then there were the lane names, quirky, specific, sometimes poetic, offering glimpses into the trades that once populated these streets.

We reached our next stop only to learn we were late: the nagori halwa was over. But bedmi puri and aloo ki sabzi more than made up for it, as we spoke about the deep connections between communities and food, how recipes travel, adapt, survive, and become identity.

The walk ended at one of the oldest kulfi shops in the city, and once again the word Julpep made me smile. Talking about spices, culture, and the influence each has on the other, we relished different kinds of kulfi. My favourite, of course, was the Santara kulfi.

When I entered Chawri Bazaar Metro Station and boarded the train, it felt like I was travelling not just out of Purani Dilli, but from a slower life into a faster one. Yet the hours spent that morning, on food, yes, but also on absorbing a culture of coexistence, were perhaps the best kind of weekend reset I could have planned.

Bidding Adieu to Maa: Dashami

Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , , ,

Durga Puja is not just a festival—it is an emotion. It is five days of togetherness, rituals, food, and celebration that culminate in a bittersweet farewell on Dashami. This year, as always, the last day carried the weight of both joy and sorrow.

The Morning Frenzy

The day began early. Perhaps it was the thought that Maa would soon leave us that stirred everyone out of bed early. The morning saw the house buzzed with unusual urgency.

As part of the ritual, a yellow cloth is cut to make áparajita bands to be tied at the end of the day. But the cloth was nowhere to be found. We searched every corner, a mild panic building, since on Dashami most shops remain shut. Just when we thought we’d have to improvise, one cousin dashed to the market nearby—and to everyone’s relief, found one open shop. The yellow cloth was procured, and with it, calm returned.

Preparing to Welcome and Bid Farewell

Tradition has it that on Dashami, Maa is treated like a daughter leaving her paternal home. The customs reflect this deep symbolism.

A boron thala was readied—filled with sindoor, dahi, dhan, durba, paan, and sweets. What made the moment especially endearing was watching a mother-in-law and daughter-in-law prepare it together, bridging generations through ritual.

Meanwhile, my sister-in-law reminded us that the kolabou from the puja mandap would be brought inside. A spot had to be decorated with rangoli. Not being the best rangoli artist, I began hesitantly until one of my nieces joined me. Together, we managed something that, if not perfect, passed muster with cheer.

The Last Arati and Bhog

At the mandap, the final arati took place, filling the air with conch shells, incense, and the mingled emotions of farewell. The bhog of the day was humble yet deeply comforting—siddho bhaat, rice with boiled vegetables, served with ghee and chura, dahi, and gur.

This meal carried a personal memory too. Growing up, whenever we returned from holidays from my maternal uncle’s house, my mother would like to eat siddho bhaat, believing it was the best way to reset the body. Eating it again on Dashami felt like a return to roots.

Before the farewell, a large mirror was placed in a bowl of water, positioned so that Maa’s face was reflected. We were asked to bid adieu as we looked into the reflection. The symbolism was powerful, and the moment left everyone quiet, reluctant to let go.

Sindoor Khela and Procession to the River

Soon after, the mood shifted to festivity. Married women gathered for sindoor khela, smearing vermillion on each other in a celebration of womanhood, prosperity, and joy. Laughter rang out, faces turned red with sindoor, and the air carried a lighter note.

The kolabou was ceremonially brought inside, and preparations began for visarjan. The idols were carefully loaded onto a mini truck, followed by a convoy of vehicles. Children, especially, were excited at the thought of walking to the Barak River, three kilometers away.

But the skies had other plans. As we left, a drizzle began, soon turning into heavy rain. A tarpaulin was pulled over the idols, and we scrambled for cover. Eventually, many of us found shelter in the vehicles, though the rain and the rush meant the journey became chaotic. Yet, in its own way, this chaos carried its charm.

At Sadar Ghat: The Immersion

After nearly an hour and a half, we reached Sadar Ghat, the town’s main immersion site. Trucks rolled in one after another, and idols were transferred onto wheeled platforms before being taken to boats.

The sight was surreal—the rhythmic movement of idols, the chants of “Bolo Durga Mai ki… Jai!”, the synchronised immersion as each idol was pushed gently into the river. Everything happened with clockwork precision, and just like that, Maa was gone.

There was not a dry eye as we turned back.

Holding on to What Remains

Durga Puja is fleeting, but its aftertaste lingers. In a day or two, everyone will return to routine life, schools and offices, deadlines and duties. Yet these five days of togetherness, the shared meals, laughter, rituals, and even the frantic searches for a missing cloth, are memories that remain etched forever.

As we bid adieu to Maa, we carry with us the assurance that she will return again next year, and until then, her blessings stay with us.

The Voice That Heralds Durga Puja: A Personal Journey Through Mahalaya

Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , , , ,

Conversations at Work and Cultural Crossroads

One of the joys of being in a diverse workplace is the daily discovery of traditions, rituals, and stories that colleagues carry with them. Over cups of tea or during lunch breaks, conversations turn into cultural exchanges — each person explaining their customs, sometimes teasing one another in their mother tongue, and often leaving everyone a little wiser.

A few weeks ago, I overheard a conversation between two colleagues — a Bengali and a Punjabi. The Bengali was explaining Mahalaya to the Punjabi. For most, Mahalaya simply marks the ending of Pitru Paksh across India. But for Bengalis, it means much more: it is the dawn that ushers in Durga Puja, the most awaited festival of the year.

The Unmistakable Voice of Tradition

For anyone who is not Bengali — and has never heard Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s baritone narration — it is difficult to explain what makes Mahalaya so special. Since its first broadcast in 1931, All India Radio’s iconic programme Mahishasurmardini has become synonymous with the day. Scripted by Bani Kumar, set to music by Pankaj Mullick, and enriched with devotional songs by some of Bengal’s finest singers, the programme’s heart lies in Bhadra’s voice reciting the Chandi Path.

Generations of Bengalis have woken at dawn on Mahalaya to listen to this. The music, the chants, and above all, Bhadra’s voice signal that Durga Puja is just around the corner.

Childhood Rituals and the Magic of Radio

My own memories of Mahalaya go back to childhood. A day before, my father would carefully tune the radio to catch the AIR frequency and then place it by the bedside. An alarm was set for 4 a.m., and when it rang, I would awaken not to the sound of a bell but to Bhadra’s sonorous voice filling the room.

Later, when cassettes of Mahishasurmardini became available, families eagerly bought the two-cassette set. It meant one could listen anytime, without waking up before dawn. Yet, the cassettes never quite captured the magic. The ritual of rising in the pre-dawn darkness, with the crackle of the radio and the collective stillness, held its own irreplaceable charm.

When Change Met Resistance

Technology wasn’t the only agent of change. In the late 1970s, when Uttam Kumar reigned as the Nayak of Bengali cinema, All India Radio attempted to recreate the programme. With narration by Uttam Kumar and music by Hemanta Mukherjee, the new version was expected to captivate audiences. Instead, it sparked a massive backlash. For listeners, replacing Bhadra’s voice felt like sacrilege. The experiment failed, and AIR never tampered with the original again.

For my family, this story carried its own humour. My mother, a devoted Uttam Kumar fan, was disappointed, while my father — who never cared much for Uttam’s acting — recounted the “failure” with a gleeful chuckle every year. Decades later, the controversy found its way onto the silver screen in the 2019 film Mahalaya.

Rituals in a Changing World

Today, the world is very different. Technology has transformed how we consume tradition. Yet, Puja is the anchor of a Bengali’s calendar. Yesterday, I went to CR Park, the hub of Bengalis in Delhi, and it was almost as if I had been transported. A book fair, a saree mela juxtaposed with cultural performances seemed to signal that Pujo had begun.

This morning, I found myself using the Spotify app at 4 a.m. and beginning my day with Bhadra’s immortal narration. The medium has changed, but the ritual remains.

As Uttam Kumar’s character says in the film Mahalaya: “Birendra Krishna Bhadra’s voice is Durga Puja.” Indeed, for Bengalis everywhere, the festival begins not with the idol-making, not with the lights or the pandals, but with a voice — deep, resonant, and timeless — announcing that the Goddess is on her way.

‘Maa asche’