When a doctor steps out of the hospital frenzy, and finds himself in the thick of a chaotic celebration of food and customs
Representational image. Pic/iStock
It was one of my fervent desires to experience the essence of Mohammad Ali Road during Ramzan, and so, a few days before Eid, a bunch of us from the hospital decided to show up there amidst organised chaos. We walked past pop-up stalls selling copies of every famous brand under the moon betwixt the jarring honking and dodgy manoeuvring of two- and four-wheelers, whose drivers’ fingers seemed to be badly glued to their car horns. I remember thinking that if we could navigate that road at 10 pm, we had a serious shot at auditioning for the Cirque du Soleil.
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As we made our way through some of the dilapidated shops, we chanced upon finest craft work, intoxicating perfumes, and dry fruits and extremely alluring nuts. Our destination was the Khau Galli, which starts at the Minara Masjid, a beautifully verdant mosque lit up with ornate lights that herald the arrival of all things beautiful. As we got to the entrance of that lane, I was mesmerised. The crowds had doubled, the shops had tripled, and the sights, smells, and sounds had quadrupled.
I felt like I was in one of those movies where they depict a man tied in a trance with the universe moving around him at a whirlwind speed. In the middle of being surrounded by a few thousand people, I felt a push with someone shouting into my ear, “Tera dhyaan kidhar hai? Maal toh idhar hai!” For a moment, I wondered if I was in the wrong lane with some dubious activity going on, until he held my hand and placed a plate of malpua on it. That’s when I realised that the maal he was referring to was a food item. For the uninitiated, malpuas are small pancakes made with flour that is deep fried in desi ghee or refined oil and then soaked in sugar syrup—a perfect ditch to the start of my low carb week. We crammed in a few with the ghee dripping off our fingers, and when we asked for some tissue, our server pulled out a sheaf of newspaper, stating, “Indian tissue”. After confirming it wasn’t the Sunday mid-day and then wiping our hands dry, I signalled asking him where I could dispose it of, and he pointed to the ground. “Indian dustbin?” I asked and we both nodded our heads and smiled, as I put it in my pocket to discard later.
We needed to walk a little to digest our starter, which should have ideally been dessert. We walked, or rather simply stood, while we were being gently displaced past exotic shawarmas roasting on a slowly turning vertical rotisserie, as the guy sliced thin sheets of the meat which were then rolled into a flatbread and served amidst constant chants of “chalte raho!” by the public. The fragrance of multitudinous meats being roasted all around me was invigorating to the senses. Every conceivable succulent kebab in every imaginable colour stood skewered on sticks besides full-sized chicken ready to be barbequed or whatever else they do with them.
We turned left into one of the dendritic lanes where the food turned even more exotic. Brains (bheja), kidneys (gurda), and livers (kaleji) were kept boiled on plates for display. As a brain surgeon, I was faced with a predicament: Was it appropriate for me to consume the very organ I treat on a daily basis? I wondered if a urologist would be amenable to eating a kidney or if a hepatic surgeon would devour a liver. Before I was able to process my dilemma fully, we were huddled onto a few stainless steel stools. Yellow plastic plates with the organs cooked in a piquant masala made its way onto the makeshift tables alongside bread and roti. Sometimes, the choice is made for you and all you must do is surrender. Vegetarians, I hear you, but it was one of the most delectable meals I have ever had. We ordered some more.
Having tantalised our tastebuds, we decided to walk again amidst chants of “Kal to aap ki jaan bhi ja sakti hai, mobile kya cheez hai?” cautioning us to keep our belongings safe. It was nice to see foreigners, their Instagrams on, attempt this experience, as white skins bumped into brown and sweat was exchanged, and smoky fumes of something roasting filled the air. I overheard one of them say, “Until now, I only thought that if you can drive in India, you can drive anywhere in the world, but now I feel that if you can walk on this street, you can walk anywhere in the world!” They had big smiles on their “go with the flow” faces as they kept taking pictures with one hand above the heads in the crowd.
We passed by shops with colossal vessels, in which hundreds of kilos of biryani was being dished out. There were cutlets and rice cakes, egg rolls and the famous nalli nihari (marinated lamb with a zoo of spices). After gorging on as much as we could, we decided it was time for dessert. We lapped up the kesar phirni served in earthen clay bowls, chomped on a few golden jalebis, and ended with a royal falooda, also nicknamed Sharbat-e-Mohabbat. “We have to spread love, not hate,” I was told by a man in Urdu as he served us a chilled glass brimming over its own edge. The smooth sev mixed with ice cream in the drink soothed all the fire in the belly.
As we walked back to my car that was parked very far away, I thought how blessed we were to live in a country where we can celebrate a multitude of religions and cultures with such wholeheartedness.
Where we can seamlessly partake in each other’s joys and ritualise each other’s customs.
Where we can gourmandise each other’s food and honour each other’s traditions.
Where we can do our own thing and make space for others to do theirs. Even when it involves exceedingly high decibels.
Where all we need is some Sharbat-e-Mohabbat to share with each other. Let’s drink to that.
The writer is practicing neurosurgeon at Wockhardt Hospitals and Honorary Assistant Professor of Neurosurgery at Grant Medical College and Sir JJ Group of Hospitals.
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