“Keep walking. Don’t forget, Delhi is like a Formula One Race. Stay in your lane,” our guide Sandeep told me as we jostled our way through the throngs of passengers clamoring for a seat on board the Taj Express to Agra. It was well before sunrise but already we were two cups of chai into the day and had our bread omelet (a piece of white bread folded inside an omelet like a letter stuffed into an envelope) tucked away for the four hour long journey.
The unlit train cars made finding our reserved seats in the pitch blackness a challenge until fellow passengers turned on their flashlights to light the way. It’s an accessory that many Delhi citizens carry to counter the frequent and sporadic power outages prevalent throughout the city and certainly came in handy to cut the darkness on this bleary-eyed morning.
We settled into the trip just as the sun was rising to reveal the countryside of northern India, awash in swaths of brilliant yellow mustard fields, wild boars vying for space along the tracks with early morning commuters making their way from village to village on foot, and the mad scramble of train vendors at every stop along the way.
Vendor food varies from stop-to-stop on board the train but we discovered that the one constant is the chai peddler calling out in a nasal falsetto, “Chai, chai, chai,” as he makes his way through the train cars with his aluminum pot filled with scalding hot tea.
Indians are as passionate about chai consumption as they are about their legendary cricket player Sachin Tendulkar, a 22 year veteran for the Indian national team that Sandeep assured me is the greatest cricket player of all time. I learned early on in the cricket conversation with a Delhi native like Sandeep that asking the question: “Do you like cricket?” earns you the terse response: “Of course, I am Indian,” followed by his awkward evaluation of you to discern whether or not you’re crazy for asking such a ludicrous thing.
Sandeep (who has played cricket for over twenty years) is also a devoted chai consumer, declaring more than once on the trip, as he downed cup after aromatic cup, that he could not live without it. This inevitably led to a question I thought would send the Sachin worshiping, chai obsessed man into a moral tailspin: “If you had to give up Sachin or chai, which would it be?” Without missing a beat, he responded: “Sachin is God. Chai is love. You can’t have one without the other.”
Maneet removed the warm bread omelet from its newspaper wrapping for our little team to share as Sandeep and I dove into another debate, this one concerning what he considers the heinous idea of beginning each day with a strong, black cup of coffee like I do at home. He shook his spiky, black head of hair in disgust and squinted his eyes tightly behind his purple-rimmed glasses. He was accustomed to chai so sweet it could melt your teeth, diluted with a generous swig of whole milk. My bitter morning beverage of choice horrified him.
He told me that in Delhi people who drink black coffee are perceived as elitists since coffee is considered a luxury item. I countered that in America, the pricier items are sugar and milk, which makes black coffee the drink of the people. I’m not sure this argument convinced him but he did concede: “I’ve only seen black coffee consumed in movies. Maybe I will try it myself.” Maneet grinned and suggested a peace offering: “Here, you two, have a bite of bread omelet.”
Evan avoided the heated chai verses coffee debate by propping himself against the open door of the train to capture photos of rural India breezing by as the car rocked steadily back and forth towards our destination. The persistent clicking of wheels marked the miles as the occasional skirmishes between passengers jockeying for seats were tempered by sporadic blasts of cool autumn wind through Evan’s door.
A loquacious man stood by Evan’s side throughout the duration of the trip, chatting to him about India and inquiring about the purpose of our visit. When a fellow passenger ordered Evan to close the door, his new compatriot responded: “Why would you ask him to close the door? He is photographing the natural beauty of India.” The door remained open for the rest of the journey.
After saying farewell to our new friend, we sampled a few of the vendor offerings at the Agra train station including spicy chile pakoras that once again affirmed my appreciation for the brash Indian approach to ratcheting up the heat in even the most humble fare.
It was now time to be tourists at the Taj Mahal, a role Maneet pointed out to me was nothing to be ashamed of, asking me to envision the hawkers’ eyes of Agra should they ever be transported to the tourist spectacle of Times Square. Evan promptly embraced her advice by hopping on the back of a camel for transport to the Taj and I knew I would think differently the next time I saw tourists hopping the rickshaws at Times Square.
In its unrelenting desire to talk you into buying overpriced souvenirs you will regret the moment you unpack them back home and the annoying, occasionally offensive guides that con you out of your money, Agra feels like a tourist trap. But there’s no denying the resplendence of the Taj Mahal that even on the cloudy day of our visit hovered with sublime grace before us.
But food people are food people and once we checked the Taj tour from our list, it was back to business. Agra is a borderline seedy place that entices with billowing curtains you know are concealing enticing culinary spectacles. Behind one we discovered a goat butcher who looked bored with our goat fixation, generously letting us snap away as the flies buzzed and the meat ripened.
We were now famished. Based upon the advice of the only ethical shopkeeper we encountered in Agra, we meandered several staircases up through a ramshackle building to one of the many rooftop restaurants throughout the city affording prime views of the Taj Mahal. The vegetarian meal we shared compensated for the soupy fog that obscured our view of the Taj and is a highly recommended way to sate hunger pains in Agra.
On the way out of the city, we bumped into a panipuri vendor ubiquitous in northern India. Maneet warned us throughout the trip that panipuri was something to avoid since its enticing, hollow pillows of fried dough are dipped in cilantro and mint-laced water ripe with bacteria. It was the one street food she warned us about and in spite of the fun it looked like people were having popping the bite-size pillows into their mouths, we reluctantly avoided indulging at Agra.
With all the anticipatory build-up, it came as quite a blow when towards the end of the trip we finally convinced Maneet that our stalwart constitutions were ready to brave the elusive panipuri. After Evan and I swallowed our first bite, he looked at me and said: “It tastes like lake water.” He was right. The subtle infusion of herbs gave the water the look and flavor of algae and I couldn’t help but think of the unfortunate times I swallowed too much lake water swimming at the cabin on summer days when I was a girl.
Fortunately, the panipuri was redeemed by a clever dessert we discovered in Agra called Makhan ka Tarbooz. Makhan means butter and tarbooz means watermelon and although the silky indulgence resembled its namesake fruit, it was actually a thin layer of green-tinted butter wrapped around red paneer and then frozen.
It was incredibly rich and since I heard the siren call of the monkeys eying it from the trees nearby, it seemed a perfect opportunity to entice them closer for a photo opportunity, something I told Sandeep I wanted each and every day of our trip. He conspired with me, tossing slices of makhan ka tarbooz onto a nearby bench, telling me to get my camera ready, they were coming.
Initially I was playing the game but as primates descended from what felt like every tree ever planted in Agra, I ditched my plan and began to run for my life. Sandeep called after me: “Come back! Come back, Jody! Take your picture!” I stopped abruptly and sheepishly walked back to the benign pair of monkeys snacking on the bench, oblivious to me. I snapped a single photo, embarrassed as I was, Sandeep’s laughter only reinforcing my foolishness.
On our way home to Delhi, we stopped at the Mathura train station to purchase peda, a cloyingly sweet, reduced evaporated milk confection. We did find our peda but what I will remember from Mathura are the cows. Cows are of course worshiped in India and you do discover them in the most unusual places, but at Mathura they could have been any other passenger, waiting for a train.
We spotted one wandering into the waiting room as nonchalantly as any other ticket holder and discovered another dumpster diving…as he waited for his train?
Exhausted from the long train journey and the Taj Mahal sojourn, we still had one more stop to make before it was home to Delhi. We were having dinner at a truck stop and it was a meal I had been anticipating for days. Roadside truck stops are prevalent throughout India. Most concentrated around Delhi, they range from contemporary establishments boasting signs that read: “Fully AC Dhaba” to the more traditional incarnations with cots lining the entryway to lull the weary truck driver into a cat nap. The thread stitching them all together is hearty, homemade Indian food as enriching as a dinner at Mrs. Chauhan’s table.
Our dhaba on the way home to Delhi was the Sukhdev Highway King, a slightly sketchy 24 hour truck stop complete with a blazing tandoor oven and a cook turning our the perfect definition of Indian comfort food from his flaming wok.
After a seemingly endless day on the road and a deep sleep to recover, I found that there’s nothing more satisfying than waking up the next morning to discover Mrs. Chauhan churning butter in her lovely kitchen to accompany the fresh fenugreek chapatis she was grilling for breakfast.
Fortified from the early morning meal, we shot a few photos of petha before hitting the road. A specialty of Agra, the translucent confections comprise the ash gourd, also referred to as the winter melon or white pumpkin. Their jewel tones are attributed to the flavorings they are infused with such as rose, coconut, almond and saffron. Petha are aesthetically dazzling but their sweetness was reminiscent of the peda and no matter how much I wanted to like them, their saccharine nature kept getting in the way.
We discovered a more promising subject in the form of a simple coconut at a road side stand on our way out of Delhi.
There’s something fun about holding a giant coconut in your hand, sucking out its juices, and then having it broken down to get at the sweet meat inside. Every member of our team seemed to feel the same way.
Replenished, we meandered down the road to seek out more dhabas. The first one we discovered was one of the slick establishments affording air conditioning and shiny marble counter tops to off-set the inevitable feast that ensued.
The next, right next door, boasted the traditional cots that delighted me even more then the aloo tika at the previous dhaba.
The next day it was back to Old Delhi for more street food exploration. This time we were on the hunt for jalebis and samosas… but not before watching the clean shave of a man at an outdoor barber shop, a staple in Old Delhi.
Now it was time for samosas and jalebis, fixtures of Indian cuisine which rumor had it transcended the lackluster specimens ubiquitous throughout much of Delhi at Old Famous Jalebi Wala. On a dynamic corner of Chandni Chowk replete with rickshaw pileups and the eardrum crushing drone of honking horns, Old Famous Jalebi Wala also boasts the feverish clamoring of customers who obviously know a good thing when they taste it.
Samosa construction occurs in the back of the establishment with the frying of jalebis taking center stage at the front. And for good reason. Watching the fryer gracefully pipe his jalebi batter from a muslin bag into a vat of boiling ghee was mesmerizing. He never looked up at his captive audience but focused intensely on the twists and turns comprising the perfect jalebi, piping them out with deft precision.
After bobbing and turning each row of jalebi, they were dipped into a simple syrup bath which transformed them into a sticky, apricot colored confection as chewy as it was addicting.
We meandered down the street form Old Famous Jalebi Wala still licking our sticky fingers in preparation for more. The first vendor offered the perfect palette cleanser in the form of guava dusted with masala.
Another proffered an invigorating glass of freshly squeezed citrus mosambi juice which was ideal to wash down the hot, sweet biscuits for sale next door.
We skipped the paan due to our unfortunate experience at the beginning of the trip but welcomed one of my favorite dishes of the trip a few doors down.
Gajar ka Halwa is a carrot pudding only available in the fall and winter, during the red carrot harvest. The color alone is enough to entice but it was its unexpected, sweet warmth that inspired me to order it every time we saw it during the trip.
Next door to the gajar ka halwa was mutter kulcha, another dish I will seek out on my next visit to Delhi. Comprised of white peas topped with daikon, chiles, tomatoes and cabbage, it was hearty enough to satisfy on a cold autumn day but light enough to restore us from our residual jalebi glut.
The next day we indulged in still more street food at South Ex (South Extension) in New Delhi, an upscale shopping district that in spite of the affluent crowd and extravagant shops, never strays far from the street food roots that seem to tether Delhi to its gastronomic soul.
My favorite discovery at South Ex was the sweet potato chaat, a tangy dish of sweet potatoes, star fruit and nimbu, a lemon-lime hybrid.
After South Ex, we meandered down to Sandeep’s neighborhood to visit Sarojini Nagar, my favorite market of the trip. The vendors seemed extra-friendly here and the pickles extra-hot and tangy. I replenished Mrs. Chauhan’s supply of mango pickles that I wiped her out of after diligently adorning every plate at her table with them throughout the trip.
Around the bend from the pickle stand was a spectacle of pakora frying and buying that seemed more reminiscent of a delirious auction house selling priceless works of art than a vendor peddling fried vegetables. What a scene it was as men descended by the dozens to point at their desired pakoras, vendors working feverishly to take their cash and stuff their pakoras, piping hot, into paper bags.
Across the street from pakora madness at Sarojini Nagar was a serene woman silently husking corn, the only sound the gentle humming of her fan as it blew the husks away.
Next to her were a pile of open bags, brimming with grain and rice waiting to be milled. This little corner of Sarojini Nagar seemed a calm oasis to the endless noise of the rest of Delhi and was a fitting note upon which to conclude the day.
Ensconced in the peace of the Chauhan’s apartment, Maneet prepared herself for a visit to her mother-in-law’s home in Jaipur the following morning. A festival was taking place to welcome her five month old baby girl into the world and it was going to be a day of celebration, one that required her hands and arms to be festooned in beautiful henna.
Maneet’s husband arrived the next day and while I was of course excited for her family to come together after such a long absence, it also meant that we would be without her congenial presence on our final day in Delhi. It was bittersweet to say goodbye, but it heartened me that we were already making plans for our next trip to India in October. Praveen and Sandeep would be our exclusive guides on this last whirlwind day in the city. Evan asked that our final stop be Qutub Minar, a twelfth century, red sandstone and marble UNESCO World Heritage Site boasting the tallest minaret in India.
Fog was an almost constant companion throughout our inaugural trip to India but at Qutub Minar, the sun shone brilliantly through the ornate carvings of its pillars, casting a golden, optimistic glow. I rarely regret leaving a place but immense sadness washed over me at Qutub Minar, for it felt too soon to say goodbye.
India affords endless opportunity for discovery and exploration and although I experienced so many new things on this trip, it also felt like there was so much left to see and touch, learn and taste. As the dappled light settled upon the faces of my companions, I resolved to channel Sachin, a warrior and champion bound to his nation, and his nation to him. My allegiance to India was resolute. Standing between the ancient red pillars of Qutub Minar, I vowed to return to India again and again, to play its magnificent, spell-binding game. I realized that India and I were now like the lesson Sandeep taught me about Sachin and chai; you can’t have one without the other. I will carry this wisdom with me until my next visit to India.