Once upon a time on Mohammed Ali Road
The rains came with Ramzan that year. It was overcast when we left for Mohammed Ali road. Already a little hysterical at this adventure we had impulsively set out on. Two men, three women. All our spouses had delicate constitutions and had gratefully stayed home to watch the kids and dogs. I remember our astonishment when our friend and guide, a devout believer, won hands down at a game we played in the car. This involved naming movies or songs or books with each letter of the alphabet. Silly games but then, we were in a silly mood. Reckless.
We reached the flyover, parked underneath. It was unanimously decided to slowly ease into the food. Playing it safe, we started in a restaurant. Upstairs was a family room, recommended for mixed groups such as ours. We ordered their speciality, nihari. Of the bada persuasion. Oily, spicy, mopped up with fresh, smoky naan. As we spilled out of the restaurant, it began to drizzle. Then we were diving into the lanes and by lanes, jammed with people breaking their fast after evening namaaz. No one paid much attention to us. The noise and lights and smells acted like a stimulant. We became delirious with the sensory onslaught, a sudden high that left us giddily happy. We found ourselves laughing at the lamest jokes, or just grinning wide grins at each other as we ate our way through that gorgeous, magnificent array of food.
Bowls of Khichda, sticky, glutinous, with the crunch of crisp fried onion. Subtle, flavourful, a porridge more delicious than any made with cream and sugar. Cooked overnight, till the meat melts into the broken wheat and rice and dal. This must be what the gods eat when they have the sniffles.
Kebabs, red hot and flaming orange, straight off the skewer onto our plates. The young boys manning the fires wouldn’t meet our eyes. Their hands moved like quicksilver, shaping the kebab, patting the meat on to the skewer, thrusting it down into the coals in one fluid ballet. Juicy, tangy with the squeeze of lime or sprinkle of chaat masala, wolfed down quickly because look! here come the next lot!
Baara handi. Cauldrons of gravies, some of mutton bones, others of offal and innards, brains and hearts and livers. Eternally simmering, a master stock of grease, gelatin, spices and magical cooking. The gravy of your choice slopped into a shallow plastic bowl, to be spooned up with sheermal bread. Faces sticky with the gelatinous residue, shiny with sweat even in the rain. Stomachs groaning by now but we soldiered on.
It was raining steadily now. We ducked from stall to stall, the smoke and heat lifting into the rain, the charcoal sparks melting into the falling droplets. Did the rain smell of smoke and meat or did the meat taste of the humid clouds?
The food became a blur after that. We were on a giant wheel that spun faster and faster. We couldn’t get off, all we could do was hang on and enjoy the ride. The tandoors were firing up now, the tangdi chicken burnt and blistered, dripping with its own juices that sizzled back onto the coals. Seekh kababs as long as my forearm, tender and succulent, with wicked slivers of green chilli buried in the meat to shock the taste buds back to life. Delicate little galouti kebabs, melting away into a puff of tasty air, not a toothless nawab in sight…
Then slowly, the haze lifted. We stopped, looked at each other, no longer laughing wildly, but still with broad smiles. No need for jokes anymore. We were replete with the food and camaraderie between five unlikely souls.
But it ain’t over until the fat lady sings. And her song that night was all about malpuas, rabdi and fresh churned sitaphal ice cream. The malpuas were single or double, rich eggy pancakes fried in pure ghee till golden brown, then dipped into a heavy sugar syrup. The hot malpuas fell into the sweetness with a sizzle of surrender. They were rescued after a few moments, and served with a dollop of rabdi, sweet clotted cream. Dead. Dead and gone to heaven. Where one last scoop of silky smooth sitaphal ice cream waited. If you have never eaten sitaphal, it is impossible to describe the taste of this ice cream to you. Forgive me. To those of you who have eaten custard apple, this was ice cream so dense of taste that each mouthful was a thousand eyes of the sitaphal exploding in your mouth.
We were strangely silent on the ride home. It had been an unbelievable adventure for some rather strait laced individuals. It felt like the years had fallen away and we had become our teenage selves, a bit stupid, a lot reckless, out to seize the night and squeeze every last bit of fun from it.
Today, when one of them reminded me of that evening (it is Ramzan month again but the rains are far away), the memories came flooding back. Pure food, pure fun. A lifelong comradeship formed once upon a time on Mohammed Ali road.