NEW DELHI: The once-familiar hiss of fire and the swirl of smoke filled the narrow lanes of Old Delhi, where kalai walas, with their bicycles laden with tools, roamed the streets.
They polished brass and aluminum utensils, imbuing them with a moonlit glow. Today, the fragrance of molten tin is almost a distant memory—except in one small shop in Matia Mahal, where the scent lingers faintly, mingling with the echoes of a fading tradition.
For nearly 90 years, this humble shop has been home to the last practitioners of kalai, the ancient craft of polishing cookware with a thin layer of tin.
The shop, modestly named Haji Kalai Wale, sits in the heart of Matia Mahal, surrounded by famed eateries like Al Jawahar, Karim’s, and Kallu Nihari, whose aluminum plates are polished here to restore their lost shine.
Over the years, the shop has become a staple for some of Old Delhi’s most treasured culinary establishments, from the kitchens of Parliament to those of former ministers and prominent religious leaders.
The shop, numbered ‘1132,’ is worn and weathered. The peeling yellow walls bear the marks of decades of heat, soot, and the constant presence of fire. The floor is rough stone, darkened by years of use. Amid the utilitarian surroundings, the shop buzzes with an aura of quiet artistry.
Here, Mohammad Faizan, the last kalai wala in his family, sits on a wooden plank, his hands working with precision over a shallow in-floor pit filled with cloudy water that can easily accommodate a degh (cauldron). Around him, utensils in various stages of restoration wait their turn. Some gleam like silver; others still bear the mark of time.
Buckets of water in various hues sit alongside bottles of acid and cleaning agents, while traditional tools like long tongs are ready for heating and handling the hot metal. For Faizan, this is not just about shining metal—this is a craft he has inherited and refined over generations.
“I’m the third generation of my family to practice kalai,” says Faizan, his eyes fixed on the pot in his hands.
“We’ve seen it all—utensils from some of the most famous kitchens in Delhi, even from as far away as Mumbai, Kanpur, and Hyderabad. And now, even the famous tunday kebabi in Gurugram sends us its utensils.” Faizan’s craft is a painstaking four-step process.
“First, there’s badar (the initial cleaning), followed by a soda ash wash. Then comes the acid wash before the utensil is heated and finally polished with cotton until it gleams like pure silver. The results last for about six months before the shine begins to fade,” he explains.
The price of kalai has risen sharply over the years. Twenty-five years ago, kalai cost Rs 400 per kilo; today, it’s Rs 4,000. Polishing a single plate, once priced at Rs 5, now costs Rs 250–300. Even the utensils themselves have become expensive—an aluminum plate now costs between Rs 350 and Rs 400.
Faizan sighs at the decline of his craft. “No new generation is learning this art,” he says. “You can buy kalai kits online, but this is not something you can just do at home. The chemicals and heat involved are dangerous if you don’t know the technique. This is a dying art, and we’re the last generation to keep it alive.”
Despite the challenges, Faizan and his younger brother work tirelessly, often for 8–12 hours a day. Their hands, tempered by years of toil, glide through the process as if forged to hold both acid and flame.
Though kalai is slowly disappearing, there are still those who find Faizan’s shop, often through word of mouth or increasingly by searching “kalai in Old Delhi” online.
“Many people don’t realise that this tin coating isn’t just for cookware,” Faizan says.
“It’s also used in medicines and even in the construction of metro pillars.”
In a city where countless old trades have faded into obscurity, Faizan’s shop is a stubborn glimmer of the past—a reminder that sometimes, the shine on a plate carries the weight of generations.
However, few people are aware of this craft’s survival in the midst of the vibrant chaos of Old Delhi, especially in the bustling lane that leads to the Jama Masjid. Aaliya Sultan, a local resident, shares her struggle: “I have a collection of 50-year-old brass and aluminum utensils. We use them daily, but the polish fades after five to six months. Finding someone to get the kalai done is difficult, and it’s become so expensive. The cost of polishing is now almost equal to the price of the utensil itself.”
As the last kalai wala carries the torch of a vanishing tradition, the future of this craft remains uncertain—its shimmer fading, but its legacy still shining through the quiet work of a few dedicated hands.