As a humbling week draws to a close, I can’t help but be in a reflective mood. The weather only amplifies such emotions. Delhi, you see, is like a bag that’s bursting at its seams with feelings, at every turn of seasons.
Last week, I lost a vital member of my family. The thing about death is that no matter how prepared you are for it, you’re never prepared enough.
But, life does go on, and in a world where more of us live like isolated individuals, through last week, I saw the true impact of how communities and mohallas are such vital cogs of the ecosystem. Through it all, what brings us together even at such a time is food as a vital fulcrum—at times functional, other times in indulgent remembrance of the person lost.
It is this remembrance that came to life last week through a menu that we composed for my departed grandfather—at his prayer meet. It was a menu that featured all of his favourites—kachoris, kaali daal, paneer and the indomitable gulab jamun. After his prayer meet, as the family settled down to eat, it struck everyone that we were savouring the absolute favourites of my grandfather.
“This is the best way to pray for a departed soul, by celebrating their favourites,” said my uncle. Everyone’s eyes twinkled.
This, though, is not a one-off family story. Last weekend, amid a customary ritual trip to Haridwar, I realised that alongside faith and pilgrimage, the entire city’s economy is supported by a robust industry of food. Shops beelined the holy Har ki Pauri ghat, serving fresh, hot food across a wide range of cuisines. There were fresh paranthas being prepared hot off the tawa, while restaurants such as Hoshiyarpuri served a wide range of simple yet traditional luncheon fare.
Further down, a host of shops hailing from Mathura offered fresh poori and kaddu ki subzi (spiced pumpkin mains), as well as daal kachori with aloo ki subzi. Right opposite, a sibling store sold some of Mathura’s most famous sweets—malai chop, kalakand, rabdi and peda being the most noticeable of the offerings. Down every street, you could also find kulhad lassi being a ubiquitous offering all across the town.
This was not just about food—Haridwar’s offerings were about serving families food that is likely to have been a person’s favourite. The food is fresh, bears immense character, and is meant to offer you energy in the middle of what is likely a draining day. Most visitors, I realised, were here for just a day—most to pay their last respect for a person that they’d lost. In such a community, the existence of such restaurants is imperative.
It’s not just Haridwar that sees its economy thrive on food that offers emotional support. In Delhi, the grand old Chandni Chowk is a stone’s throw from Nigambodh Ghat—a place where no person comes out of joy. For such a destination, the food offerings at Chandni Chowk offer respite to the worn, weary families with simple, old-school, no-fuss, hot food.
Chandni Chowk’s most famous offerings include its paranthas, as well as nagori halwa, there is always the fruit chaat to rely on for some instant energy boost and flavours and more such.
Through it all, what you do realise is that food plays a crucial role in reviving our spirits, after a significant loss. It is because of this that several hundred ‘Vaishno’ dhabas line our national highways—serving food that is piping hot, freshly made, and serves every belief and faith. Across India, you come to realise that faith is what drives a lot of our habits—in dhabas, for instance, the one thing that you’ll always find is the hygiene level, which is maintained to make the food accessible for all.
For most of these places, the food served is also inherently simple, which is crucial since food experiences after personal tragedies are not meant for elaborate discretions. Yet, every food that is served at these places fall back to nostalgic choices—those of childhood for us, and that of lifetimes of habits for generations that came before us.
Vernika Awal
is a food writer who is known for her research-based articles through her blog ‘Delectable Reveries’