“Hum internet par bhi hain!”
With an outstretched arm offering a patta heaped with seekh kebabs and sliced onions dipped in coriander and chilly chutney, the kebabchi looked quite happy seeing me take a photograph of his shop.
The internet has still got a long, really long way to go in India. You have this realization when one of the most popular kebabchis in Old Delhi, the capital of good food in the capital of the country, in the year 2012, takes pride in telling you that his shop has been mentioned on the internet (“I’ve arrived. In the age of the Indian telecom revolution, post iPhone post Android post post Blackberry, and definitely post multimillion telecom scams — I’ve arrived.”)
Standing at the familiar cornershop of Moinuddin Kebabchi at Lal Kuan in Old Delhi, the sense of calm which prevailed after the first few bites of kebabs was enough to alienate us from the madness of our environment. A madness which we were completely surrounded with a while ago, as we navigated on a cycle rickshaw towards Fatehpuri Masjid. Just a few minutes (seven minutes to be precise) remained when I got out of the Metro station, and jumping on to the first rickshaw we started on our attempt to reach Fatehpuri Masjid in time for Iftar.
One would expect that the traffic around the time for Iftar would probably be easier, because people would have gone off the streets. Not really. For a lot of people, a part of the fun during Ramadan is the last minute dash before Iftar to the neighborhood grocer for a bottle of RoohAfza or to the makeshift ‘open-only-during-Ramadan’ shop selling pakoras around the corner of the street. Not exactly willingly, but we became part of that fun while maneuvering between load carrying handcarts being pushed with grunts, two wheelers with a pillion load of two being revved with honks, and rickshaws like ours being pulled with yells of futility to clear the traffic ahead. On either side of the road, small groups of men had assembled with their snacks to have Iftar together. Passing by them as they huddled in prayer during the last moments before Iftar and with Fatehpuri Masjid nowhere close in sight, I felt as if that scene was the proverbial filmstrip which one sees in the last few moments of life.
Life came to an end on the rickshaw as sirens went off. Dates and water. That was all. And we reached Fatehpuri Masjid in time to join the Maghreb jamaat, even if we missed the Iftar there.
Moinuddin was the first in the string of street side eateries we visited that evening, and we visited quite a few. After all, there was something which needed to be done to absolve ourselves from the guilt of such a light Iftar.