My ‘slaad’ days in the 60s and 70scentred around Curzon Road—today’s K.G. Marg—and a five-mile radius aroundit, the venue of many firsts.
Delhi’s first takeaway: an Electric Lane eatery, from where a surly idli-manwith crooked teeth and thick soda glasses worked the length of Curzon Roaddoor-to-door, sloshing sambhar out of a Brite plastic bucket like a farmer doespigswill.
The summer’s first amaltas on Atul Grove Lane—connecting Curzon toJanpath—which splashed their golden shower before any others in the city, evenas searing winds whipped up mini tornadoes of dust and yellow petals alongphantasmagoric tar.
Delhi’s first coffee house at Connaught Place—Rajiv Chowk’s namesake wasstill in his Doon School shorts!—all greasy vadas, watery brew, loud, leftwingintellectuals and the arthouse crowd from Mandi House.
And our first bug-eyed sight of voyagers: large overland buses from Londonpulled up just where Palika Bazaar pocks CP like an ingrown carbuncle today.Filled with longing, we’d stare at the psychedelic peace signs and route mapson their sides. Across the street, BOAC and Quantas beckoned and twinkled butstayed expensively out of reach.
The chrome-and-steel jukebox at Standard Restaurant was as decadent as its peachmelba, and Kake da Hotel was the original home of Delhi’s feathered mascot,the tandoori chicken.
It was a Delhi of rides aboard DTC’s route 220 to get to St Stephen’s for anearly morning ‘tute’, of being the ‘second batch of girls’ anddeliciously outnumbered by boys, gorgeous boys.
It was a Delhi of great dance floors—the Cellar at Regal, Tabela at the thenOberoi Intercontinental or Wheels at the Ambassador. And it was a Delhi of cannyenterprise: Jean Junction ensured we didn’t have to wrangle for denim, DatelineDelhi, the city’s first thinking-man tabloid, gave us summer jobs andstories.
In the brief misty monsoon, the pavements steamed over with the ripe smell ofneem fruit crushed by our platform heels. A few weeks later they’d be replacedby jamun, whose colour purple dyed the earth.
Delhi is where the dreaded chocolate barfi was born, this is where Band onThe Run played repeatedly in the Chanakya lobby while you waited for AbbaThe Movie to begin. This is where Salma Sultan dimpled her way through thecountry’s first black and white telecast, this is where Coca Cola died andprohibition saw us sip beer out of Chinese teacups.
But as some French dude put it: the more things change, the more they remain thesame.
Portly sarkari employees in bright hand-knit sweaters and woolly caps ending ina baby frill around their napes, still crack peanuts and soak up the winter sunat traffic roundabouts on taxpayers’ time. The musty smell of winter sleepstill pervades taxis, odes to Sunny, Bunny and Happy still adorn three-wheelersand the Meena community still benefits from job reservations in Delhi Police.
George has long vanished from under his canopy at India Gate, Wellesley andseveral others morphed into Mughal emperors and Rattendon underwent a sexchange.
But it’s still my Delhi—at least, till some zealous do-gooder changes itsname. Kukkadprastha, anyone?
This article originally appeared in Delhi City Limits, January 15, 2006
