Growing up in mohalledari and Purani Dilli had its own charm and struggles. Yahan Purani Dilli walo ki subha aesthetic coffee mugs, croissant, aur sandwich ke bajaye chai papey aur double roti makhan pees se shuru hoti hai, aur Instagram pe photo jaye bina nashta ho jata hai (Here in Old Delhi, mornings didn’t start with aesthetic coffee mugs, croissants, and sandwiches, but with chai, crispy rusks, and bread generously spread with butter—and without the need to post a picture on Instagram before breakfast ends). Aur itwar ki subha poori kachori (And Sundays? They were all about poori and kachori).
In the last 10 years, the street food culture has flourished, lifting some of our humble food outlets to a new level of fame. Batao, 2 rupee ki poori jo bachpan mein aati thi, jisme hum betakallufi se kehte the "Uncle, poori badi banana aur phooli phooli dena" (That 2-rupee poori from childhood, where we would casually say, “Uncle, make the poori big and fluffy”), ab har food walk mein maharani ban ke bethi hai aur aaj kal 70 rupee ki ho gayi hai (has now become a queen on every food walk, costing 70 rupees!). Back then, we kids didn’t even realize that the tarkari (vegetable curry) served alongside wasn’t free. Hum toh samajhte the ke halwai pyaar mein de raha hai (We thought the halwai was generously giving us the tarkari out of love). Aur kabhi kabhi, bas bachche hone ki wajah se, halwai halwa bhi free mein de deta tha (And sometimes, just because we were kids, the halwai would sneak in a little halwa, enough to make our day).
One of these mornings, my niece returned home after her school exam, hungry and tired. She asked me to bring her some poori. I was about to leave for the office, but you know how kids are—their demands don’t consider your schedule. She clutched my hand and made it clear she wasn’t going to let go until I took her along. So, we set off together. As we walked from Mufti Walan towards Chatta Lal Miya, she tried convincing me to go to Lalu Uncle ki dukan (Lalu Uncle’s shop) in Sui Walan for his famous khasta kachori. But that was too far considering I was in a hurry. I convinced her that the new place we were heading to served even better pooris. Thankfully, these shops are still affordable to most of the locals, unlike the viral spots on social media charging 70 rupees plus GST for a poori.
Chatta Lal Miya is famous for Kallu Ki Nahari, the same nahari for which people line up before the degh even opens. And once it sells out, you have to wait a full 24 hours for the next batch. The shop opens for just an hour or so, until the stock runs out. The area still holds the essence of the old mohalla, much like the kind Gulzar sahab described decades ago—wo taat ke parde, wo bakri ki mimiyane ki aawaz, wo paan ki peeko pe daad aur wah wah (Those cloth curtains, the sound of bleating goats, the clinking of paan-stained walls that once received admiration). Aaj kal wah wah ke bajaye social media likes aate hain (These days, though, it’s social media likes that have taken over the appreciation).
While we waited at the poori stall, I noticed an elderly lady—one of those Badi B types, with her silver hair tied in a neat bun. Chandi ugne lagi thi unke baalon mein, lekin unki muskurahat ab bhi waise hi thi (Silver had begun to bloom in her hair, but her smile remained as fresh as ever). She reminded me of the lines from Gulzar sahab’s poetry:
"चाँदी उगने लगी है बालों में, ये उम्र तुम पर हसीन लगती है,
यूँ भी अच्छा ही लगता है, लेकिन देखकर अपनी हामला शाखें,
गुलमोहर फूला-फूला रहता है."
(Silver has begun to bloom in your hair, this age looks beautiful on you,
It always looks good, but when you see your laden branches,
Like the gulmohar, always in full bloom.)
Looking at her, I realized how gracefully she had carried her years, like a gulmohar tree blossoming with age. She may have aged physically, but her dignity and spirit were stronger than ever.
As she stepped forward, she spoke to the halwai, “Bhai, hamari pooriyaan phooli phooli dena, tel nithar lena, aur pichki na ho" (Brother, make sure our pooris are fluffy, strain the oil, and don’t let them be soggy). The poori vendor, clearly not one to stay silent, replied, “Amma, tumse pehle ye log khade hain. Tum meri dukandari band karwaogi! Sab bolenge ke ye abhi ayi aur poori le gayi” (Amma, these people have been waiting before you. You’ll get me in trouble—everyone will say you just came and took the pooris). With a quick smile, the halwai went back to making dough pedas (balls), and soon his Maharaj started frying a fresh batch of pooris in the hot oil.
Making poori is an art for them. They ensure that each poori remains phooli hui (fluffy) and doesn’t stick to the others. The shop’s counter typically starts after the shutter ends, like every other shop in Old Delhi, which remains unused inside while the road outside becomes an extended shop. This setup leaves no room for vehicles or passersby. The kadhayi (pan) sits directly on the road, while the halwai and his Maharaj work from the thalla (raised platform) or the chaukhat (doorstep). There’s a big tray for keeping rubber bands and change to give to the customers, a small tray for placing the freshly fried pooris, another utensil for the tarkari and onions soaked in sirka (vinegar) and red chili, and a bowl of raita resting on a wooden slab.
They serve two types of pooris here, as well as khasta kachori—the smaller kind you get during Eid, but just as special. In Old Delhi, people from the neighborhood often pitch in to help, especially during peak hours. Every time I visit, there’s always someone new taking charge of the kadhayi, lending a hand whenever it gets too busy. And no one asks for anything in return. Here, we were raised in an environment where offering help or advice wasn’t about money—it’s about bhaichara (brotherhood). Unlike today’s world, where everything has a price, in the walled city, things run on relationships. This upbringing makes it difficult for people like me to ask for consulting or advisory fees, even though it’s part of our profession. But sadly, we have to accept that this is how the world works outside Shahjahanabad.
Back to the poori stall, I always wonder how the halwai manages to keep track of who wants how many pooris, who came first, and who’s next in line. Just then, my niece saw the kachoris and asked me, “Chachu, poori to nahi dikh rahi, doosri dukan se le le?” (Uncle, I can’t see any pooris. Should we get them from another shop?). I reassured her that the pooris were being freshly fried and that her father always bought from this shop. That seemed to satisfy her curiosity for the moment, but being her inquisitive self, she then asked, “Is dukaan ka naam kya hai? Yahaan to board bhi nahi laga" (What’s the name of this shop? There’s no signboard here).
I smiled and explained to her that in these old lanes, shops don’t need signboards. They’re known by the names of the people who run them. I encouraged her to ask the halwai his name. She hesitated a bit, and when she finally asked, “Uncle, aapka naam kya hai?” (Uncle, what’s your name?), the halwai was busy nagging with another customer and didn’t hear her the first time. My niece, who is usually quite extroverted at home, suddenly became shy in public. She whispered to me, “Yeh sunn hi nahi rahe” (He’s not listening). I nudged her to try again. She hesitated but asked twice more, “Uncle, aapka naam kya hai?” (Uncle, what’s your name?). This time too, her voice was drowned in the noise of the crowd. Finally, she gave up and said, “Rehne do, chachu” (Let it go, uncle).
I told her to ask just once more, assuring her he would respond. Reluctantly, she asked again, and this time, the halwai finally heard her. He looked at her, smiled, and replied, “Mohammad Asif Qureshi.” She beamed and then asked cheekily, “Aur yeh apki dukaan ka bhi naam hai?” (Is that the name of your shop too?). He chuckled and handed us our warm packet of pooris, “Haan beta, ye lo apni pooriyaan.” (Yes, child, here are your pooris).
But my niece wasn’t done. With her trademark cheekiness, she added, “Uncle, halwa bhi daal do!” (Uncle, add some halwa too!). Laughing, he complied and gave her a small helping of halwa.
As we walked back home, with our packet of poori and halwa, I reflected on how these small, everyday interactions make our society more empathetic. These conversations, these slow moments of connection inside the walled city of Shahjahanabad, foster a bond that no 20-minute delivery app like Blinkit or Zomato can offer. These small exchanges with people we see every day, even those who don’t seem to play a major role in our lives, often end up being the ones who step forward when you need help—sometimes even before you’ve asked for it. That’s the beauty of this city, this organized mess. It stands by you, quietly watching over you, ready to lend a hand when you least expect it.
In the Heart of Shahjahanabad, Where Every Poori Tells.
