Chandni Chowk

Moonlight Zone
or His Highness’ Highway

Ayesha Banerjee
The aroma of parathas, jalebis and samosa, the sparkle of zardozi, crystals, Banarasis, gold jewellery, silverware…  And the dark memories of other days. Putul Banerjee explores Chandni Chowk and opens her heart to whispers from another era

It still brings a little bit of colour rushing to the cheek… the thought of a particular visit to Chandni Chowk, perched atop a rickshaw, marooned in the middle of mind-numbing traffic. I had thought at that time that my virtually non-existent love life was perking up a bit when I had felt a gentle nuzzle in the region of the neck and turned around excitedly… Only to make direct eye contact with a sheepish looking mule that was pulling a cartload of stuff and was inspecting women while loafing around waiting for the red signal to turn to green.
They don’t allow rickshaws on some sections of the main Chandni Chowk street (that comes in from Lal Qila or Red Fort) any more, but the cacophony and the confusion, the melding of cars and other means of transport all trying to get through its narrow gullies, still continues.
Today, when I come out of the Metro Station and step onto HC Sen Road, I am on a mission. This is not a look-for-bargain-sari or swoon-over-silver-filigree pankha trip. It’s a trip to find out things that one has read about in history books, it’s a trip to open the mind and let the heart feel… it’s a light tread back to the past, into time…
With feet firmly planted in the present.
 Mati Das Chowk (better known as Fountain) from the Metro station side has a garbage dump, which you have to basically ignore (and hope they’ll do something about it one day). The place has a dark aura too that clings uncomfortably to my clothes and doesn’t seem to fade away even in the hot glare of the afternooon as a Toyota Corolla blasts its horns angrily trying to get past a slowpoke of a green contraption on wheels. I am thirsty for a bit of peace and quiet because I know I have to respect the pain and anguish that three men experienced here when they were tortured horribly and killed for a guru and master they had unshakeable belief in. Mati Das, Sati Das and Dyal Das, followers of the ninth Sikh Guru Tegh Bahadur, were put to death by Aurangzeb’s soldiers in 1675 before the Guru Himself was beheaded nearby (the Sis Ganj Gurdwara marks the spot). Walk into the Bhai Mati Das Sati Das Bhai Dyala Museum located here and see beautifully executed paintings depicting the lives of the Sikh Gurus.

Moving on towards the Red Fort, I pass numerous electronics shops selling cameras, videocams, other hi-tech gizmos. Those coming in here can sniff out some really good bargain buys, but beware… This is a grey market so expect no guarantees.
Once the auto (substitute it with an elephant or palanquin) bahn of Mughal Delhi, Chandni Chowk perhaps got its name from a pool (not existing anymore) that reflected moonlight on full moon nights. When  Mughal Emperor Shahjehan shifted capitals from Agra to Delhi he built the Red Fort and Chandni Chowk was added on as a place of leisure and pleasure. It is believed to have been designed by  Jahanara, the Emperor’s favorite daughter. People also believe that the lustre of silver (Dariba Kalan is famous for its silver jewellery, etc) could have given the place its name. But make no mistake – though old buildings here give one the impression of having been virtually bombed by time, history holds you in its thrall at every turn.
The Central Baptist Church, built in 1792 and relocated here in 1858 is an oasis of peace at other times, but today a procession is passing by in front of its colonnaded porch so the silence is penetrated by the joyful trumpeting and drumming of Shiv and Sonu and Khera and other bandwallas. Maharaja Agrasen’s Jayanti is being celebrated, and, I suspect, the advent of the festive season leading to Dusshera. Images of Shiva and Parvati, Ram and Sita, led by gaily done up tractors start to pass by. Moving away from the Church my eyes chance upon the by-now-familiar yellow and red McDonald’s logo but somehow the delectable flavours wafting out of the Lala Kachoriwala Mashoor Jalebi stall seem more tempting.  And while I can’t quite point out anything historic about the Mahalaxmi (or electrical goods market), I enjoy walking into its crowded, untidy little lanes for their pure fairytale quality. Shops have been spruced up in preparation for Dussehra and colourful Chinese stringed lights hang in bunches everywhere. There are tinny kettledrums, colourful flowers, balls wound with silken threads… And then there are lamps too. I pick up a delightful crystal starburst for Rs 250, which a pricey showroom in Noida has displayed for about Rs 800. Just for a lark I ask the price of this huge crystal chandelier sparkling and winking opulently at me from one of the shops and am pleasantly surprised to know the wonder costs only Rs 45,000.
The mood is somber outside the State Bank of India Building. The bands passing by are now playing the old Bollywood hit ‘Choo kar merey man ko,’ but the music seems distant, and the sunlight too suddenly seems to dim as the horror of another night in 1857 plays itself out in my mind. Once the office of the India Bank (later Imperial Bank and then State Bank of India), this was where the bank’s agent George Beresford, his wife and five daughters were killed by mobs during India’s war of independence. In a large hall past the iron spiked gates everyday business of the bank is being conducted by busy individuals. Everything is modern, recently done up… and the tragedy of the Beresford family remains just a quiet, forgotten memory.
There’s the flower market at the entrance of the Chandni Chowk thoroughfare. The scents of roses and tuberoses, jasmine invade your senses… Diametrically opposite to it are the famous Gauri Shankar Temple and the Digambar Jain Lal Mandir. The fact that there is a godly presence here is soothing. I watch devotees walking in and out, washing their faces… and wonder if the drinking water facility (presumably set up in 1923) is still working. A lady at the arched window says it is and passes a pipe out with water flowing and urges me to slake my thirst. I do and walk on towards the PG Market. PG stands for Pleasure Garden there is nothing pleasurable or gardenlike about this narrow galli upon galli full of stalls displaying watches – digital, hand-wound, wall clocks, table clocks… the works.
At Sis Ganj Saheb, devotees pick up water flowing from the steps of the gurudwara and touch it to their foreheads, some drink it. Others wash their hands in basins before walking into the beautifully illuminated halls where ragis sing devotional music.
Close by, suddenly, my eyes catch the dull glint of the dome atop the Sunehri (not to be confused with the one near the Red Fort) Mosque. It never ceases to amaze me as to how a place so historically important Delhi can still remain so unobtrusive, hidden away in one corner of the busy marketplace. A narrow flight of steps lead you to this beautiful place of worship with its copper-gilded domes. It was from this area in March 1737 after defeating the Mughal ruler Mohammed Shah that the Persian invader Nadir Shah oversaw the massacre of hundreds of innocents in Delhi.
As I walk away from here trying not to dwell upon merciless bloodletting and the wails of the dead and the dying, I willingly let my mind and vision be distracted by wave upon wave of  embroidered lehengas and saris decorating shop fronts. Chiffons, georgettes and silks – heavy with gold and silver zari work and dripping crystals. October, the wedding season is upon us, and this is where most of Delhi comes for its bridalwear shopping.  Chhabra, CTC – the traditional Banarasi sariwallas all have their main shops here, and the colours and festivities can’t get brighter than this.
Waving away people thrusting sari brochures and business cards at me I head for my favourite haunt – the shop of Gulab Singh Johrimal, the ittarwala. Crystal topped bottles of ittar, incense sticks and cones… my olfactory senses are taken for a mile-long sensuous ride by the fragrances permeating this place…
The approximately 200-year-old famous Ghantewala mithai shop (a favourite apparently with Mughal royalty) is also located nearby and one can go and try the rasmalais and gulab jamuns, but don’t expect anything old-world here as the shop has been refurbished. A place that thankfully overdoes the atmosphere is the Paranthewali Galli… I marvel at the variety of paranthas as I sit on a tin foil covered bench in one of the shops and peer at photographs (on the wall) of Pandit Nehru and a young Indira Gandhi eating (obviously at this very same place) on tables covered with passable table cloths. I am curious about the paneer (Rs 30) and matar (pea) (Rs 15) paratha and order these. Each thali comes with accompaniments of a tamarind chutney with bananas, a potato and gravy dish and a dry vegetable. The smoky, front-open overcrowded shop is dingy but the parathas are crispy and piping hot. Unable to resist the lure of my sweet tooth I also order a rabri paratha and get one stuffed with clotted cream (rabri) and raisins and cashew.
It is obviously a little difficult to walk onwards after the feast, but those out to explore should not miss the Town Hall or the Company Bagh where gardens laid out by Jahanara Begum (emperor Shah Jehan’s daughter) once existed. I can’t help smiling at the sight of two drunken young men abusing and tearing each other’s clothes of in front of the magnificent Town Hall building. This is the spot from where once processions were taken out to protest the oppressive Rowlatt Act in the Raj era. The statue of  Swami Shraddhanand, who motivated millions of Indians to join the struggle for Indian independence, now seems to be frowning a little as he towers upon the two errant youths and, with a few pigeons roosting upon his head, seems to be wondering where young men of this age are headed.