Ghee bleeds through the paper plate and the turmeric stains Babaji’s fingers. He doesn’t flinch or wipe but rather folds the paratha in half and bites into it, ajwain cutting through the steam. Papa stands to his left, angling his paratha away from his shirt, careful and measured, with a napkin to his side. I’d wedged between them, no paratha in hand - scared of the infamous Delhi Belly. The Chandani Chowk crowd presses forward, bits of Hindi, Urdu, Punjabi, and Haryanvi colliding around us.
Babaji turns to me and asks me to try the paratha. After several no’s, I finally give in. Potato spills out, soft and reckless with cumin, green chilli, and dried mango powder. I bite too fast. Dad exhales through his teeth and lights up with a smile, as if he was watching a replay of himself. Babaji chews slowly and pats me on the back, already looking for the next street vendor to take me too.
We slide further without discussion. The jalebi wala pulls spirals from the oil in his kadhai, drops them into syrup thick enough to stretch. Babaji nods once. Dad mutters something to me and hands me mine. The crisp but soft neon orange jalebi - of who knows what sort of food coloring mixed in - snaps when I bite in. Sugar floods my mouth and sticks my fingers together. I lick them without thinking. Dad wipes his on a napkin and chuckles at me.
We end at my favorite, the aloo chat wala. No shop in Chandani Chowk had a name. Street vendors were known simply as: the food they served and then “wala” (meaning “owner”). The aloo chat wala works fast, frying potatoes and layering bright chutneys without apology. Tamarind yanks my mouth yet the mint cools it back. Chilli creeps in and sweat slides down my spine. Babaji eats his standing still, like moving would disrespect the food. Dad glances at me sideways as I eat mine with a spoon.
My stomach tightens. I tell my Dad I have a case of the Delhi Belly. Suddenly we end up in a chemist’s shop, fluorescent lines buzzing and shelves crowded with boxes.The chemist slides me a blister pack across the counter. “Ah, classic. You gora kids can’t handle the spice.” Babaji picks up the medicine and presses the pill into my palm. I swallow it dry.
Outside, the street crashes back into us. Babaji leads the way back home unbothered. Dad follows behind and I trail them both, my mouth still sweet, fingers smelling like oil and sugar.