Kaka and Kabab

It was a cold, cold night in Delhi. The mercury touched an all time low in December. We, a handful of journalist friends, thought it would be wise to head towards Jama Masjid. The idea was to grab some quick hot kebabs knowing that Old Delhi is the only place on the earth which would stay awake even after midnight. That’s the best part of purani Dilli. If you are hungry and looking for some food in the night then the Walled City is a heaven for you.

Roasted chicken, fried chicken. Rumali, khameeri roti. Shami kabab, boti kabab. Your mouth starts watering understanding that working late hours at office and then frowning over the routine canteen stuff can take you to only one destination for a change of your taste buds. And then a ride through the deserted Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg in a spotless maroon Ambadassador car ignoring the Hondas, Ascents, Corollas.

It was all so otherworldly, like being in a hill resort. The city noise had faded to a distant hum. The air had grown thinner. And Jama Masjid was just an arm-length’s away.

As we parked the car adjacent to Gate No. 1 of the historic monument, Kaleem, a young guy in his early 20s, rushed towards us. “Sahab kya chahiye?” A bearded old man in his 70s (probably the owner) was wearing a spotless kurta, pyjama and shouting instructions in his chaste Dilli Chey (six) accent. He seemed to be a devout Muslim. He was wearing a skull cap wrapped with a muffler and sat near a angithi (charcoal fire). It was severe cold and the chilly wind was piercing through the thick woollen cover. “Kabab aur rumali roti le ao,” One of our friends got a little excited at the prospect grabbing hot kababs and roti. Kaleem was happy. So was his owner. After all, you don’t often get such wonderful customers late in this cold December night. Good business, yeh.

As my mind traversed through the space (old Delhi), Kaka, the ace Brazilian footballer popped up! That too in front of the stony Jama Masjid looking lonely amid the concrete of Delhi’s unplanned modern architecture.

Well, well, well. Wait. Let me tell you how the Brazilian accompanied us to the roadside kabab stall. My friend, who is a great football follower and owner of that swanky ambassador and, suddenly paused. He didn’t pick up that last piece of chicken from the plate. He glanced upon on this piece of newspaper (which served as a tissue paper for the kababwala) and which Kaleem had given us to clean our hands. “Hey see, Kaka is here. And see who has written this write-up,” his face flashed like a thousand-watt neon lamps. He probably didn’t expect to see his byline on the bylane of Jama Masjid. He broke into a huge laughter. I too joined him. The world is too small a place. I wondered.

We were happy. For both kabab and Kaka. Though Kaleem didn’t understand the significance of our conversation. For him we were just kabab lovers who ate and did ‘wah wah’. But for both of us (we had covered the Vijayans, Pappachans, Krishanus & Bhutias with passion over years), the subject was interesting. Kaka and kabab.