One morning in Riya’s Delhi living room, she noticed Arka sitting gloomily, staring out the window. She asked, “Hey Arka da, hasn’t anyone offered you tea? Why the grumpy face? Trying to act all serious today or what?”
Arka replied, “Do you even remember what day it is today?”
Sensing that something was wrong, Riya hesitated and said, “Yes, of course. Today is Saturday. Yesterday was Friday. We just got back from Kolkata. Tomorrow is Sunday…”
“I haven’t lost it that badly. I didn’t ask you to recite the calendar. The real problem is that it's Saturday. Get it?”
“Just explain already! I can’t follow all this wordplay. Let me go get two cups of tea from the kitchen. Then I’ll answer your riddle.”
Grabbing her hand and pulling her down onto the sofa, Arka said with a distressed face, “My laptop isn’t working. You know I have a presentation on Monday, and now this. All my data was on it. I don’t know what to do!”
Riya waved her hand like she was brushing away a fly and said with mock disdain, “Oh, that’s all? You don’t worry, okay? It’s just a phone call away.”
“You mean the Sardarji? Did you take his number? I completely forgot to save it.”
“Listen, Arka da, this is my area. Of course I took his number. I know the laptop can be fixed at Nehru Place, but my father is away on tour, and I don’t know anyone else there. Didn't Sardarji mention his son has an electronics showroom in Bhagirath Palace Market? Let’s call and see if he can help somehow.”
At the prospect of getting the laptop fixed, Arka sat up straight on the sofa. Seeing the light return to his face, Riya smiled while dialing the number on her phone.
“Hey wow, bitiya, it’s you? Everything alright?” came Sardarji’s voice on the other end.
“Not really, Uncle. My brother’s laptop has broken down. Do you know any repair shops?”
“Of course I do! A friend of mine owns one. And it’s right next to my son’s showroom. You called at just the right time. I’m heading to Chandni Chowk in about an hour. I have some work there. Come with me, both of you. I’ll bring the car right in front of your place.”
As soon as the call ended, Arka started praising Riya enthusiastically. As she ran inside, she said, “Go take a shower now. Uncle will be here any minute. The laptop will be repaired, and we’ll get to eat biryani in that alley behind Jama Masjid. And yes, you’re paying for everything.”
“If the laptop gets fixed, forget biryani, I’ll even treat you to kebabs,” said Arka, getting up with renewed energy.
Sardarji’s huge black car pulled up in front of Riya’s flat in Vasant Kunj. Despite repeated requests, the gentleman wouldn’t come inside. He said, “Now that I’ve met you, I have to come over some day for fish and rice. But not today. I have a small task to finish first. Hopefully the laptop will be repaired by then too.”
“Sir, you’ve been such a huge help…” Arka tried to express his gratitude.
“No problem at all, son! Let’s get your laptop fixed first, alright? Is this your first time in Delhi?”
“I came here as a child with my parents. I’ve forgotten everything. This time, I’m thinking of exploring the city with Riya.”
“Then take me along too! I can narrate Delhi’s history like a professional guide. Won’t you take me?”
“Oh, that would be an absolute privilege, Uncle! This sister of mine doesn’t seem to know much about history. Now that she’s studying microbiology, her head will be full of all kinds of germs. Just thinking about it makes me feel queasy.”
Riya silently pinched Arka hard on the waist. Sardarji began chatting cheerfully with his driver, it was obvious they were catching up after a long time.
As the car left Chanakyapuri and approached India Gate, Arka stared intently at the view outside.
In Chandni Chowk, the shops had just begun opening for the day. Sardarji’s son’s showroom was being cleaned; he himself hadn’t arrived yet. Sardarji made Riya and Arka comfortable on the sofa inside, then went in. A little later, they were served lassi in large bronze glasses. Taking a sip, Arka said, “Feels like it’s been brought straight from Patiala. Wow, this I’ll remember for a long time. I’ve heard there’s never any lack of hospitality with this family.”
Returning from inside, Sardarji asked, “How’s the lassi? I had it brought from a famous shop nearby and kept it in the fridge before you arrived.”
Finishing the last sip of lassi and placing the glass on the table, Arka said, “Uncle, about my laptop…”
A young man came forward. Sardarji told him, “Take him with you.” Then he said to Arka, “Go along with him, tell him what’s wrong with the computer. My friend is at the shop. If any spare parts are needed, you’ll just have to pay for those. Riya and I will take a short walk to the nearby gurdwara. Shall we go, Riya?”
Riya was instantly ready to go to the gurdwara. She had never been there before.
Fixing the laptop took until noon. Sardarji’s son showed Riya around the showroom. It seemed Sardarji had a business meeting to attend. Once that was over, he took Riya and Arka out for lunch. They entered a small shop on the street in Chandni Chowk, and Sardarji ordered butter chicken and naan. Arka was quite hungry. He had expected to eat butter chicken at Sardarji’s home. Perhaps the gentleman sensed what Arka was thinking.
“The invitation to have butter chicken at my place still stands, Riya. But this shop, though small, has an excellent young cook. I thought, why not give it a try today itself.”
“You know, butter chicken in Kolkata never quite tastes right…”
Before Arka could finish, Sardarji interjected, “How can it? The elegance behind butter chicken’s creation can only be found here in Delhi. There’s even an actual court case going on over its recipe.”
“A court case over food? Really?” Riya was surprised.
“A case can happen over anything. Didn’t Kolkata’s rasgulla end up in a legal battle too? Why should butter chicken be any different?”
Arka, eager for the story, leaned in. But his eyes stayed alert, watching the chef in front of the shop working his magic with the butter chicken.
Picking up a slice of onion soaked in vinegar from the plate and taking a bite, Sardarji began, “This is a story from long ago. India’s partition was still fifteen years away. In the city of Peshawar, there was a well-known restaurant where two men, both named Kundan Lal, worked. One was Kundan Lal Gujral, and the other was Kundan Lal Jaggi. Both cooked at the Moti Mahal restaurant. Peshawar is now in Pakistan’s Punjab region. Then came Partition. India gained independence. The two Kundans fled to this city. They had to earn a living. So the two friends opened a new restaurant—New Moti Mahal.
“One of them, no one’s exactly sure who, once noticed that the tandoori chicken sitting all day in the tandoor had dried out completely. Who would want to eat dry chicken? So he came up with an idea: he cut the chicken into pieces, added a tomato-based gravy and a generous helping of butter, sautéed it for a bit, and created butter chicken. That dish quickly became immensely popular. Their restaurant first opened in Daryaganj.”
"Everything was going well. It is said that India's first Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru, himself used to come to that restaurant with his daughter. He even reportedly brought Richard Nixon and Jack Kennedy there to eat. After all, Daryaganj still housed many British and elite families back then. How much of this is true is hard to verify. Eventually, the two Kundans parted ways and opened two separate restaurants. The disputes increased in the next generation, and the arguments reached the courts. To this day, the case has not been resolved."
Just as a plate of butter naan and a large tray of steaming butter chicken arrived, Arko became interested and began serving food onto small plates for everyone. He said, “While listening to you, I also observed how they were making the butter chicken. They first heated a generous amount of butter, then poured in the reddish gravy that had been prepared earlier, stirring it on high heat. Then, a whole chicken was chopped quickly with a large knife and tossed into the large pan. More butter was added, and the cook kept stirring vigorously. At the end, he mixed in some greenish powder. I couldn’t figure out what it was.”
“That powder is dried fenugreek leaves—kasuri methi. It’s called murgh makhani because of all that butter. In English, it became known as butter chicken. The gravy looks reddish because it has a lot of tomatoes. But the spice mix varies. Even the two Kundans used to keep it a secret.”
Tasting a bit of the gravy, Riya said, “Delicious! Uncle, we got to taste such a divine dish only because of you. Otherwise, we often order butter chicken online, but this is the real taste.”
Sardarji chewed on naan soaked in gravy with his eyes closed and said, “I don’t know if it’s real or fake. But the claim that Punjabis are the inventors of butter chicken is not entirely accurate.”
“Then who actually invented murgh makhani, or butter chicken?” Arko asked as he skillfully took a piece of chicken.
“Can you tell me who invented roti? Or who first grew onions? It’s the same with this dish. Humans started roasting meat, and now we put it in tandoors. Some inventions are credited to scientists, while for others, no one knows who made them. A food historian once told me that butter chicken might have even been made in Mesopotamia. Who knows if that’s true. It may have had a different name and a different taste.”
Sardarji’s phone rang. He wiped his hands on a napkin and spoke with someone in Punjabi. He seemed very pleased. Placing the phone on the table, he raised his voice and said to the shopkeeper, “Listen, bring two plates of kulfi falooda.”
“Why only two plates, Uncle?” Riya realized he was leaving himself out.
“I had halwa puri at the gurudwara, so my sugar quota is full for today. If it spikes, my wife will scold me. The important news is, this gentleman’s laptop has been fixed.”
“Great! Uncle, tussi great ho!” Arko exclaimed and made a playful gesture of salute toward Sardarji.
“And here’s more, there’s no repair cost. The display port was faulty, and it’s a minor issue. My friend won’t charge anything. He runs a big business, after all. Come, let’s go to the shop. Your laptop must be missing its owner.”
As they walked back to the showroom, Riya whispered to Arko, “Good thing your laptop broke down today. That’s how we got to eat such amazing butter chicken. But since you don’t have to pay for repairs, tonight you’re treating me to ice cream, Arka da.”
“Dilwale sirf Delhi me hi milte hai, except for you Riya.” Saying this, Arka turned to Sardarji and eagerly asked him about the history of Chandni Chowk's streets.
(Continued)
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