Jay Prakash Road

28 x 2 days later... and the place barely resembles its former self. Okay, I exaggerate; but the absences are glaring. My juicewallah — the one who tosses a hunk of ginger into his carrot pulper — and the kala khatta man have both moved on. To greener pastures, one wishes. In their plots stand two young and hungry new arrivals.

The first misguided lad has set himself up as a competitor to the jalebi man, whose skill and reknown are unsurpassed and have already been herein described. He's shrewdly taking advantage of the Indian fear of innovation, setting himself up as a classical (yellow and brittle) alternative to my man's heartier, braided fare. So far no crowds.

Next stupid move was mine. Surprised and entranced by the incongruity of a dabeli stand, I immediately ponied up. Almost as soon, I noticed the conspicuous lack of butter. Butter is the essence of the dabeli. My favorite stands don't even have a "dabeli" sign up: they just prop up the Amul box in their little window and call it a day.

Sure, peanuts, and great, pomegranate, and fine, tangy, fiery bhaji. A dry dabeli may as well be no dabeli at all. Just as well for me since it was only to tide me over until the Marriott. Of that which we cannot speak we must pass over in silence.