the mysterious taxi driver, the coffee house at Connaught Place and the chaiwallah

 I had to get out of the airconditioned meeting hall and the high-storey building and try to take a longish walk after the very typical and predictable buffet lunch that had been served. I had been warned about this sort of a lunch at the semi-government semi-corporate meetings that took place anywhere in Delhi. The caterers would serve a total kitsch of Punjabi, South Indian, Chinese and a whole lot of very familiar dishes from various places in India in order to satisfy any and every VVIP that may turn up. The host did not want to be the one to disappoint any of the power centers in the capital and always instructed the caterer to ensure that there were always 2-3 dishes of different types.

I had had to stand around obediently with my seniors as they kept chatting and eating and my dining plate had to look creative and satisfied and thus had something of butter naan, garlic naan, some stuffed kulcha and one half of a rumali roti along with various vegetables. And, of all the combinations, later had to sit at a dining table as my boss kept chatting with somebody important, and had to watch the VVIP eat some so-called cauliflower Manchurian tawa fry with dal makhni and puris. I was just about ready to throw up after having had to watch that for twenty minutes.

My opportunity came when my boss whispered with heavy garlic breath that I was required to go down to the parking area, search for our locally hired taxi with the rather mysterious driver with the name that I could not remember and bring back some important papers and files that were sort of necessary for coming to an agreement of whatever it was that we had come here for, flying out of Mumbai in the ghostly early hours of the morning.

The lift was right out there, almost like waiting for me, and I was glad and thankful and thought that the stuffy cabin was more welcome than the buffet lunch dining hall. I rushed out of the porch and walked out of the high-storey building and went out in search of the many parking zones around Connaught Place. This is one of the most intriguing of all puzzles in New Delhi. You know that your driver entered a particular parking zone and you saw him park his car, just outside and opposite of Coffee House, and you actually saw him walk about and wave at you that he was good and comfortable out there, and you absolutely, very absolutely, know that he will not be at that spot when you return. I had had a good enough suspicion when he had asked me, in a low voice, as to how long would be at the meeting and where did we have to go from here. I had honestly replied that I did not know the answers and he had looked at me with a conspiratorial smile and nodded, as though I had confided the best of secrets to him.

Those were the days before cellphones or pagers. There was no way that we could contact him. I walked all around the coffee house parking zone. I did remember the vehicle number plate and went up to the parking booth and asked them if the vehicle had been asked to park in any other zone at Connaught Place. The parking-tikitwala checked his register and declared that no such vehicle had ever entered the zone. I argued that I had seen him actually park the vehicle and get out of the car and walk about. The tikitwala asked if I had seen the driver pay for the parking slot and I replied that I had not. There, he said that means the taxi had left rightaway and gone to park at some other spot.

What was I to do, I wondered. Should I go back and inform my boss? That would not do. He would just pick it out on me and blame me if the intended agreement did not happen. I walked about from the coffee house to Nirulas and from there to the famous camera house and around to some known names and some not so known. I looked at some pavement eateries and was upset that I could not sit there because of all the heavy buffet lunch that I had had. I returned to the coffee house parking zone and waited about. Should I go within and have a filter coffee or wait here?

An elderly tea-vendor, carrying a lighted-up stove, a chullah, with a tea kettle on it, in his right hand, with a thickish sort-of-metal wire looped around his left hand with multiple dirty looking ceramic cups hanging from it, was walking about. He was not advertising or shouting out for anyone to get their tea from him. He walked confidently, sat under the shade of a gulmohar tree, right outside the coffee house, and made himself comfortable on a packing case that must have been placed there for this very purpose. It had one of the most dirty looking cotton pillows on it.

Drivers from many vehicles walked up to him, silent, no chit chat, giving him five-rupee coins, and he poured the tea in to the ceramic cups and handing them over. The tea was enjoyed and the cups returned. I looked on curiously, wondering as to how the vendor was going to wash or clean the cups. I was not disappointed. He took a cup and tapped on the stainless steel parking barrier that went about the tree guards. A youngish man came out from a nearby shop with a bucket of water and placed it alongside and the tea vendor dunked all the cups and took them out and hanged them once again on the metal wire that was looped on his left hand. There. That was it. The cups were ready.

It was very tempting. That whiff of the tea was overpowering and welcome. I had to have a cup. What was it about the cleanliness and all that, I thought. So be it. I handed over a five rupee coin and got back a cup of tea in return. It was absolutely the most perfectest cup of tea that I had ever had, I decided. It washed away all that heaviness of the buffet lunch and the all of New Delhi and Connaught Place seemed to be all ok now and there was nothing wrong about anything. I stretched out the tea cup for a refill and entered heaven all over, once again. Perfect. Best.

Just as I drank the second cup, I noticed that our mysterious taxi driver was standing alongside me, and also enjoying a cup of tea. He seemed to be standing about as though he had never ever gone away. I looked around, and the taxi was right out there, at the very spot that I had seen him park at in the morning. I asked him if he had gone somewhere and he replied that he had gone to the outer lanes, the ones behind the well-known gurdwara and had taken a nap and had had his lunch and a second nap and he knew that this was the correct time when the tea-vendor would come to the spot outside the coffee house. So, he had returned. That was it. Nothing complicated about having gone away or any presumption that we could have returned early or that we may need our stuff from the taxi and all that.

I asked him if he had paid for the parking slot in the morning and he smiled, that wonderful New Delhi smile, that suggested that there are some questions that you do not ask if you do not want to know the answers to. Perfect. 

From "the very short short stories on first edit" 

(c) Bharat Bhushan

17 February 2022 

a dust storm in Jaipur, Genghis Khan, and a family busy with their books

I watched the dust storm gather strength on the tarmac and the runways from the safety of the interiors of the airport at Jaipur. It was getting somewhat worrisome. I wondered if it would delay all departures. My flight was to New Delhi and onwards to Pune with quite a number of hours to be in transit. I was usually careful about that sort of a time gap between flights but this could take it right up to the edge. The announcements were coming in. Flights were being delayed and it was by three hours for now and could be much more. I logged in to my ticket status and checked the one from Delhi to Pune and relaxed. Several flights out of Delhi were also getting delayed. Now, I could settle in at the departure area, find a silent and comfortable section and get out a book to read.

Most passengers were seated nearer to the high outer windows and were watching the dust storm. The regulars from Jaipur and those who looked very much local were in the middle section, not bothered, and were busy with their cellphones or were napping. What was there to watch in a dust storm for someone from Jaipur? I walked around a bit, scouting for a good location. About four entire long rows of rather comfortable seats were somewhat less crowded. The reason became obvious as I neared it. There were no television monitors or eateries or rest-rooms in the vicinity.

I made myself comfortable near a large potted palm and placed my haversack between my leg space and the plant. The other carry on had my airport stuff, books, bottled water, small packages of snacks and one particularly aromatic parcel of puri bhaji from an excellent foodcart near the railway station. I was looking forward to enjoying myself with it when on the flight or while at the transit lounge at the New Delhi airport. For now, I could be busy with my book.

An elderly couple on the other side of the potted palm had already made themselves quite at home, actually, in a way. They were snoring away happily while a younger couple were busy chatting with one another. They must be related, I guessed, for otherwise they would have been irritated or would have moved away to another section. I was ok with it for I was used to traveling with mixed group of fellow passengers in long distance railway trains, night buses and while staying in dormitories and whatever. Opposite, to the extreme corner, I had a group of pilgrims, from the sight of all the stuff that they carried and their dress. They also had a guruji amidst them and yet they were silent.

Right across me, the most intriguing group of all. An elderly gentleman, a not-so-youngish lady, and two very young kids, a boy and a girl, with about eight bags on alternate seats, being used for various purposes. The elderly gentleman had his elbow resting on a large carry-on bag while the lady was using one soft bag as a back support and had another bag tucked below her seat. The kids were more enterprising. Each one was using a bag as a pillow and backrest and was able to adjust adequately to sit across two seats. The more interesting of all, each one had a book.

Curiouser and curiouser, I tried to identify the books without giving away my intention. The elderly gentleman was reading a book that I recognised right away. It was one of the very popular Jim Corbett titles and I felt happy about it. Fellow nature lover. He must be a good person, I certified. Everything is all a-ok about him. The lady a book from the One-Minute-Manager series. Slim book about management and organisational behaviour. Hmmm, I thought. She must be a working professional, recently promoted, good organisation and wants to be better informed at work.

The young lad had a book from the Game of Thrones series. My mind went ‘Wow!’ That was some heavy reading. I had enjoyed the TV series but reading it had made me quite tired. This young fellow looked determined at his task and I saluted him. Not many adults would have picked it up at a book shop. They young lady, possibly his younger sister, had a novel-sized book about basic photography skills. I was impressed. She was not going to be one of those who were just happy to be a point-and-click accidental photographer just because her cellphone had a camera.

I could run an experiment, I thought to myself. I returned the heavy-set novel that I was about to read and picked out ‘The Wolf of the Plains’ about Genghis Khan by Conn Iggulden. The cover would be interesting to each one of them for it showed up the title about a wolf while it had interesting art work about Genghis Khan and of course the image would also be appealing. Something for the elderly gentleman and both the kids. I wanted to see if they would gaze at the cover, look for longer times, and would be curious enough to come over to chat with me.

Sure enough, the young lad glanced past, something clicked in his mind, and he turned back to look at it keenly. It had caught his imagination and he could not let it go. He walked over to the elderly gentleman and whispered. The elder looked around politely and casually, very casually, brought his gaze to my book. Now, he was hooked. He whispered back to the young lad and nodded. The lady was possibly the mother of the two kids and she had not moved her gaze out from her book. There was quite some furious and hectic whispering between the elder and the young lad.

It was however, the younger sister who was bolder and impulsive. She had been hooked on by the cover page of the book and she was smart. She picked up her mother’s cellphone and, I just guessed at this by her actions, must have typed in the title and googled about the book. She read it up and understood the contents and also realised that there were more titles in the series and that all were best sellers and were all about Genghis Khan and his descendants.

She walked up to the elderly gentleman and her brother and spoke in a stage whisper that I could hear very clearly. “It is not about a wolf. It is about the plains of Mongolia. It is about Genghis Khan. You will like it, brother. There is a book series and they have better Amazon ratings than ‘Game of Thrones’. It has history, war, adventure, geography and all other stuff in it. Dadaji, you will also like it. There is something about a wolf and an eagle in this particular book of the series. Mummy will not like it, maybe. The stories are very long. But, I checked about Mongolia. It is good country and the potential for photography is very good. I saw some of the photographs. Maybe I will go there.”

I was blown away, absolutely. The young girl must have been on the cellphone for just about two minutes or more. She had absorbed all this first-time information, rapid fast, and picked out just the salient facts for her brother. The elderly gentleman probably realised that I had heard all that she said. He looked at me and smiled, very politely.   

From "the very short short stories on first edit" 

(c) Bharat Bhushan

5 February 2022

a talkative coach attendant in a 2AC compartment and two scientists on a pilgrimage

 I was in search of my lower berth, window side, in the 2AC compartment. I was trying to recollect the seat number. The ticket was in my shirt chest pocket and I would have to place the haversack and my suitcase on a seat to check the berth number and hope that an occupant passenger would not scream at me. I smiled politely at an elderly couple, possibly in their seventies, and lowered the suitcase on the floor and balanced the haversack at the very end of the berth and pulled out the ticket. 16-lower /window. I looked around. There, what can you say? I had come to the exact berth that I had to be on. I pointed to the seat number and gestured to the elderly gentleman that this was mine.

He smiled graciously and stood up and allowed me to take my seat and moved across and sat alongside the elderly lady. This was worrisome, I thought. They looked like a talkative couple and were elderly. I would probably have to listen to all their sermons and advice and also have to rush out at the major railway stations and bring back water and food and fruits for them if they wanted. How could an elderly man rush out and risk it all? I would have to help out.

“Hello, Sir. I am Doctor Venkatachalam,” the elderly man said, waving his hand in greeting. “My wife, Mrs. Venkatachalam, Also Doctor Missus Raji Venkatachalam. We are from Kodambakkam in Chennai. We are going to Haridwar north of New Delhi. Do you know Haridwar? On the Ganga, near Dehra Dun. We will take another train from Delhi. How are you, Sir? Are you also going all the way to New Delhi? Are you from Chennai or New Delhi?”

‘That’s it! He is going to talk to me all the way to New Delhi,” I thought worriedly. I waved and nodded.

“Yes, Sir. I am going to New Delhi. All the way. I am Sankaran Nair. I am not a doctor, though. Only professor.”

He laughed. It was like he was gasping gently and suddenly he went backwards and laughed and gasped loudly.

“Good joke, Sir, good joke. How can you be a professor if you are not a doctor? We are also not medical doctors. We are PhD doctors. We worked at the institute of technology and we retired from there. We taught engineering and we had research projects for nearly thirty years. We lived and loved our work completely. Our children are grown up and married and settled. Now we are free. So we travel. We are going to stay overnight in Delhi and travel after.”

I nodded and smiled and leaned back and yawned and smiled some more. ‘Perhaps, if I did not reply, it would be ok and he would not continue the conversation. Or I could pretend to be busy with my haversack and stuff. Or I could help them with their stuff or purchases at the railway station only when needed and talk to them a bit at that time.’

 It was not to be. The compartment attendant came about with the blanket, bed linen, pillows and towels. He threw my set of clothes on to my berth and pointed as if to imply, ‘that’s yours, whether you want it or not. But, keep it.’

He turned to the elderly couple, smiled, and bowed, well, almost. “Saar, Madam, How are you, Saar? It has been nearly six months since you have travelled in my coach. I always go back and tell Missus Sasikumar that my Saar and Madam travelled with me. Going to New Delhi, Saar? Anywhere from there? I know you will be going somewhere.”

The elderly gentleman stood up, very politely, and put out his palm for a handshake. “Hello, Sasikumar. I was just telling Janki’s mother, that is, Dr. Raji here, that it would be fantastic if Sasikumar was with us once again. We can simply enjoy the entire trip to New Delhi and it was be very comfortable and easy to travel through. Yes. We are traveling north from New Delhi. We will stay there for two nights and then take the train north to Haridwar.”

“Haridwar?” the coach attendant asked. “Why? Are you going for some special puja or for funeral prayers?”

I was shaken up by the direct question. I had also thought of that but I had purposefully avoided asking it. How can someone just ask it so abruptly? Very impolite. This was not done. Why should one go within someone’s privacy.

Dr. Venkatachalam did not think it wrong. He replied, “No. Not for any special puja. Funeral prayers only.”

‘I would have to say something now,’ I thought and said, “My condolences, please. Someone close to you both?”

Dr. Mrs. Raji smiled and looked out of the window and on to the railway platform. She was pretending, I knew.

“Not for anybody close to us,” Dr. Venkatachalam said. “It is for us only. There is special provision in Haridwar. You can offer shraadh or funeral prayers for yourselves. I am told that it is only available at Haridwar. Nowhere else.”

Sasikumar was not flustered at all. No, Sir. He just went along with the flow. “Saar, I think there is provision in Rameswaram also. But it is best in Haridwar. There you really can feel the prayers. You know what it is to have died and for your prayers to be recited and the priest is very nice and polite and he helps you with all the rituals and all.”

This was just getting to be a bit too much, I thought. I would have to travel all the way to New Delhi and listen to their discussion about comparing places and pilgrimage locations that would help conduct your own funeral rites.

“Sir, Dr. Venkatachalam, Sir,” I said, leaning forward. “I have never heard of this practice. But then I have not been to Haridwar. Why do you want to conduct your own funeral rites? You said that the two of you are engineers and researchers and have taught at the Institute of Technology. That must be post-graduate students, then. You must have been or are very rational thinking scientists. Is it not all superstition to want to conduct your own funeral rites?”

Dr. Mrs. Raji smiled and said, “So it is okay for our children to offer the funeral prayers after our death?”

I was taken aback. “That is their duty. It is part of our religion and we are born into it. They have to offer the prayers and it is only then that they have completed their duty towards their parents and to their upbringing.”

Sasikumar had not gone to distribute the bed linen to other passengers. He was just getting warmed up. “Saar, it is okay for them to go to Haridwar and offer their prayers for themselves. How will they know that their children will do what is necessary? Science will not help you after you are dead and long gone. In one small moment in time, you are gone and that is all that you can do or not do. What if your children are elsewhere and they cannot come? What if they do not want to travel all the way to Haridwar? It is better for you to make it easier for them. Parents are like that only.”

Dr. Venkatachalam nodded in agreement. “Sasikumar, you are correct. Our children are settled abroad. They want us to join them and lead what they call a ‘comfortable life’. I am worried about our afterlife. Better to take care of it.”

From "the very short short stories on first edit" 

(c) Bharat Bhushan

4 February 2022

Connaught Chaiwalla

The place, Connaught Place, New Delhi.

The place is famous for its coffee clubs and tea houses. Most political and corporate strategies used to be discussed and finalised at these coffee clubs and tea houses at one time. But the best tea to be had at Connaught Place is from the 'kettlewala' who goes around the parking lot. Always smiling, and always present. In the heat of the Capital's summer, or in the biting cold in the winter... He is always around.

He knows all the vehicles and all the drivers. Most drivers call him by his first name, while he also waves in recognition to some drivers. Caught up with modern times, he now serves tea in a plastic cup and has gone along with inflation and his cup now costs five rupees. I remember having tea from his brethren at Connaught Place in 1987 for one rupee and was served in a clay pot that could be smashed near the dustbin.



The Connaught Chaiwalla - actually thats a good term... I coined it just now - is a good example of marketing at its best. He exhibits -
(1) Enterprise
(2) Innovation
(3) Location
(4) Customer Access
(5) Quality

Enterprise - He beats all the coffee clubs and tea houses hands down. He is able to move all over Connaught Place. He gives a free cup of tea to those who would prevent him from conducting his business. A free cup of tea is also provided to the custodians of the parking lots on occasion, though not as a rule. He walks about in small circles, waiting to exhaust his refill of tea and then walks back to his filling up joint... like a fuel pump...

Innovation - He does not need a ferry-cart or a hawking stand. The heating unit is below the Tea Kettle, and comprises blown out charcoal that keeps it warm. He carrys wax paper strips to get the charcoal burning again. The paper strips are actually agarbatti sticks, wrapped in paper and then coated in candle wax. He inserts the ignited strip inside the stove and waits for the flames to get stronger before he blows them out. The plastic glasses for tea are carried in an outer pocket on his pant. This is actually a worrisome aspect.

Location - Location, Location LOCATION!!! The cornerstone of any successful business. What can be better for selling chai than all over Connaught Place? Any person wandering in and out of Connaught Place or trapped in the myriad parking areas needs Chai, period. And these wonderful souls are not in search of the "Tea House" tea, usually, the 'dip dip wali' chai. What is needed is a small cuppa of good honest extra sugar extra milk thick strong chai... what would actually pass of as a 'daaba wali' chai. And, our Connaught Chaiwalla provides this service. On Location, available, every time you look around.
Customer Access - That he is, - accessible... totally. You can chat with him all that you want. He answered all my pesky queries with patience and a smile. And yet, when I proudly told him that I wanted to put him on the internet, he seemed to know all about it. He said that at least one foreign tourist talks to him in detail every week, and each one promises that he would figure on the internet. Sometime, somewhere, somehow, I predict that he would use GPS and Blackberry and get his email chai orders and also through SMS. He will locate the vehicles with GPS and may also start his own franchise service. I hope he does not do so. Today, he is definitely accessible, face to face, talkative, smiling and a provider of a good honest cup of hot tea.
Quality - He has an answer to every cynical question that you may put to him about the quality of his Chai, the tea-cups and his kettle. Actually he has you at a disadvantage - for you do not know the quality of the tea-making location, the milk storage containers, the sugar storage bins and the clean up place for his kettle. What you see is what you get. Because you do not see where it came from in the first place. Some of his answers include - (a) you should see the other tea stalls in the area, (b) hot boiled water does not contain any live germs, (c) plastic cups are cleaner than the best cup in the best Tea House. About himself, he says - (a) I do not touch the Tea or milk with my own hands, (b) How do you know that you are cleaner than me?


Which tea do you prefer? The 'dip dip wali' or the 'daaba wala'?
This is THE question of the emergence of the 21st Century and the Software Parks and Corporate India. Here you are, earning a five-figure salary, ensconsced in an air-conditioned office room or in a swanky conference hall, and you need a strong cup of tea to get your grey cells going. And what do you get? Some of the most frail looking cutlery, Tea Cups with bone handles, and hot water, milk powder (or milk if you are not lucky), and tea bags. I cannot figure it out. You need tea, and you are an Indian, then you need the best tea that you can get - in thick milk, with lots of sugar and strong tea leaves that you can spot at the bottom of your cup.
So, what would you prefer? The Tea Bags? Its usually now termed as the 'dip dip wali' chai. The tragic aspect of this development of the 21st Century is that even the chaiwallahs in long-distance trains and railway platform canteens are now turning to the 'dip dip wali' chai. I hope that this virus does not spread to the innumerable dirty-in-their-own-unique-way daabas that are all over the country of ours. The sight of that daaba chai maker, in his own significant manner of allowing months of grime to rest on his body, swing off the cup of tea is enough to make anyone feel that he is going to get a good cup of tea.
The amazing aspect of Connaught Place is that you get Chai of all chorts... - The mendicant Connaught Chaiwalla, the Tea House bone china tea-bag 'dip dip wali' tea, the udipi hotel tea at Hotal Saravana Bhavan and other similar ones, the tea from the very terrible tea machines (I hate them for destroying the diversity of India), and the hidden side-lane daaba imports in the middle lanes of Connaught. There are daaba imports from Punjab-Haryana imitations who vend makki-ki-roti and sarson-ka-saag, and will sell you a grimy glass of 'daaba wala' chai. These places are usually apna-sort of rajma rice joints that sell enormously during lunch time. Imagine the global warming rise locally inside airconditioned office rooms after ten colleagues wander back after gorging on dal fry and rajma rice. You would need a special type of air freshener after their united contribution to inner-room localised climate change.
The noble chaiwalla from Pathanamthitta - located at Connaught Place
Anyways, I remember a tea-stall outside the Air India building. In those years, ie 1986-1990, prior to the Internet... and later, maybe upto 1997, there would be long queues at the Air India building to purchase tickets on Air India and Indian Airlines. Friends from the US, two professors and their spouses, had purchased the 8-day travel as much as you want tickets from Indian Airlines using dollar payments. They wanted to finalise their ticketing routes. And the ticketing clerk at the window had given them a token that said 238 or something like that, which meant simply that they were No. 238 in the queue. And I was stuck... and needed tea, and so I wandered off to the chaiwalla on a small wooden platform outside the Air India building.
Those were the pre-terrorism scare days, and there were telewaalas and hawkers around every sensitive building. This chaiwalla had two absolutely dirty benches next to his wooden stall. I spread a copy of the Hindustan Times and sat there for about 4 hours or more, having nearly 6 creamy sugary scones and about 7 cups of tea and chatting with the great soul on everything from Ronald Reagan to Perestroika to the topic of those times... Globalisation. This noble soul was from Kerala, looked like a Haryanvi, dressed like a Pathan and talked like a Delhi Transport Bus Conducter. You can imagine the national appeal oozing out of him.
He felt that Ronald Reagan should go ahead with Star Wars, and that would give an excuse to Gorbachev to avoid Perestroika. At that time, I had not known that this noble person was from Kerala. Upon enquiry, he told me that he was from Patthanamthitta, in the manner in which only certain Keralites from Patthanamthitta can swirl the word around. Not all Keralites can say so. I loved him for his phonetic expertise, for he soon went into a Jhajjhar accent from Haryana in explaining why a tourist-taxi driver from Chandigarh should eat at an Udupi South Indian restaurant. According to my friend, all Haryanvis should eat Idlis and get to move up in life. And drink up on his tea, of course.
My man from Patthanamthitta had an interesting theory about globalisation. He said that Shri Narasimha Raoji, the Prime Minister of India, was quite lost about globalisation. He should have made a special Ministry for globalisation and the Minister should be located in Dubai. He felt that the Government of India should have at least 4 ministerial offices in Dubai, Singapore, Chicago and London. He said that Indians are already global and they have lots of money and they would have a lot of contacts. If we open offices and single-windows in Delhi and wait for investments and want the heavy business kings to negotiate with our babudom... my man from Patthanamthitta felt that was like boiling the same pan of tea again and again... and hoping that it would become falooda... Actually he said - "aap chaipatheli ko baar baar ubalenge tho falooda tho nahin na aayega..."


The best tea that you can drink where Janpath meets Connaught Place.