A Feast of Memories at Delhi’s Little Kabul — Part II
Afghan refugees in Delhi share stories of food, home, and belonging.
By Devyani Nighoskar
This is part 2 of a two-part story. Read Part I here.
An Afghan home at Cafe Istanbul
“O
ver the last few years, Afghanistan, especially Kabul has seen a thriving ‘cafe culture’ which has made these sweet baked items all the more popular,” says Nazir, 32, who was running Cafe Istanbul in Lajpat Nagar, when I visited — but sold it a few months later. Contrary to the name, this is an Afghan cafe, with a second branch in Istanbul run by Nazir’s brother.
Cafe Istanbul offers a different vibe from the more traditional Afghan restaurants in the vicinity — the walls are adorned with Eiffel tower stamps, the furniture is bright pink, and the room is well-lit. Dari pop music blares in the background, with its sound drowned out by the yells and laughter of young men on their phones playing games with each other. Nazir is one of them; wearing a grey t-shirt with black denims and sporting spiked hair, his image matches that of the café: young and hip, it is the hang-out spot for many young Afghan students and workers in Lajpat Nagar.
“I am a big foodie; I love to eat, cook, and feed other people. Afghanistan has so many delicacies to offer,” says Nazir. He came to India to study at the Indian Institute for Technology, the country’s premier engineering Institute in Delhi.
However, he hasn’t been home for the last four years; a home where his parents still live. To cope, his favourite go-to food is the sambusa, which we have together. A crisp triangular fried patty stuffed with potatoes, onions, and meat — it’s like the famous north Indian snack, the samosa, sans the meat.
The similarities between north Indian and Afghan food are hardly surprising. The geographical proximity of the countries has meant a thriving trade, with India exporting chillies, saffron, garam masala, and pepper. It is fascinating to note that in the 19th century, an Afghan king’s exile to Dehradun brought the famous basmati rice to India.
Neighbouring Asian countries have influenced both Indian and Afghan cuisine; ‘momos’, Tibetan style steamed dumplings find their counterpart in ‘mantus’, Afghan beef or lamb stuffed dumplings which have a Mongolian influence. In fact, Afghanistan is at the crossroads of several food cultures; it has skewers from the Middle East, dumplings from Central Asia, and curries and sauces from Pakistan’s North West Frontier.
Both India’s and Afghanistan’s culinary cultures are also quite similar. Food is central to mehmaan nawaazi, or hospitality — both cultures go all out in serving the best possible meals to their guests. Refusing food may be considered rude, as would not finishing up everything on a plate.
At Cafe Istanbul, I am the mehmaan of Samaiullah, a tall 33-year-old Afghan man whom I had met at Rafiullah’s stall and who had insisted I try Afghan tea.
“Afghans can have chai all the time,” says Samaiullah.
The chai, usually green with some cardamom and saffron sweetened with honey, is soothing and energising at the same time — perfect to wake up from a post-lunch dip during a working day.
Growing up between Afghanistan and Pakistan, Samiullah used to work in higher education in Kabul — but came to India four years ago searching for better opportunities. Now unable to return, Samiullah hopes to emigrate to Canada or Belgium soon.
Much like many other Afghans who wish to go to the West; for him, Delhi is only a pitstop — but one where he has found a home at Cafe Istanbul. He has made many friends there who hang out every day after work, play games, and have lunch together. They sit around in a circle on chairs and feast on the Kabuli pulao — slow-cooked meat peeping out from a heap of rice that is seasoned with spices, lentils, raisins, nuts, and mixed with sliced onions, carrots.
The meal is cooked by Ayatollah, the man behind the counter at Cafe Istanbul. A doctor by training with several years of medical experience, he had been unable to find work because of his refugee status and lack of language skills — until Nazir employed him as a chef. His favourite dish to cook and eat is the sheer korma — a vermicelli pudding made with condensed milk and drizzled with dry fruits, sweetened with honey and jaggery. The dish instantly brings smiles to both my face and Ayatollah’s — he tells me that it reminds him of festivals back home.
Interestingly, most Afghan men at Lajpat Nagar didn’t cook back home — that was a role reserved for the women, who are not at the forefront of Afghan eateries at Lajpat Nagar. However, a UNHCR project, launched in 2015 brought together seven women refugees from Afghanistan and started a catering service, known as Ilham, which has since served traditional Afghan dishes to people in Delhi.
“Incomplete without Bread”
“No traditional Afghan dish is complete without the bread” — I am reminded of Rafiullah’s words as I walk back to his stall in the evening. The streets are busier with more people visiting the stalls.
One of them is Syed, a young man dressed in a bright red shirt on a bicycle. For a backseat, it has a basket full of Afghan bread (naan) — a thick oval flatbread usually topped with cumin seeds. Syed is a delivery guy for a local naanwai (bread shop) that supplies bread to various restaurants, eateries, and supermarkets in town.
I follow him back to the shop, which is a small dingy space with a huge tandoor (clay oven). One man prepares the dough (both wheat and flour variants) with yeast, another kneads it into thick balls that are flattened, and another boy puts it in the Tandoor using a long silver stick. Once ready, he hands it over to Syed, who then delivers it. The naanwai shops, which number almost five in Lajpat Nagar, open at dawn and operate until late into the night — preparing almost 1,200 naans every day.
“Back home, my mother made these, in underground Tandoors,” recalls Syed.
However, others tell me that bread in Afghanistan is usually brought from shops, as it is a time-consuming process.
The trend has been recreated in Delhi as well and represents another Afghan food culture that reminds this community of a home in turmoil while they try to find a new one.
Most of the people I met might not want to stay in India, no matter how free they feel here, as one Afghan man tells me. They do not want to return either, as they see better opportunities for themselves in the West — opportunities that may not come again for a long time.
Rafiullah wishes to open a big Afghan restaurant, Asrar intends to enroll in a wildlife photography course, and Ayatollah wants to go back to his doctor’s practice. As a fresh batch of potatoes boil under a warm blue Lajpat sky, so do the dreams of its Afghan community.
Update: A few months after we reported this story, Nazir sold Cafe Istanbul citing business reasons.
