Delhiwale: Game kulfi plays

In Delhi, Nizam preserves the fading tradition of game wali kulfi, a mix of dessert and gambling, while navigating life as a street vendor.

In cities, traditions slowly fade, until one day, nobody remembers when they disappeared, and no one anyway has the time to notice what has been permanently lost. Delhi’s game wali kulfi is close to that precipice.

Customers first hand over a fixed amount to him, five rupees or ten. In turn, Nizam hand them the fateful kancha, the tiny glass ball that decides their day’s kismet. Nizam’s cart has a slanted wooden board leading into numbered compartments partitioned by red-painted nails. The customer’s aim is to land the kancha in the highest-numbered slot and win that many kulfis. (HT Photo)

Even so, on scorching afternoons, at least one street vendor still hawks this unusual phenomenon. Look for him in the lanes of the Walled City. Citizen Nizam returns to these pages because he is among the last surviving custodians of a summertime tradition that blends dessert with gambling—harmless gambling, really. This late morning, he is at Turkman Gate Bazar, bearing the familiar smile, and the same hand-painted cart, the same kulfi.

Everyone knows kulfi. It is icy cold, milky, sweet, soft, and often moulded into the shape of New York’s Empire State Building. But Nizam’s game wali kulfi comes with a dose of thrill. Customers first hand over a fixed amount to him, five rupees or ten. In turn, Nizam hands them the fateful kancha, the tiny glass ball that decides their day’s kismet. Nizam’s cart has a slanted wooden board leading into numbered compartments partitioned by red-painted nails. The customer’s aim is to land the kancha in the highest-numbered slot and win that many kulfis. As the kancha rolls downward, the customer holds their breath. Wherever the kancha settles, that number of kulfis is given as the prize. Slot “three” will win the customer three kulfis.

Nizam wakes at five each morning to make his kulfis from milk, sugar, powdered coconut, and cardamom. By nine, he is dragging the cart through the congested streets, where he remains until night. His most loyal customers are children. Once, a child stealthily nudged the kancha into the coveted “six” slot. Nizam spotted the “cheating” instantly.

Delhi may still have a handful of more game wali kulfi vendors, but they are difficult to trace. One evening, this reporter was assured of a sighting in Gurugram’s Sadar Bazar. After wandering through several lanes, none could be found. Local bazar wale, however, insist one survives. Meanwhile, Old Delhi has one more game kulfi man called Ismail; he is usually seen around Gali Sui Walan.

As for Nizam, each winter sends him back to Sukhsaun village in Bihar’s Bhagalpur district, where his wife, Ajmeri Khatoon, looks after their five children. He works there as a farmer on his two bighas of land, growing rice, wheat, and dal.

In Delhi, Nizam’s life is landmarked by an accommodation near Minto Road. The room costs him a thousand rupees a month. He keeps paying the rent even while away in Bihar “because the cart has to be stored somewhere.”

Late this morning, two grown men approach Nizam’s cart. Neither chooses to play the game. They buy the kulfi and walk on.