Wrapped in a wet red cloth, the earthen lota is perched atop the cycle’s back-carrier. He himself is sitting beside the cycle, on the pave, hands clasped patiently. A figure in throughout white, the venerable Shiv Shankar hawks a drink that is rarely sighted in Delhi streets. It is kanji. Explaining that he makes the drink from fermented rye, the street hawker clarifies that his drink is sans the gaajar—which is curious, since carrot is considered to be an essential ingredient for kanji.
His steen voice moderated by a gentler demeanour, Shiv Shankar gradually lets go of his starchy guardedness as he continues talking. Unlike most hawkers, he didn’t come to the city from some far-flung place to make a living. He was born in Delhi, spending his childhood beside the Yamuna. His parental house, he says, used to be on the banks of the river. Now he lives with his wife, sons and daughters-in-law close to the Red Fort. And it is in that address that he daily prepares his kanji. Every morning, Shiv Shankar settles down beside his old-fashioned stone silbatta to grind a dizzying smorgasbord of spices for his merchandise. He lists the spices, as if he were crooning a folk song: zeera, heeng, kali mirch, safed mirch, peeli mirch, amchoor, harr (“for stomach problems”), chhoti badi peepal, desi namak, kala namak, and lahori namak.
The spice mix is thoroughly mixed into a solution consisting of rye that has been left in water for two-three days to ferment. Next, Shiv Shankar fries pakodis rustled out of moong dal and urad dal batter, which he adds into the drink. Kanji is ready to be hawked.The day’s first half is already gone.
{{/usCountry}}The spice mix is thoroughly mixed into a solution consisting of rye that has been left in water for two-three days to ferment. Next, Shiv Shankar fries pakodis rustled out of moong dal and urad dal batter, which he adds into the drink. Kanji is ready to be hawked.The day’s first half is already gone.
{{/usCountry}}Shiv Shankar spends the long afternoons cycling around the Walled City. “I daily make a stop at the Cycle Market, at the Ghari Market, at the…” He pauses. Looking sombre, he says: “I have to confess that while my sons tend to be busy in their own jobs, my daughters-in-law help me make the kanji.” He talks of one of his sons who suffered an injury at his work, and has been obliged to remain at home, unable to earn. “We all look after him,” he says, unclasping his hands in a gesture of spontaneous courteousness.
Shiv Shankar now poses for a portrait, after which he prepares a serving of kanji, squeezing half of a lemon. He also drops a rough lump of ice into the plastic glass. The drink is tangy and tasty.