Some journeys begin with a plan. Ours began with a hospital appointment. We had travelled to Delhi mainly because Mom had a follow-up appointment with Dr. S. K. S. Marya at Max Hospital after her bilateral knee replacement. Thankfully, her recovery had been good, and this visit was more about reassurance than treatment.
But if you are going to Delhi anyway, why not make a little more of it? More importantly, I wanted Tania to see the Delhi I knew—not the Delhi she had previously experienced while shuttling between temporary accommodation and the hospital, caring for Mom.
This time, there would be no checklist. Just Delhi. And whatever it chose to give us.
The First Night
We landed on the evening of 18th May and checked into Hotel Conclave at Nehru Place. By the time we settled in, it was already around eight. Kalka Ji Temple was just a few minutes away.
So, naturally, that became our first stop. We arrived close to nine, but the temple was still overflowing with devotees. The queue was packed, people were squeezing past one another, and there was the inevitable pushing and jostling that accompanies a crowded temple.
But somehow, we made it to the sanctum together. And the moment we had darshan, all that pushing suddenly seemed irrelevant. Perhaps that is one of the strange things about temples. The crowd can be chaotic, but the moment of prayer can still feel deeply personal.
We visited the smaller shrines dedicated to Shiva, Durga and the Navagrahas before stepping outside, where we unexpectedly encountered a family distributing bhog—puri, aloo-chana and sooji halwa.
We happily accepted it. It wasn’t part of the plan. But perhaps the best travel memories rarely are.
Since Delhi was still very much awake, we decided to visit Prachin Bhairav Mandir as well. It was quieter, less crowded, and gave us a chance to slow down a little.
Two temples on our first night. Not a bad beginning.
Enter Tapas Uncle
The next morning brought us something far more valuable than a sightseeing itinerary. It brought us Tapas Uncle. One of my father’s school batchmates, he had volunteered to show us around Delhi. He had attended my wedding and visited our home before, but this was probably the first time I had actually spent so much time with him.
And what a difference a local guide makes. You don’t worry about routes, parking or traffic. You simply sit back and watch the city unfold.
Tapas Uncle already had the day’s plan ready. Our first stop was Sita Ram Diwan Chand in Paharganj for breakfast. Delhi had many famous places for chole bhature, but this was one of the names I had always heard about. After trying it, I understood why.
Delhi knows how to begin a day. With food.
That little piece of family history changed the way I looked at the place. What had seemed like just another busy Delhi neighbourhood suddenly became a place where, decades earlier, my grandfather had once stood, walked and perhaps looked at Delhi with the same curiosity that I was experiencing now.
What I didn’t know at the time was that Paharganj held a much more personal connection for our family. Later, I came to know from my father that when my grandfather first came to Delhi in the 1940s, he had stayed in Chuna Mandi, in the same Paharganj locality.
Sometimes, a city connects you to your past when you least expect it. And that morning, over a plate of chole bhature, Delhi had quietly done just that.
From there, we made our way to the Ramakrishna Mission and then towards New Delhi Kali Bari. And that’s exactly where Delhi reminded us that travel rarely sticks to the script.
On the way to Kali Bari, Tapas Uncle pointed out the school where he and my father had studied. As we paused outside, he slipped effortlessly into old memories, recounting the mischievous moments they shared in those school days—stories that felt like little windows into a time we never lived but could suddenly imagine.
We reached Kali Bari. That was also where the first unexpected incident of the trip happened. As Tania stepped out of the car, her footwear strap gave way. Completely.
Normally, a broken sandal is just an inconvenience. In Delhi’s May heat, it becomes a logistical problem. Thankfully, Tapas Uncle didn’t waste time. He drove us towards Connaught Place, parked near Palika Bazaar and took us to Sreeleathers.
Problem solved.
While driving through Central Delhi, he pointed out Parliament House and several government buildings. It struck me that this was becoming more than sightseeing. Tapas Uncle wasn’t merely showing us places. He was introducing us to his Delhi.
Temples, Heat & a Little Pain
Our next stop was the Hanuman Mandir near Connaught Place. It was Tuesday, so the queue was long. The darshan was peaceful, but what I remember most vividly is the heat.
The stone floor had absorbed the afternoon sun. By the time we reached the temple, our feet were almost hopping from one patch of shade to another.
Tania eventually developed small blisters despite her new sandals. But Hanuman Ji darshan made the discomfort seem worthwhile.
There were devotees offering water and drinks to people standing in the queue too. That, in its own small way, felt like Delhi.
Crowded, hot, chaotic—and yet generous.
We also visited the nearby Ganesh temple before Tapas Uncle left us, as I had plans to meet my school friend Karan and his wife Sakshi.
Before they arrived, I had another mission. Keventers. Or, more accurately, the Keventers I remembered. Except it wasn’t really Keventers anymore. It had become Shake Point. The name had changed, the experience had changed, and perhaps I had changed too.
Nostalgia can be unfair. Sometimes we don’t miss a place. We miss the version of ourselves that remembers it.
Old Friends & New Memories
Karan and Sakshi arrived in Connaught Place soon afterwards. It had been a while since we had met, and it was good to sit down without constantly looking at the clock.
We escaped the afternoon heat and settled into Farzi Café. Good food. Good conversation. And, for Karan and me, a couple of beers.
One dish that caught my attention was dahi phuchka. I had never encountered it in a restaurant before, and it turned out to be surprisingly good. After lunch, we wandered around Connaught Place and stopped at a Casio showroom because Sakshi had been planning to buy a watch.
She and Tania both walked out with new watches. So, mission accomplished.
We eventually moved on to Janpath Market. Initially, Karan and Sakshi were interested in joining us, but they had other commitments later in the evening and decided to head home instead. Tania enjoyed browsing through the colourful shops and picked up earrings and a few small gifts.
From there, we walked to Agrasen ki Baoli. It is one of those places in Delhi that feels almost impossible. A centuries-old stepwell sitting quietly among modern buildings and busy roads. Whether you know its history or simply recognise it from films, it’s a nice place to spend some time away from the crowds.
We sat there for a while until the guards announced closing time. Then came Palika Bazaar. I don’t think much has changed there over the years.
Crowded. Noisy. Underground. Familiar.
I was looking for comfortable shorts. Tania, however, apparently believed I needed considerably more than that. She picked out several things for me. I wasn’t complaining.
I did, however, eventually regret buying a pair of shoes after a particularly persuasive shopkeeper convinced me they were exactly what I needed.
They were comfortable. For a while. The salesman, I must admit, was excellent.
Before leaving, we also bought a couple of leather jackets. By the time we returned to the hotel, we were exhausted.
Dinner was ordered in. And as we sat with Mom, talking about everything we had managed to do in just two days, I realised the trip had already become much more than a hospital visit.
The Reason We Came
The following morning brought us back to reality. Mom’s appointment. Dr. S. K. S. Marya was happy with her progress after the knee replacement. She had already begun climbing stairs, although I felt she was still holding herself back mentally. The review was reassuring. The doctors encouraged her to return to her normal routine with confidence. For a son, there are few better things to hear.
After the hospital, we had lunch at 6 Ballygunge Place. During our previous visit, Tania, Dad and I had eaten there and had promised ourselves that Mom would come with us once she recovered. Now she finally did.
The food was just as good. Authentic Bengali food always has a way of making you feel at home, even when you’re hundreds of kilometres away. Mom finally got to enjoy the place we had been talking about for months, and I think that made the meal even better.
From there, we went to Swaminarayan Akshardham. I had initially thought it was a Lakshmi Narayan temple. It turned out to be something quite different—a vast spiritual and cultural complex dedicated to Bhagwan Swaminarayan.
The scale was impressive. Between security checks, depositing our phones, arranging a wheelchair for Mom and collecting tickets, everything was well organised, although there seemed to be a queue at almost every step.
The architecture was extraordinary. The carvings, gardens and architecture clearly reflected the amount of effort that had gone into building it. Personally though, I felt it was more of a tribute to Bhagwan Swaminarayan and his teachings than a traditional temple experience. That isn’t a criticism—just different from what I had expected.
We skipped the light and sound show and eventually headed towards Tapas Uncle’s home. And there, Delhi gave us another kind of experience. Hospitality.
If Delhi Gave Us a Guide, Tapas Uncle Gave Us a Home
Tapas Uncle and his family had invited us for dinner. From the moment we arrived, we felt completely at home. There were snacks, dinner, conversations about family, work, old memories and, naturally, Delhi.
Looking back, I think Tapas Uncle was one of the biggest reasons this trip became what it did.
A city is never only its monuments. Sometimes, a city is the person sitting beside you, explaining a road, remembering a restaurant, telling you a story about a neighbourhood or simply making sure you get home comfortably.
Old Delhi
Our final full day was reserved for Old Delhi. The moment we approached the Red Fort; Delhi seemed to change. The roads narrowed. The buildings aged. The traffic became even more chaotic.
It felt like another city. Or perhaps another century living alongside the present one.
We parked a little distance away and walked toward the ticket counter, only to be greeted by a serpentine queue curling across the courtyard. Delhi, in its usual style, reminded us that patience is part of pilgrimage. Thankfully, the online booking option appeared like a small mercy, slicing through what would’ve been a long wait.
I honestly don’t remember ever visiting the Red Fort before. Perhaps I did as a child, carried in my dad’s arms, but the memory has dissolved into the fog of early years. Standing before those colossal red sandstone ramparts, I found myself wondering what this place must have felt like when it breathed as a fort—when footsteps were commands, not curiosities, and every archway carried the weight of an empire.
Inside, we drifted through Meena Bazaar first, though we promised ourselves we’d return to the shops later. The fort unfolded in chambers and courtyards—Diwan-i-Aam, Diwan-i-Khas, Rang Mahal—each space echoing with a faint residue of its former grandeur. But it was the museums that held me longest.
They stitched together the many rebellions and heartbreaks of India’s freedom struggle—the Revolt of 1857, the Ghadar Movement, the Partition of Bengal, Jallianwala Bagh, and so many other chapters that textbooks flatten into dates. Here, the audio-visual displays gave them pulse and texture, turning history into something you could almost touch. A few exhibits flickered or stood silent, perhaps under repair, and that carried its own melancholy—like missing pages in a story you were just beginning to feel.
In that moment, wandering through the Red Fort’s layered memories, it felt as though the past wasn’t behind us at all. It was right there, walking beside us, whispering its unfinished sentences.
While Tania wandered through the handicrafts and souvenirs, I found myself talking to a few of the shopkeepers instead. What caught me off guard wasn’t the merchandise, but the stories. Some of their families had been running those very shops for four or even five generations—holding on to a lineage of trade that had survived empires, governments, and the slow erosion of old Delhi’s rhythms.
In that moment, the bazaar felt less like a marketplace and more like a living archive. The souvenirs were incidental; it was the continuity, the quiet pride, the inheritance of craft that stayed with me long after we walked out.
Chandni Chowk
From the Red Fort, we walked into Chandni Chowk. Nothing really prepares you for it. It is noisy, crowded and chaotic. And somehow, it works. Rickshaws, scooters, pedestrians, vendors and shoppers all seem to move in every direction without any visible system. Yet everyone gets somewhere.
Our first stop was Old Famous Jalebi Wala. Fresh jalebis straight from the kadhai. Crisp outside. Soft inside. And exactly what we needed after walking through the heat.
While we were eating, Tapas Uncle shared one of the stories he’d heard about how Chandni Chowk earned its name. Later, I discovered that the market wasn’t just a chaotic marvel of old Delhi—it was a deliberate creation. Jahanara Begum, Shah Jahan’s daughter, had designed it with a canal running through its centre, a ribbon of water that once caught the moonlight and scattered it across the bazaar. That shimmering reflection gave the place its name: Chandni Chowk, the Moonlit Square.
History may or may not cling to you after you leave, but the jalebis certainly will. They’re the kind of sweetness that refuses to be forgotten.
Then came Paranthe Wali Gali. The parathas were good, though personally I found the place a little overrated considering its reputation. But the experience was entertaining.
A popular food vlogger had arrived just after us with cameras, lights and a full crew. Watching them work made me appreciate how much effort goes into producing even a short food video. Although some of the reactions seemed a little theatrical. Perhaps that is simply how social media works now.
Thankfully, Giani di Hatti came next. Kulfi-Falooda for Tapas Uncle and me. A milkshake for Tania. In the May heat, it tasted heavenly. And then we went shopping.
As we moved deeper into Chandni Chowk, Tania suddenly remembered that her mother wanted clothes to offer to Radha–Krishna at a temple back home. What was supposed to be a quick errand quietly transformed into another slow, meandering walk through the market. And strangely, that’s when Chandni Chowk felt most alive to me.
The moment you stop trying to reach a destination, the market reveals itself. One lane glitter with jewellery, another bursts with fabrics, another smells of spices, and yet another hums with electronics. Every few steps, the world changes. It genuinely felt as though if something exists, Chandni Chowk has already found a way to sell it.
After we finally found the offerings, we were looking for, Tapas Uncle walked us to the nearest Metro station before heading home. Saying goodbye felt unexpectedly heavy.
Over the last few days, he had done far more than ferry us from one place to another. He had quietly choreographed our days, shared stories that stitched meaning into the places we visited, introduced us to food we wouldn’t have discovered on our own, and made sure we never once had to worry about logistics.
Looking back, I’m convinced our trip wouldn’t have been the same without him. He wasn’t just guiding us through Delhi; he was guiding us through his memories, his city, his version of home.
Gurdwara Sis Ganj Sahib
Before heading back to the hotel, we made one final stop at Gurudwara Sis Ganj Sahib. The moment we stepped inside, the noise of Chandni Chowk seemed to dissolve, replaced by a calm that felt almost sacred. It’s a place where silence doesn’t feel empty—it feels inhabited.
That quiet carries a deeper weight when you remember what the site stands upon. Gurudwara Sis Ganj Sahib marks the martyrdom of the ninth Sikh Guru, Guru Tegh Bahadur, who was executed here in 1675 for defending religious freedom. The present structure was built much later, in 1783, yet the air inside still feels thick with the courage and sacrifice that shaped its history.
After spending the day wrapped in the chaos and colour of Chandni Chowk, that stillness felt like a gentle pause—an exhale we didn’t know we needed. We stood there for a few unhurried minutes, letting the calm settle into us.
And then, just as quietly, we stepped back out into the crowds again—one last immersion—to pick up a few souvenirs.
What I Remember
That evening, Aranjit Uncle, my father’s another school batchmate, invited us to a club for dinner. Guddu Bhaiya came to pick us up, and everyone gathered there. Tapas Uncle and his wife joined us soon afterwards, making it a nice evening to end the trip. The dinner itself was probably the least memorable meal of the trip.
The restaurant was crowded. The service was slow. The food was average. But the company was wonderful. And perhaps that was the lesson of the entire trip.
The next morning, as our flight took off, I realised I wasn’t thinking about the Red Fort. Or Akshardham. Or the jalebis. Or even the food. I was thinking about people. Tapas Uncle, who became our guide and chauffeur almost every day. Guddu Bhaiya, quietly taking us wherever we needed to go. Karan and Sakshi, who made time to meet us despite their busy schedules. Aranjit uncle for hosting us for dinner.
Mom, walking out of the hospital, reassured after a positive review. And Tania, finally getting to experience Delhi beyond hospital corridors and doctor’s appointments.
Perhaps that is what travel really gives us. Not a catalogue of places. Not a gallery of photographs. Not a checklist of monuments dutifully ticked off.
It gives us moments. People. Conversations. The detours we didn’t plan. A broken sandal that slows us down. A pair of shoes that didn’t live up to their promise. A plate of jalebis that absolutely did. A temple still crowded at nine at night. An old friend who feels suddenly new again. A family dinner that becomes the real highlight of the day. And memories that somehow grow more valuable only after the journey is over—like they needed time to ripen.
We had gone to Delhi because Mom had a medical appointment. We came back with something far harder to schedule, something no calendar can plan for.
Memories.
And perhaps that’s the best kind of journey—the one you didn’t intend to take but end up carrying with you long after the bags are unpacked.
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This is such a heartfelt and beautifully written piece. What I loved most was how the trip unfolded through people rather than places — and how wonderfully Tapas, my dear friend, became the thread tying so many moments together. Your reflections on Delhi’s chaos, kindness, nostalgia and unexpected detours were captured with such maturity. It’s a lovely reminder that the best journeys aren’t planned; they’re lived through the people who walk beside us.
Very true dad.
Tapas uncle was a gem of person to take care and responsibility of taking us around. That is rare to be found these days.
I realised some the charm of the capital city.
Judha, you have beautifully articulated your journey to Delhi this time. Enjoyed your company a lot. Love to show you more about Delhi next time but suggest you to come to Delhi in a conducive weather. You’ll enjoy more.
Sure uncle. Will be looking forward towards that day.
A great trip! I loved wandering Old Delhi and Paharganj is a fun place to spend some time. I’m glad you enjoyed it so much.
Very true. I enjoyed strolling too.
A detailed travelogue. Good that you combined the old and the new of Delhi. But one trip is not adequate enough to experience the city. Perhaps the next one will include much more in your itinerary. All the best.
I truly accept that. It is not enough and a lot of Delhi remains to be seen but we were short on time and tried to cover as much as possible.
I really appreciated this piece. Exploring a city during hospital visits carries a different kind of weight, and you captured that balance beautifully — the small pockets of normalcy, the contrasts, and the quiet ways a place can help you breathe again.
Thank you Kash.
As you may know, life is very busy if one is looking for time, but these moments of escape help us bear the rest of burden. This is what I like to follow and believe.
So nice