Ticket to India by N. H. Senzai Page B

lanes, they walked until they stumbled upon a small shop surrounded by a crowd of people, all watching a big-bellied cook who faced a huge pan filled with bubbling oil.
    Naniamma stopped in her tracks, a childlike smile spreading across her face. “It’s still here,” she whispered reverently.
    â€œWhat is it?” asked Zara, peering down at the map.
    â€œIt’s Ghantewala,” said Naniamma .
    â€œA sweet shop?” said Maya, catching sight of the blue-and-yellow sign.
    Naniamma nodded. “My father used to bring us here for jalebis .”
    They joined the crush, watching the cook squeeze squiggles of batter from a muslin cloth bag into the hot oil, hands moving in quick circles. They look like funnel cakes, Maya thought. She’d eaten them in Karachi but had never seen them being made. Once golden brown, they were tossed in a vat of sugar syrup.
    â€œDo you want one?” asked Naniamma .
    At their eager nods, she purchased three and handed them out. Maya sank her teeth into the crisp surface, releasing warm, gooey sweetness. She closed her eyes with pleasure.
    â€œIt’s still delicious,” sighed Naniamma . “Three hundred years ago, the emperor’s elephants would stop here and wouldn’t budge until they got their treats!”
    â€œThis store has been here that long?” said Maya in wonder.
    â€œWow,” added Zara, grinning at Maya before taking another bite. “I can’t say I blame them.”
    Maya looked back at the map. Still eating, they paused in the shade of a tall, Gothic-style sandstonepillar, capped by a crucifix. As Maya probed the map for a detour, her sister read out the plaque at the pillar’s base:
    In memory of the officers and soldiers, British and native, of the Delhi Field Force who were killed in action or died of wounds or disease between the 30th May and 20th September 1857 . . .
    â€œWhat’s this?” asked Zara.
    Maya paused and matched the landmark to the page in their guidebook. “It’s the Delhi Mutiny Memorial.”
    Naniamma grimaced. “Yes,” she murmured. “Indian soldiers rose up in mutiny against the British. They wanted to restore the last Mughal emperor, Bahadur Shah Zafar, to power. So the British invaded Delhi in response. They razed much of the city and exiled the emperor and his family to Rangoon. The people of Delhi, both rich and poor, were evicted from their homes and massacred.”
    Zara inched away from the pillar, frowning.
    â€œWe’ll go this way,” said Maya, pointing down at the map.
    They entered an alley where gold and silver ­jewelrysparkled from shopwindows. A few blocks down, they slipped into a narrower alley, barely two feet wide. Zara took a left turn into a wider passage and they stumbled into a sprawling market that seemed to go on for a mile.
    â€œWow,” muttered Maya, transfixed by the sight.
    Embroidered silks, delicate lawns, rich velvets, heavy brocades, dyed cottons, soft wools, stiff linens, airy chiffons, jeweled taffetas, sparkling sequins, and delicate lace extended in all directions. Spools of fabric were stacked by color. There was an entire section of pink, from the palest blush to eye-jarring fuchsia—and so many shades of red, orange, yellow, green, violet, indigo, brown, white, and black that it would take years to figure out the range of hues. It reminded Maya of a similar place in Karachi, where her mother and aunts went to buy fabrics to take to their tailor. But nothing compared to the scale of this place.
    â€œIncredible, isn’t it?” said Naniamma .
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    As they reached the other end of the bazaar, Naniamma pointed in excitement. “There!” she said. Maya looked and spotted a glimmer of gold in the distance.
    They emerged a block down from the mosque, a delicate building with a faded golden dome, overshadowed by the newer, clunky additions. Barely glancing