I had just walked a girl home and was still dizzy with her when I stumbled in.
In the Himalayan cold, the warm light of the shack’s one light bulb reflected off its ridged sheet-metal walls inwards, as if the building was cozying in on itself. Two Tibetans were inside already, ribbing each other and the proprietor, a young man who worked the kitchen all by himself (the eponymous Charun), his movements jumpy and with his youth still uncontrolled. They bent themselves over the mountains of steaming rice on their mismatched plates, drizzled with mutton curry and constellations of meat, guided by the bones. They looked up and immediately started talking as if I’d been there the whole time. Getting to know them slipped by with the same easygoing intimacy time does in warm dhabas like this one. Charun handed me my plate of momos (Himalayan Dumplings) with an endearing and slightly jerky overreach. They were ten, piled thick on the plate and stuffed full. Entirely too much for the time of night or the price (Rs. 70!) Each one pulled apart in my mouth with a tender juiciness, studded with onion and coriander cooked in the jus of the meat, and they were gone in half an hour of joking around with Nema and Lopsang, who at that point had told me their whole political philosophies and personal backstories. Nema, a junior-account-cum-investor, put his arm over my shoulder when he leaned in and said “You know, Donald Trump is a great man.” I just smiled back at him and laughed. Pacified as only momos and steaming chai can.
Since that first night, I’ve been to Charun Café at least once a week (sometimes as many as five times). I’ve met Charun’s father and talked with them about their family (his sister just received her MSc in Electrical Engineering! When her father speaks about it both he and Charun beam.) A fervent proselytizer on the joys of cheap eats, I’ve recommended it to everyone who wanders through Bir. Where else can you get “Rice Full Diet” (mounds of rice, daal, and subzi) for Rs. 50? But there is something nourishing to it beyond the food. Maybe something nourishing about all dhabas. Something in seeing the food prepared, the dough rolled and the vegetables chopped, right there, so unpretentiously, as if your own parents were making the meal. Everyone has a hard bench and everyone talks. It is cooking with friends with new friends and without having to cook.
There are these moments too, that break out unexpectedly like the salt-rush of broth in a momo. Nema and Lopsang were close to leaving when he ambled in, drunk in the way only people who are often drunk can be. Knowing I was working at a Buddhist studies center, they, respectfully, egged him to talk to me. Contented with his own wry smile, he sat in the corner and grinned. Nema and Lopsang had just left when his food arrived, the rice and mutton curry pluming steam. He picked up a bone and split it with his teeth, then sucked out the marrow and cleared his throat.
What followed was one of the most insightful discussions of the Upanishads I’ve ever heard.
He has an MA in Buddhist philosophy from Delhi University. He used to teach around here at one of the renowned centers. I found out what Nema and Lopsang called him in Tibetan was “Drunken Master” (more than half-seriously). He smiled and offered me a cigarette and as we advanced to another topic I learned more about Narajuna than from a five-day retreat on his works.
Where else could this happen? These dhabas are the tiny theaters where one million beautiful, human plays are acted out each day. To not visit, to not cherish them, is to turn one eye from life. To forget the subtle joys of chance encounters. The ever-special movement of steam rising from curry.
The girl left town the next morning. I took her to breakfast first. Parantha, daal, two eggs and chai for Rs. 40. Joked around with Charun a little too. It was perfect. And, when she waved goodbye from the last time from the cab, it seemed like a little less of a parting.
In the Himalayan cold, the warm light of the shack’s one light bulb reflected off its ridged sheet-metal walls inwards, as if the building was cozying in on itself. Two Tibetans were inside already, ribbing each other and the proprietor, a young man who worked the kitchen all by himself (the eponymous Charun), his movements jumpy and with his youth still uncontrolled. They bent themselves over the mountains of steaming rice on their mismatched plates, drizzled with mutton curry and constellations of meat, guided by the bones. They looked up and immediately started talking as if I’d been there the whole time. Getting to know them slipped by with the same easygoing intimacy time does in warm dhabas like this one. Charun handed me my plate of momos (Himalayan Dumplings) with an endearing and slightly jerky overreach. They were ten, piled thick on the plate and stuffed full. Entirely too much for the time of night or the price (Rs. 70!) Each one pulled apart in my mouth with a tender juiciness, studded with onion and coriander cooked in the jus of the meat, and they were gone in half an hour of joking around with Nema and Lopsang, who at that point had told me their whole political philosophies and personal backstories. Nema, a junior-account-cum-investor, put his arm over my shoulder when he leaned in and said “You know, Donald Trump is a great man.” I just smiled back at him and laughed. Pacified as only momos and steaming chai can.
Since that first night, I’ve been to Charun Café at least once a week (sometimes as many as five times). I’ve met Charun’s father and talked with them about their family (his sister just received her MSc in Electrical Engineering! When her father speaks about it both he and Charun beam.) A fervent proselytizer on the joys of cheap eats, I’ve recommended it to everyone who wanders through Bir. Where else can you get “Rice Full Diet” (mounds of rice, daal, and subzi) for Rs. 50? But there is something nourishing to it beyond the food. Maybe something nourishing about all dhabas. Something in seeing the food prepared, the dough rolled and the vegetables chopped, right there, so unpretentiously, as if your own parents were making the meal. Everyone has a hard bench and everyone talks. It is cooking with friends with new friends and without having to cook.
There are these moments too, that break out unexpectedly like the salt-rush of broth in a momo. Nema and Lopsang were close to leaving when he ambled in, drunk in the way only people who are often drunk can be. Knowing I was working at a Buddhist studies center, they, respectfully, egged him to talk to me. Contented with his own wry smile, he sat in the corner and grinned. Nema and Lopsang had just left when his food arrived, the rice and mutton curry pluming steam. He picked up a bone and split it with his teeth, then sucked out the marrow and cleared his throat.
What followed was one of the most insightful discussions of the Upanishads I’ve ever heard.
He has an MA in Buddhist philosophy from Delhi University. He used to teach around here at one of the renowned centers. I found out what Nema and Lopsang called him in Tibetan was “Drunken Master” (more than half-seriously). He smiled and offered me a cigarette and as we advanced to another topic I learned more about Narajuna than from a five-day retreat on his works.
Where else could this happen? These dhabas are the tiny theaters where one million beautiful, human plays are acted out each day. To not visit, to not cherish them, is to turn one eye from life. To forget the subtle joys of chance encounters. The ever-special movement of steam rising from curry.
The girl left town the next morning. I took her to breakfast first. Parantha, daal, two eggs and chai for Rs. 40. Joked around with Charun a little too. It was perfect. And, when she waved goodbye from the last time from the cab, it seemed like a little less of a parting.