Hindi

A producer phones Noah's restaurant: is that Noah, yes speaking, who's this, Vikram speaking from an FM station, go ahead, the thing is that we want ten minutes of food every Saturday, your Hindi is fine, say yes before he hangs up, done, seven sharp and we'll talk again.

The studio at a quarter to seven: you're Noah, sit, don't be nervous, I'm not nervous I'm shaking, now the familiar you but red light on and everyone gets the polite you, even you, on air I'm your host not your friend, what do I say first, hello to the listeners and your name in one breath, thirty seconds left, good morning Delhi with us is Noah, hello Delhi I'm Noah and I'm scared.

The first broadcast: Diwali is in a week, what do we make, gram-flour laddoos, first of all take two cups of gram flour, and then, roast it in clarified butter on a low flame for twenty minutes, my listeners have jobs too, then the laddoos will burn, after that mix in the sugar once it has cooled, at the end make the balls while it's warm and hide them from the children, Delhi you heard him.

The phone-in's first caller: hello, is this the radio, you're on air aunty ji tell us your name, Kamla from Lajpat Nagar and Noah son you said too little clarified butter, who else, half a cup is a joke and in my house it's a full cup, you're right Dadi ji but what will the doctors say, doctors eat my laddoos too, come to the studio one day, send the auto.

Gupta ji's store on a Monday morning: look who's here, the radio star, Gupta ji not you too, now you must not be recognising us, Raju bhaiya I ride in your auto every day, my wife heard it and says the boy talks better than Rohan, don't tell Rohan, he'll have heard already and the whole lane is talking, an autograph on the sugar bag, give me the sugar first.

The studio at six on a foggy December morning: come in the chai's hot, I'm dying of cold and my life is leaving me, Portland has no winter, it does but with heating and here the house is colder than the street, Delhi winter is two sweaters a monkey cap and a quilt at the table, my hands and feet are numb so who'll hold the microphone, everyone's late in the fog and on air in two minutes, then bring the chai to the microphone.

On air: what do you cook every day, I cook dal every day in the woman's form, Delhi our guest has just become a woman, I mean I cook and sorry once more, it's live radio and nothing comes back, then let it stand because women cook better anyway, saved and what were you saying, what was I saying yes the dal.

The phone-in: I'm Rekha from Rohini with a question for Noah ji, ask, when your wife scolds you is it in Hindi or in English, in both and I understand neither this nor that, Delhi he's a chef too and a doctor's husband too, either she's at the hospital or I'm at the restaurant so the scolding is on the phone, and how do you make up, whether in Hindi or in English, with food.

The shop at noon: that voice, you're the radio one, yes aunty ji that's him, our American and my brother-in-law, what a thing, I made your laddoos and everyone ate them up, not at all it's all because of Rohan's shop, take a kilo he made these, if they're bad scold Rohan, you've done wonders so give me two kilos, it's your love aunty ji.

Sunday breakfast after the replay: you spoke well but slower because half of Delhi is my age, Saturday evening come to the shop and we play cards on the roof, we'll see, in Delhi we'll see means no so say yes or say no, it'll get done means never and I'm coming right now means an hour, then for sure Saturday, for sure and bring a sweater because the roof is cold, he'll bring two.

The roof of the shop in Chandni Chowk on a December Saturday, a rope cot and a coal brazier: Papa ji presents his son-in-law, Bhalla ji from the cloth shop next door calls him son and asks if he plays, Sonu brings the chai, and the lane's names for everyone, with the little no at the end that asks for agreement.

Court piece on the roof of the shop, Papa ji and Noah against Bhalla ji and Raju bhaiya: shuffle and deal, five each, who calls the trump, the four suits and the court cards, don't tell him he's the other side, play the ace, pick the trick up and keep it, and the chai is on Bhalla ji.

Three hands lost on the roof, and the table turns on Noah: so you've turned out a big player, oh really, let it be, the cards were just bad, the player was fine was he, look who's talking, is that so, then deal again, and the chai is on you anyway, son.

Sonu tastes the chocolate milk sweet Noah made for the shop: awesome, killer, the old one was useless, just time pass, and each slang word beside the ordinary word it replaces, with Rohan's rule for the counter and Bhalla ji's for the radio.

A Saturday afternoon at the shop, a wedding order of forty kilos by six and the fridge dead: call the repairman, tomorrow means never, Sonu sent next door, it'll work out, Papa ji has an arrangement, we'll manage with ice, in Delhi everything works, that's a make-do fix, and if it doesn't, forty kilos of sweets to eat.

A winning hand on the roof and Bhalla ji slips into Punjabi: hey son, how's it going, great great, brother Raju deal; Raju bhaiya translates, Noah asks whether to answer in Punjabi, and the rule is answer in Hindi, half of Delhi does.

The stall at the corner of the lane on a winter evening: hot hot, fresh fresh, four for twenty, potato patties, two plates separate with less chilli on one, chai or something, chaat or something, a little water or something, and slowly slowly, sir, it's hot.

The cards stop for the last over on Bhalla ji's old radio, India batting: quiet, a six, what a shot, a catch, no, dropped, oh man, good grief with hands like that, go on, you'd have dropped it too, whose turn is it, nobody's playing now, a four, and chai for everyone.

Bhalla ji explains how Delhi runs, in the words of the card table: never show your cards first, keep a trump card in your pocket, the cheap supplier and the landlord's cousin, never put all your cards on one hand, an empty hand, and the one who wins the game is the one who went home before the chai.

The end of the evening on the roof and Sonu's account: eight chais and two plates of patties, the loser pays, which loser, two games each, the one who lost the last one, Papa ji's side this time and next time the one who arrives late, that's always Raju, two sweets for Sonu, and one for the one who deals.

The roof of the shop on a January evening, Bhalla ji's lesson between two hands of cards: a joke has three parts, once upon a time, a man goes to the doctor and says he forgets everything, since when, since when what, never explain a joke, tell it in the present, and stop at the punch.

A rooftop dhaba in Paharganj past midnight, after the shop closes: come up, the clay oven's still hot, three butter parathas and the dal with the tempering, the big glass of chai or the small one, the radio one is the dhaba's guest, the one with extra butter is Sonu's, and the pickle one is the sweets man's.

The same rooftop dhaba in Paharganj, past one: Rohan tells Noah's first day at the shop, he ate like an elephant, two sweets become two hundred, a story told a hundred times, a thousand, he drank water like a camel, so much chilli that he nearly died, every story doubles at this dhaba, so Noah makes it four hundred.

A Sunday at Lajpat Nagar, Meera on Noah's knee: awesome in front of the baby, sorry, a habit from the roof, here we say very good, not killer but superb, not useless but bad, he talks like the Chandni Chowk crowd now, the proper word in front of elders and on the radio, and on the roof too, because Mummy ji hears everything.

Dadi ji's room on a winter morning: how are you, little one, have you eaten, in the speech of her village, then the same words as Delhi says them, not yet, then eat, I'm making the paratha, what did you say, he followed, he answered, didn't he, how should I answer, in your Hindi, son, I understand everything, then two parathas.

Raju bhaiya's auto in a jam on the ring road at noon, Noah late for the shop: it will be seen, don't take tension, the jam is a kilometre long, this is Delhi, brother, everything goes, and if the order is late, what has to be done will be done, and if nobody does it, it'll all get done, Delhi ran five hundred years without you.

The Sharmas' sitting room on a Sunday afternoon, Meera ten months old: where's grandma, why do you call Mummy ji grandma, from Meera's side, my mother is her grandma and Papa ji her grandpa, Rohan her uncle, Neha her aunt, Dadi ji her great-grandmother, then what am I, you're daddy, she says milk and sleep, clap, bye-bye to uncle, dirty, don't touch.

Sunday lunch at Lajpat Nagar in February, rice pudding on the table: she said grandma, never, she said grandpa, I heard it with my own ears, nonsense, she looked at me and said great-grandma, believe it or not, she said nothing, all lies, she said one word clearly, what was it, more, she looked at the pudding and said more, then give her more, the first word is settled.

The roof of the shop on a Saturday evening, the card table as the jury: may I tell a joke in Hindi, tell it, son, we're listening, an American tells an auto driver to go by the meter, the driver says the meter is running, the auto isn't, that one's cold, I laughed a little, it went over my head, what's the punch, the punch was fine, the timing late, next week a hotter one.

Holi at the shop's door in Chandni Chowk in March, colour everywhere, sweet pastries and the cold almond milk: don't mind, it's Holi, that was my ear, let me put colour on you too, put it on, everything's pink already, Rohan is filming the shop's hundred years, the book club wants Noah to read a story aloud, a story, in Hindi, with a punch, stay happy, live long, eat a sweet pastry.