At The Lahore Karhai- Imtiaz Dharker

Imtiaz Dharker

The Poem-

It's a great day, Sunday,
when we pile into the car
and set off with a purpose –
a pilgrimage across the city,
to Wembley, the Lahore Karhai.
Lunch service has begun –
'No beer, we're Muslim' –
but the morning sun
squeezed into juice,
and 'Yaad na jaye'
on the two-in-one.                    

On the Grand Trunk Road
thundering across Punjab to Amritsar,
this would be a dhaba
where the truck-drivers pull in,
swearing and sweating,
full of lust for real food,
just like home.

Hauling our overloaded lives
the extra mile,
we're truckers of another kind,
looking hopefully (years away
from Sialkot and Chandigarh)
for the taste of our mothers'
hand in the cooking.

So we've arrived at this table:
the Lahore runaway;
the Sindhi refugee
with his beautiful wife
who prays each day to Krishna,
keeper of her kitchen and her life;
the Englishman too young
to be flavoured by the Raj;
the girls with silky hair,
wearing the confident air
of Bombay.

This winter we have learnt
to wear our past
like summer clothes.
Yes, a great day.
A feast! We swoop
on a whole family of dishes.
The tarka dal is Auntie Hameeda
the karhai ghosht is Khala Ameena
the gajjar halva is Appa Rasheeda.

The warm naan is you.

My hand stops half-way to my mouth.
The Sunday light has locked
on all of us:
the owner's smiling son,
the cook at the hot kebabs,
Kartar, Rohini, Robert,
Ayesha, Sangam, I,
bound together by the bread we break,
sharing out our continent.

These
are ways of remembering.
Other days, we may prefer
Chinese.

Summary-

“At the Lahore Karhai” by Imtiaz Dharker portrays the nostalgia experienced by Indians living outside their home land. The poet herself is of Indian origin but has been brought up in Wembley, a county in England with comparatively larger population of residents from Indian origin. The poet’s cultural background helps her to do justice to the emotions and feelings she has tried to express through her poem.

The poet narrates the old memories surfacing from within her heart as she travels down to the Lahore Karhai, Wembley, an Indian restaurant in the area, and she feels a powerful nostalgia erupting from within her. The fact that she calls it a pilgrimage itself expresses how meaningful this journey went down to be for her. She compares her journey to that of truck drivers back in India, driving their trucks on The Grand Trunk road, across Punjab to Amritsar, and then, drenched in sweat, swearing, getting down at a dhaba with an expectation to get food that tastes like home. She is also a trucker, only of a different kind. Instead of trucks, people like her, the Non-resident Indians, years away from their home in Sialkot and Chandigarh, bear the weight of the rush and chaos in their lives for some extra miles, and then at moments like these, they too stop, at restaurants and places which promise them the feeling of home, with a hope of getting a break, and giving a chance to the memories reverberating in their heart to come to life and fill their environment with nostalgia. With such a feeling does the poet enter the doors of Lahore Karhai, expecting the taste of her mother’s hands in the bread she is about to break.

She describes the company that she has got around her on the lunch table—a Sindhi migrant, who left her home back in Lahore, sitting with his wife who prays to Krishna everyday, “the keeper of her kitchen and her life”; an Englishman too young to be influenced by his domicile and instill that feeling of superiority, and two girls representing the typical Bombay culture with their confidence. She further goes on to say that that winter taught them to wear their past like summer clothes.

As they swoop on the divine meal on a great day, memories from past rejuvenate in the poet’s mind. Every dish she tastes reminds her of someone back home. The tarka dal reminds her of Auntie Hameeda, ever bite of karhai ghosht brings to life memories of Khala Ameena, and the gajjar halva synonymously reminds her of Appa Rasheeda. The warm naan reminds her of a second person singular “You”, perhaps referring to her soulmate. As she brings another bite near her mouth, her hand stops halfway to witness the divinity and nostalgia of the moment. The smiling face of the owner’s son, the look of the cook preparing the kebabs, and the fact that all people on the table feasting together--Kartar, Rohini, Robert, Ayesha, Sangam, and she herself—sharing their past, bounded together by the bread they break—the nostalgic meal. She wraps up by saying that activities such as these, such traditional feasts, are rather excuses for remembering our long-forgotten past. On a normal day, they would have preferred Chinese, but the tradition and nostalgia such a feast encompasses within itself is unparalleled and is perhaps more important a reason than the food itself why people such as her, Truckers of different kind, go for such a pilgrimage once in a while.