The last time our daughter accompanied us for a movie at a neighbourhood mall, we were late because she kept bumping into friends, causing us distress at the delay, which was nothing compared to her embarrassment at being seen out with her parents. “All my friends will think I’m a loser,” she moaned tragically throughout the screening, “I won’t be able to go to college tomorrow, I’ll never be able to show my face in public anymore” – which turned out to be a huge exaggeration – but which meant, sadly for us, the end of her going-out-with-parents days. It also meant that we were barred from making public appearances at places we liked to sometimes turn up after a party, but where we now risked running into our children — lounges and nightclubs and hookah bars where they liked to hang around with their own, and which no longer included us.
Soon, the no-go zones spread to include shopping areas and hangouts, coffee shops and malls. We could no longer grab a sandwich somewhere convenient without first clearing it with our children. Only a few innocuous places met with their approval for us, but when the restriction rules were rewritten for Khan Market, my wife rebelled. “It’s where I buy my groceries, and meat,” she pointed out. She was informed that corridor of the market was okay for her to use, I was free to visit the bookshop, the home stores passed their litmus test for us, but it was the restaurants where all of us gathered frequently to eat that required the most negotiating.
Route 04 was barred to us, which was fine since I didn’t particularly care to sit in a fugue of smoke, but as a result we didn’t want the children to surprise us at Market Café; they didn’t particularly care for Café Turtle since it was vegetarian, we won the right to entry to The Kitchen, but Big Chill was off limits. And a few dining spots remained open to both parties, including Sidewok and Blanco, while a few were designated family spots, these including the hugely popular and my daughter’s favourite Mamagoto, and the buzzing and crowded Amici. The new zoning territories brought with it complaints about rules being bent — my wife, our daughter complained, had been seen by her friends at Café Coffee Day, which was not part of her corridor-sanitaire. The owner of The Kitchen called to say she was delighted to see our son so frequently at the restaurant, which resulted in a slang-fest between him and his mother.
Not that fights, always erupting in the city, were new to Khan Market. If it was the city’s social spot number one where you could hardly walk for running into friends, neighbours and colleagues, it was also where tempers flared over parking spaces, once causing a high-profile journalist to sock it to a diplomat. Cars peeled more than just paint off each other as owners lost their sheen and let off volleys of Delhi’s choicest, or withheld parking tips. Which is why this week’s accident that resulted in the manager of Amici being run over after another car bumped into his, was the more horrific, especially when it could so easily have been ended with just a barrelful of abuse, to which all Khan Market-goers are inured.
But it has brought with it another conundrum. When is it alright to return to Khan Market without appearing insensitive? Will going there for a tuck-in with the family so soon after the tragedy be an insult to the memory of the young man who lost his life there, or a requiem? Perhaps a question that is best put to the test over soup and pizza … at Amici itself?
