Connaught Place—where memory pays rent, and nostalgia never vacates.

There are cities, and then there are emotions disguised as cities. And for me, Connaught Place—or simply CP—is not a marketplace; it is a yearly pilgrimage. Like some people must visit Vaishno Devi to feel spiritually aligned, I must circle CP at least once a year to reassure myself that time, though mischievous, has not entirely defeated memory.

I come from Kolkata to Delhi three to four times a year, but one visit to CP is non-negotiable. It is my personal audit—of life, of ageing, and of inflation.

As a schoolboy, CP was intimidating. The shops looked at me the way a five-star hotel looks at a man carrying a jhola—politely, but with boundaries. My engagement with CP was limited to the cinema halls—Odeon Cinema, Plaza Cinema, Rivoli Cinema and Regal Cinema. Those were temples of a different kind—air-conditioned dreams where heroes solved problems I hadn’t yet encountered.

Eating? That was an elite sport. My budget permitted only respectful glances at restaurants, except for occasional visits to Standard Coffee House—where I would stretch one cappuccino and a biscuit into a full philosophical session. The jukebox there was my Spotify of the 60s. One coin, one song, and for three minutes, I was king of CP.

Later, as an IIT-going young man—slightly richer in pocket, much richer in confidence—I upgraded my culinary geography. Mohan Singh Place became my adda. Affordable food, unlimited discussions, and the illusion that we were shaping the nation between two cups of chai.

Time, however, is a ruthless redevelopment authority.

Yesterday, during my annual pilgrimage with Madhuri, I felt a pinch of that quiet sadness. My trusted winter companion, Snowhite, is closing down. For years, it had wrapped me in woollens and nostalgia. Shops don’t just sell goods—they store fragments of our lives. When they shut down, a part of us is evicted without notice.

And then there was Gaylord—long gone, replaced by Pind Balluchi. I have nothing against butter chicken nationalism, but memories don’t change tenants so easily.

The ritual, however, continues unchanged—especially the pre-lunch marital debate.

Choosing a restaurant with one’s wife is a structured process:

1. Reject 10 options.

2. Disagree on the 11th.

3. Blame each other for hunger.

4. Finally settle somewhere neither had originally proposed.

This time, I brought in modern technology—consulted ChatGPT. Madhuri looked at me as if I had outsourced my marital responsibilities.

“अब ये भी बताएगा क्या खाना है?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said with confidence I did not possess.

Thus we landed at 38 Barracks, after a determined march from E Block to M Block—CP ensuring that one earns one’s भोजन.

The place had a colonial army theme—portraits, memorabilia, and a quiet reminder that once upon a time, even leisure had discipline. We arrived early (a rare achievement), and though most tables wore “Reserved” signs like VIP badges, we managed to secure one—proof that in India, timing is everything, including lunch.

The menu arrived like a UPSC syllabus. I handed it to Madhuri with the generosity of a statesman.

“You decide,” I said.

She scanned it, turned a few pages, sighed, and surrendered.

“तुम ही कर लो।”

Victory.

Little did she know, the decision had already been taken the previous day while writing about butter and its philosophical implications. Butter Chicken with butter naan—it was destined.

The gravy arrived rich, unapologetic, shimmering with butter as if cholesterol had declared independence. The chicken, admittedly, was slightly lacking in enthusiasm, but the gravy more than compensated—like a good politician covering up for a weak candidate.

A bowl of mixed vegetable salad sat quietly, like the conscience of the meal—present, but ignored.

In the background, a young man with a guitar sang old Hindi songs softly. On my way to the washroom, I could not resist offering unsolicited advice—a habit acquired over decades of management.

“मन लगाकर अच्छा गाना गाओ,” I told him.

He nodded politely—the universal signal for “I will forget this immediately.”

We stepped out satisfied—stomach full, nostalgia slightly stirred, and wallet respectfully lighter.

The final ritual remained—a visit to the footpath bookstall. There, among uneven piles and literary democracy, I found a book by Haruki Murakami. CP never lets me return empty-handed; it insists on sending me back with a story.

As I walked past M Block, I noticed that The TGF (Thank God It's Friday) is preparing to occupy space there. Another new chapter, another old memory waiting to be overwritten.

Such is CP.

Every year, something disappears. Every year, something arrives. And every year, I walk its circles—half as a visitor, half as a witness.

Because Connaught Place is not just a place.

It is a reminder that while cities evolve, we continue to search for our younger selves—somewhere between a cup of cappuccino, a butter-laden gravy, and a song playing faintly in the background.