October 9, 2021 | Leave a comment Every morning in the quiet, four o’clock murk of a village outside Dharamshala, a humble, slightly balding man begins to stir from his sleep. Potatoes are boiled. The dal of the day, chili chutney, and whole wheat dough are carefully prepared. Everything is loaded onto a scooter and he’s off. At seven o’clock Vikram has already served the first plates to regulars at his narrow stall. By ten, sometimes nine, he’s sold out. Falling In Love With India’s Finest Aloo Parantha A Vikram आलू पराठा on a bench is the only way to start my day. Calling it an obsession is an understatement. His potato (aloo) flatbread (paraa ṭha) with the unique infusion of fresh cilantro into the filling dictated my sleep schedule. Combined with the fiery chutney and creamy beans, Vikram has metamorphosed the paradigm North Indian breakfast into a one of a kind fare. This starch fest alone decided where I rented a room and what time I ate my first and last meals. Dreams and drool would mix together as I spent hours anticipating his heartfelt food with a side of Nepali grin. When that first bite hits I almost cry. Arriving to the sealed door of an abandoned stall is just as much of a tear jerker. The majority of my Monthly Moods from half a year in Himachal Pradesh include some sort of ode, Selfie Sunday, or photo dump of my Parantha* On A Cold Bench ritual. *For clarity and consistency I use the most common latin spelling of ‘parantha.’ Macleod Ganj, Dharamshala, Himachal Pradesh. A great parantha stall uses fresh ingredients, provides consistent quality and flavor, and makes the customer feel at home. It is necessary to admit that a year ago I swore on an AlooP made in another Himachali Valley. While veto-ing the World’s Best Parantha title belonging to Meena in Manikaran makes me feel like a traitor, truth cannot be ignored. Meena is still the Parantha Queen and has all the experience to prove it. Her paneer pyaz parantha, a typical cheese and onion-stuffed parantha which I have donned as P3, is tastier than Vikram’s. Any flatbread Meena touches beats Indian pizzerias by a long shot. Meena the Parantha Queen. Initially in Dharamshala I lived in a higher village that was a good 25 minutes trek away from Vikram’s stall. When the spring mornings were still as crisp as I wanted my parantha crust to be, I was flying down that winding asphalt to breakfast. They were the longest 25 minutes of my life. “Good morning! Parantha? Have a seat.” Seat meant anywhere along a row of green metal benches stretching from the police post to the MacLeod Ganj taxi parking lot. The Gossip Benches have been known since the ‘80s for their flamboyant social atmosphere. After a week, one starts to distinguish the characters—Vikram’s friends who help him grease and flip, Vikram’s paid helpers, loners who come out just for a sit and may or may not be fully cognizant. Tibetan grannies with pangden aprons around their waist, malas churning in between their fingers, and thick nests of silver hair pinned on their heads, share pieces of homemade bread and always appear in fours. Even on the walk down from my village, I got so used to the ancient Tibetan mataji walking her pug that I knew where her route ended (aka where she lived.) After a few weeks, these characters start to know you. Vikram’s stall is signaled by steam. A delay of zero to 30 minutes will pass, depending on how many bulk orders from groups of ravenous men are already pending, before a work of art arrives. Most mornings a friend of Vikram’s brings the metal tray over to me. Vikram has scant time to step away from his floury workspace. The tray is sectioned into four. The top center contains some of the best dal I’ve had in 22 months in India, especially on urad dal days. The main compartment holds the star of the show: a hot potato pancake that is soft and pulls apart like a pastry, defying the whole wheat laws of physics. All this glory is encased an outermost layer which has been roasted to a light crisp. Vikram is Nepali, born and brought up locally in the Dharamshala district of India. His slight protrusion of belly demands respect and clearly indicates his pancake prowess. His rich voice is at once commanding and subservient to his clientele. “Makkhan? Of course. Take your pat of butter.” This precise sensation of devotion was what caught my attention the first time I visited Vikram. I was briskly walking by after a night of buses and watching men get slapped by bus drivers. Of all the food stalls operating at 8am, one had a sincere smile. The steam billowing off the tawa and the amount of satisfied diners promised potential. That morning I wasn’t hungry. Throughout the previous night I had nibbled chocolate, sipped chai, and thrown back fistfuls of cashews as the buses cut across three states and crawled to 1,800 meters above sea level. I was pressed to find a room in a village another two kilometers uphill, and get my body into a horizontal position. Yet intuition had me backtrack. The sight of fresh food awoke a craving for a hot meal. That first AlooP embedded itself in my tastebuds’ memory. It would be weeks before I returned, but I did. I started frequenting. Weeks became months and when Vikram saw me he would bellow out that Indian “O hoo!” of endearment and recognition. Ordering myself a Vikram parantha, a hefty portion of carbs at an hour far before I’d normally start eating, paired with a cardamom chai from his neighbor Ajju, was an act of self-love. I could feel pure joy from Vikram’s made-from-scratch masterpiece enter my bloodstream and fill my heart. I would chew in silence and watch these eccentric humans and dogs hustle back and forth in front of me. Then each fresh bite would relaunch my soul into space. Between mouthfuls of plant starch, on the bench purposely selected for being distanced from others, I sipped chai. Ajju makes the best chai in Dharamshala. He always keeps two kettles ready to pour, one sweetened and one without sugar. He splits himself between his stall, delivering orders to shops on other streets, and making rounds along the benches to collect finished glasses. He effortlessly memorized my order: a small glass, half-half sweetened and unsweetened chai. He always said good morning with a deep bow of the head and asked how I was. Loneliness is impossible in Ajju’s presence. A beautiful segment of tree grows through Ajju Tea Shop. Sometimes traffic insisted that tires roll way too close to my foot or that engines puff me with a hearty dose of exhaust. Sometimes I put my hat under my bum to insulate me from the frigid bars of the bench. In a town overrun by tourism, feeding myself became a full immersion into the neighborhood scene. Vikram’s friends treated me capitally. They made me feel protected while I indulged in my bubble of solitude, despite my exposure in that man’s world. By that I mean after 8:30 I was often the only female among the benches and stalls. The meal terminates with a belly perfectly nourished. On an unexpected return to Dharamshala, I visited Vikram hours before I began my Vipassana course. That day he gave me extra change. “Friend price,” he grinned with a friendly head tilt. 25 rupees. Just thinking about it makes me blush. Shortly after the Vipassana, as I was placing my finished plate on the stack of dirty dishes, Vikram announces that my “payment is done.” “What?” “Somebody paid for you.” “Who?!” With a wave of his hand to the table inside his stall he says, “already gone.” No matter how much I touted on the grandiosity of breakfast at Vikram’s, the traveler community was deaf to my praise. They wouldn’t wake up on time. It was more appetizing to stay in the tourist-infested villages and pay double for half the taste than moving one’s legs to town. Aside from the four friends I personally escorted and introduced to Vikram, hundreds of travelers living for months in Dharamshala remained isolated from local life and never knew what they were missing. Vikram was undeniably the love and light of my Dharamshala days. When asked what the secret to a good aloo parantha is, Vikram would shrug. If pushed for an answer, the dear man would say, “Potatoes. Potatoes from Barot.” Vikram specifically uses a spud strain from Barot Valley, famed in Himachal for the taste and quality of their potatoes. But I know the secret is no secret at all. It is him. who: vikramwhat: the best aloo parantha in the worldwhere: “bhagsu dhaba,” macleod ganj taxi standwhen: 7-10am menualoo parantha (recommended)— 30rpaneer parantha (when available)— 40rplain parantha— ? The staff changes and from 11am-3pm the stall serves cheap vegetarian and mutton rice meals. ajju tea shopsmall chai— 10r More posts galore about this six-year journey and in my India archive.