A Tribute to DU’s Bhelpuriwala

Mr Sunil Sethi wasn’t just a Bhelpuriwala. He was in many ways the heart of DU’s North Campus. His cart had seen it all: new friends, breakups, breakdowns, revolutions, and reconciliations.  

Last Monday, Delhi woke up to its usual cocktail of smog and despair, with an AQI so high it felt like the city had collectively decided to give up on oxygen. Razi or as the world knows him, Prof. Raziuddin Aquil, my long-time crime partner in kulhar chai and bhelpuri at the Arts Faculty gate, showed up late. I was waiting with my colleague Parul (Prof Parul Pandya Dhar), our masks pulled up against the toxic air, when Razi arrived, looking unusually solemn.  “Bhai, ek sad news hai,” he said, pausing dramatically.  

“What news?” I asked, half-worried.  

“Bhelpuri man is no more,” Razi said, his voice heavy with grief.  

“What do you mean, “no more”? “No more bhelpuri? Or no more Mr. Sethi?” I asked, still clinging to a shred of hope. “Yes,” Mr Sunil Sethi, the behlpuriwala passed away, Razi replied. And just like that, it felt like someone had stolen the soul of North Campus.  

In one of the busiest roads of Delhi University’s North Campus, where academic aspirations met the lively chaos of student life, one name resonated among the chaiwalas and eatery stalls – Mr. Sethi, lovingly called Pinki Uncle by students.  His cart was not far from the Arts Faculty gate, the epicenter of student protests, faculty debates, and general campus drama. No matter the cause—fees hikes, syllabus changes, or just poor facilities in the campus—Pinki Uncle was a constant. His appeal survived evolving snack trends of Zomato and Swiggy of the 21st century. I had been visiting him since my Ramjas days in the late ’80s, back when Walkmans were the height of cool and Instagram and Facebook did not exist to ruin our productivity. His bhelpuri thrived in the 1990s, back when the iconic 3:30 U-Special buses would rumble out from the Health Centre’s corner, and the concept of metros was still a distant dream.

Mr Sethi was not just another street vendor. Dressed in a neatly pressed kurta and his signature pink gamcha casually draped around his neck, he was a campus icon. His cart, a humble setup of puffed rice, peanuts, papdi, and mystery powders and chutni, was the nucleus of North Campus life.  His bhelpuri was nothing short of legendary. A perfect amalgamation of Bombay’s Chaupati flair and Calcutta’s Jhalmuri tang, tied together with his teekhi green chatni. That chatni! It was the stuff of dreams—or nightmares if you underestimated its spice. He often claimed it was his ancestor’s recipe, a legacy smuggled across the border during Partition. One spoonful of that chatni could transform any plate of bhelpuri into a symphony of fiery flavors. And if we dared to request, Bhaiya, “thodi mirch kam rakhiyega”, he’d flash his signature grin and quip, “Teekhi chatni nahi khai toh bhelpuri kaisi”!

But the magic wasn’t just in the bhelpuri—it was in the ritual.  First came the wait. Standing in line was an event. We shared some of our finest moments in carefree chatter. Friends caught up, strangers bonded, and exam stress evaporated in the air thick with the spicy aroma of puffed rice and tangy chatni.  Then there was the performance. Mr Sethi would toss ingredients into his oversized stainless-steel bowl with the flair of a maestro conducting an orchestra with his mixing spoon. The rhythmic clang of his spoon against the bowl was the soundtrack of the afternoon of arts faculty gate. A single spoonful of chatni could elevate any mood. Students joked that Pinki Uncle had two types of customers – those who loved the spice and those who cried through it but kept coming back.  

For decades, Mr Sethi’s cart was more than a food stall—it was a sanctuary. Relationships began over shared plates of bhelpuri, political debates erupted over its spice levels, and farewells were made with promises to meet again.  More than his culinary skills, it was his warmth that drew people to him. Whether it was slipping extra sev to broke students or offering a listening ear to the heartbroken, Pinki Uncle had a way of making everyone feel like they belonged.  

No one knew his real age. When YouTubers asked, he would laugh and say, “Beta, I’m 20! Don’t I look it?” And honestly, with that twinkle in his eye and the energy of someone who could endure decades of campus protests, rallies and upheavals, students half-believed him. But let’s be real. He was probably closer to 80, though his spirit was forever young, just like his chatni.  

His passing has left a void. The Arts Faculty gate felt quieter on Monday as I passed through on my car, and the air, ironically spiceless. Mr Sethi wasn’t just a Bhelpuriwala. He was in many ways the heart of North Campus. His cart had seen it all: new friends, breakups, breakdowns, revolutions, and reconciliations.  

Vipul Singh

20 November 2024