Indore: A City With Its Own Appetite
Indore sits in the middle of Madhya Pradesh, and it has never needed to compete with Delhi or Goa for attention. It draws travelers with poha, jalebi, and the pleasant problem of losing track of which lane you've wandered into. Rajwada Palace rises in the old city, and Lal Bagh Palace still holds a taste of royal life, but most visitors come for the food. Sarafa Bazaar sells jewelry by day. After dark it turns into a street kitchen, and the stalls run late, often past midnight on weekends. You can start with crisp bhutte ka kees and move on to garadu, fried yam that arrives hot and salted. How much your stomach can hold is the only real question. Chappan Dukan means "56 shops." The count has grown well past that, and nobody bothers to tally it now. Order a plate of dahi puri, add a glass of shikanji, and the day's worries shrink. People here will tell you the local temperament comes down to good food and a wide tolerance for noise. A cleanliness drive runs through the city with unusual seriousness, and Indore has taken the title of India's cleanest city more than once. Some of that discipline comes down to a specific thing: a flower vendor on the main market road once told me the sweepers pass his stall before seven, and he now keeps his stems off the pavement so they don't have to work around him. That kind of small accommodation is common here. For something quieter, the Kanch Mandir is built almost entirely of glass, and its mirrored interior reflects candlelight in a way that takes a minute to adjust to. Omkareshwar is a few hours away, where the Narmada curls past the shape of the Om symbol. It's sacred ground, and it photographs beautifully in the morning. Traffic deserves a mention. Lanes are more of a suggestion, and the horn functions as conversation. Somehow everyone arrives where they're going. Local drivers seem to read the flow of the road before it happens, and a good many of them have been doing it for twenty years or more. Riding through it with someone who knows the routes turns an hour of honking into a slow, oddly calming tour of the back lanes. By the time you leave, you'll carry the taste of the food and a fondness for a place that never strains to impress. Indore doesn't try to be Paris or Mumbai. It's loud, it's warm, and it's easy to love. The poha alone is worth the trip, served with sev and a green chili on the side, and the mornings here start early with it.