Jalebi, My love!

Ah, my dear rasgulla of a reader, Let me take you on a tale more tragic than a Bollywood hero dying in slow motion, and sweeter than a politician's promises before elections. Yes, I’m talking about cravings. Not the carnal kind - though those may be lovely too - but a craving for that golden, syrup-drenched, diabetes-flirting coil of culinary art we call jalebi. The one sweet, if eaten in stupid amounts will welcome a kiss from death.

It was a Sunday evening. The sun had retired, the desert winds had begun their seductive tango, and I, like an old lover summoned by the scent of nostalgia, was called to arms - or rather, to my car - after a phone call with family. Something in that conversation activated me. Like a sleeper cell in a secret sugar syndicate. Mission code: Operation Jalebi.

Now, Doha is a city where you can import a Tesla faster than you can find a properly spiced biryani, let alone a decent jalebi. But did that stop me? No. Because where logic ends, hunger begins.

My first top: Soghaat Sweets. Tucked behind some tea shack near the Radisson Blu signal. The man behind the counter greeted me with the warmth of a broken geyser. He handed over what looked like a jalebi but felt like it had done hard time in solitary confinement. One bite .. and I was transported. Not to nirvana, but to the horrors of a stale corporate PowerPoint. Dry. Lifeless. Complete betrayal in carbohydrate form.

I left and ran to the comfort of my car with the AC on artic blast. Now, driving in Doha, let me tell you, is like being in a video game .. except everyone’s playing on "rage mode". People swerve like their in-laws are chasing them with marriage proposals. But I? I was undeterred. I swerved around a Lexus with diplomatic immunity and soldiered on to the next place on my list.

I reached JJ Bombay's Restaurant, a humble joint, but the man behind the counter had the glint of a sugar prophet. He brought out fresh mawa jalebis. The aroma alone could cure a bad mood. I took a bite. Ah, heaven. But wait! The syrup... lukewarm. Lukewarm! In a city where you can boil an egg on your bonnet. This, my friend, was sacrilege. Jalebi syrup should scald your soul, not tickle it.

Moving onto the next was Delhi Bakery, behind Old Ghanem road - where dreams go to die in that traffic. The shop smelt like someone fried a samosa and forgot the dignity. Jalebis were on display, yes, but the man behind the counter looked at me as if I’d asked to marry his daughter. The shrieking orders, the chaos - my gut said no. And in matters of jalebi, always trust the gut.

Defeated but not destroyed, I reached out to a friend .. a man who thinks “desi sweet connoisseur” should be a LinkedIn title. He whispered two words that changed everything: Desi Dhaba.

And there they were. Glowing. Beckoning. Like the Mona Lisa of mithai. One bite and I was reborn. The crunch, the syrup, the unapologetic heat .. perfection! I was no longer a man; I was a jalebi. It was so good I briefly considered proposing to it. Or at least writing it a poem.

And yet, as I sat there, drowning in sugar and self-awareness, I realized something. The jalebi .. like life in Doha- is fleeting, sweet, and slightly overpriced. We chase dreams, parking spots, good internet, and warm jalebis. But it’s those little moments, those golden spirals of joy, that make it all worthwhile.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve ordered a tray for the office. Because nothing says “corporate productivity” like a sugar coma before lunch.

And thus, the quest continues...