In this quiet corner of New Friends Colony in south Delhi, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables and the sizzle of mustard seeds in coconut oil have been replaced by a heavy, hollow silence. For Saji Mathew, the founder of Annie’s Kerala Kitchen, last Monday was the day the fire went out; literally.“Business hasn’t run for six days now,” Mathew says, his voice flat with the exhaustion of a man watching a decade of work evaporate. “We tried every source, but there is no LPG available anywhere.”Before the doors finally locked, the descent was visible on the menu. To stretch a dwindling supply of LPG, Mathew had gutted his offerings to a mere 20%, serving only a fraction of the authentic south Indian dishes that had made his kitchen a decade-long staple for the city’s Malayali community.But eventually, the last blue flame flickered and died. Now, the eatery has shut its doors temporarily and sent its staff on leave, leaving Mathew to stare at a mounting pile of rent and electricity bills.The cold stoves of Delhi are a direct casualty of the escalating West Asia war. The current LPG crisis is anchored in the volatile Strait of Hormuz – a narrow maritime artery through which nearly 90% of India’s LPG imports flow. As the conflict escalated, shipping lanes turned into battlegrounds, effectively choking India’s energy security.While two Indian-flagged LPG tankers have been allowed to pass through the Hormuz, the relief is a drop in an empty ocean for the commercial sector. The Indian government has pivoted supply to household connections, leaving small businesses to starve for fuel.Even as shops have been shuttered and there is a desperate scramble in the streets, the Delhi government has maintained that there is no shortage of LPG and that regulated supplies of commercial LPG are ongoing – but this has been no reassurance to those watching their livelihoods evaporate.“Hum mar rhe hain [We are dying]”, says Jawed, who has run his kebab and biryani joint in Batla House for 25 years.For Jawed, who only goes by his first name, the shortage looks like a cylinder that used to cost Rs 1,020 now commanding Rs 3,500 in the black market. He has been forced to raise prices, pushing a simple chicken curry meal from Rs 70 to Rs 100.“Saara paisa aam aadmi ki jeb se hi nikalta hai,” he sighs – the common citizen is always the first to bleed.The crisis is stripping the city of its skin. Jawed’s voice cracks up when he speaks of his staff. With no work available, he has let go of workers, who have already boarded trains back to their villages in Bihar. “I feel so guilty”, he admits. “Their families depend on what they earn here, but I am paying salaries out of my own pocket while losing Rs 15,000 a week.”Inside his restaurant, sacks of vegetables sit in refrigerators; without gas, the raw material is simply rotting. “Mujhse soya nahi jaata [I cannot sleep]” from the tension, he adds.In West Patel Nagar, Amit Jetley of Amit Uncle’s Food Court is running a one-man relay race. He cooks at home and brings the food to the shop just to keep his shop running at 20% capacity.“Now there isn’t any gas even in the black market”, he says grimly. “They are selling domestic cylinders for exorbitant prices, but I cannot run my shop on domestic gas, that is illegal.”The “aam aadmi” is caught in the crossfire, he says. “The government says there’s no shortage, but there is no distribution. Acche din mere paas chalke nahi aayenge [Good days won’t come walking to me],” Jetley adds.Jetley’s clientele consists mostly of students, UPSC aspirants and those living in paying guest facilities. He feels a moral obligation to keep the ladle moving. “Jab tak ghar par bana raha hun, tab tak unhe khilata rahunga [As long as I can cook at home, I will keep feeding them],” he vows. But the math is failing him; his earnings have drastically reduced from Rs 15,000 a month to just Rs 5,000 a month in a single week.In north Delhi’s Kamla Nagar, even icons are crumbling. Vaishnav Chaat Bhandar, a 70-year-old eatery that has fed generations, has been forced to slash its menu by half. Dependent on a dwindling three-day stockpile, the owner says that the future looks “uncertain and dark”.“Hum pareshaan ho rhe hain [We are troubled],” he shares, distressed by the prospect of letting go of staff who have been with them for decades. They are paying salaries out of pocket, but the financial hemorrhage is reaching a breaking point.For many, the logical step would be to pivot to electric alternatives, but in the high-heat, high-volume world of Delhi street food, such transitions are rarely feasible. While some entrepreneurs have attempted to bridge the gap with induction cooktops, they find themselves trapped in a kind of slow-motion collapse. For others, like Jawed, the sheer nature of their menu makes a switch technically and financially impossible.“I cannot switch to induction”, Jawed explains. “It will take too long to cook my menu, and my electricity bill, which is around Rs 1,000 to Rs 2,000 now, would easily jump to more than Rs 6,000. I can’t afford to stay open, and I can’t afford to switch.”Meanwhile, in east Delhi’s Khureji, Mohd Aqib is watching a three-year dream dissolve. He has already used up his stored supply and has no LPG left. “Can’t sell famous items like momos or rolls anymore”, he says. He switched to induction, but the work is agonisingly slow and customers are vanishing. Losing nearly Rs 3,000 daily, he has already let go of his workers.“Karobaar kharaab to zindagi kharaab ho gayi hai [When the business is ruined, life is ruined],” Aqib says.This economic weight, however, is not a one-sided burden. While the owners suffer the erosion of their life’s work, a secondary toll is being extracted from the people they serve. The relationship between a local food joint and its regulars is built on a delicate balance of affordability and trust; as the supply chain breaks, that balance is shattering, leaving both sides of the counter in a state of mutual desperation.The burden falls heaviest on those like Muskan Bhatt, a university student on a tight budget, who has seen her regular meal cost jump to Rs 150. “Dilli mein sab hi pareshaan hain [Everyone in Delhi is troubled],” she says.For Jess Jojan, a student from Kerala, the closure of places like Annie’s is a personal loss. “It’s not just about the food; it’s about a piece of home. To see a place that reminds you of your mother’s kitchen shut down … it feels like the city is losing its heart.”Amidst the frustration, some allege deeper failures in the statecraft of energy. “If only the Indian government had not betrayed our long-time diplomatic ties with Iran, we wouldn’t be in this situation”, says a regular at one food joint, speaking on the condition of anonymity. “Iran would have allowed oil and gas to pass for us like it did for China. Instead, we are left begging for tankers while our businesses drown.”Up to three-quarters of Indian restaurants use LPG, per an estimate of the National Restaurant Association of India, which warned that the sector could haemorrhage Rs 1,200-Rs 1,300 crore every day if shortages persisted. “We request the authorities to give us essential services status, as in Covid pandemic,” its vice president Zorawar Kalra had said speaking to ANI last week.Back in New Friends Colony, Mathew looks at the locked doors of Annie’s. He still receives calls from students asking if the kitchen has reopened. He has to tell them the same thing every day: not yet.In a city that never stops moving, the halt of the blue flame has brought life to a standstill. Whether the tankers from the Hormuz arrive tomorrow or next month, for the eateries that have already folded, the damage is done. The fire is out, and in the cold remains of the kitchen, the future looks as dark as a soot-stained wall.Mysha Rizvi is a postgraduate journalism student dedicated to exploring the intersection of society, culture, identity and human rights.