Dear friends,
Today I bring to you an old essay I had written almost 8 years ago. It is about food, love and lots and lots of care. In his essay, Subbu had shared how the simple act of making and serving dosas leads to infusing the community with love. Today, I share with you an old man who used to be an integral part of our growing up years. Do read what this little old man symbolized for us. I have deliberately left out the English translations because food and love needs no translation.
Do read on…
The Countdown Begins
In our house, we used to call him Taatha. In Telugu, that means grandfather. Always dressed in a white dhoti and kurta, with a Gandhi cap upon his head, Taatha bore an uncanny resemblance to the picture of Lal Bahadur Shastry in my history textbook. Our neighbors would refer to him as Chacha or samosewale chahcha. But to us, he was always the Panipuri Taatha. As the clock neared four thirty, the busy Dev Nagar road of Nagpur would fill up with children and teenagers returning from schools and colleges. I was a part of that crowd; as I would maneuver my cycle through the crowd, my eyes would fall on the food cart that Panipuri Taatha Aka Chacha Aka Samosewale Chahcha had parked. The cart had separate sections for pani puris and samosas. As Taatha stood serving his customers, I would stand a few feet away, soaking in the aromas that wafted by—the faint whiff of mint from the earthen pot which held the tangy waters of pani puri, a hint of garlic from the batch of freshly fried samosas. Rock salt. Tender coriander. The pungency of finely chopped onions. But even as hunger sliced through my pre-teen soul, I would tear my eyes from the stall and return home— a place where idlis, dosas and Bournvita awaited us in all their monotonous glory. You see, my brother and I were not allowed to have street food during weekdays. And so even as we navigated through homework, science projects and report cards, at the back of my mind I would count days, hours and minutes for Saturday to make its magical appearance. It was almost as though an invisible panipuri clock ticked in my system.
And finally, the glorious day would arrive.
Taatha’s round face would break into a smile at the sight of us. Behind his spectacles, his eyes would twinkle. Even as I grabbed the tiny plate thrust into my hand, I would wait eagerly for the first Panipuri to land on my plate. In front of us, Taatha would expertly crack open the pani puri with his thumb and stuff it with potato mixture. Then he would dunk the puri into the tangy water and ask if we wanted the sweet chutney. “No,” I would reply with a great amount of impatience. Years later, outside my office, I would say “Yes” to the sweet chutney and wonder why I had been rejecting it all through my life. There is something about the thick chutney made from dates that quells the fire in your throat. But at ten years of age, I craved that fire. For chilies and spices. In them, I sought my identity. In them, I satiated my hunger.
Anyway, coming back to Taatha, as I would hurriedly sink my teeth into the first overflowing panipuri, some of the water would invariably spill out. But I was past caring. This was the moment I had been waiting for. For the profusion of tamarind. The burst of rock salt. For potato and mint. Salt and tang. And as Taatha would, with great efficiency serve the remaining customers, I would with the nature of someone who just experienced magic, wait for the second paanipuri to land on my plate. Now with patience. Now with anticipation. All culminating into another huge wave of hunger. Fifteen years later, with the baby kicking in my stomach, I would look pleadingly at my husband and plead with him to let me eat my third paanipuri. To which he would pull me from the crowd and whisper the doctor’s warning in my ears. And remind me of my gestational diabetes and BP. And with longing in my heart, I would follow him to our flat and fill my cravings with guavas and oranges. Anyway, coming back to the tangy Saturdays: After the magic of paanipuris, it would be the turn of Dahi samosas. Those days, Taatha was yet to introduce dabelis, kachoris and bhelpuri to his customers. So, making a choice was simpler. By this time, my hunger would have been appeased a teeny-weeny bit. I would sit back and watch— the samosas being crumbled, absorbing the coolness of curd one instant and hiding under the dollops of mint, tamarind and coriander chutneys the other. Taatha would throw in fistfuls of chopped onions and sev and sprinkle roasted cumin and rock salt. And just before handing us the plates, he would squeeze a lemon and throw in a few coriander sprigs.
And all this within two minutes. But to me it was like eternity.
In the lengthening shadows of the evening Sun, I would look disdainfully at my younger brother, who would sit clutching his tummy after the first paanipuri plate. Fast forward many years. My younger one would come running to me and demand, what was my favorite, Paanipuri or dahi samosas? To which I would think for whole five minutes and reply, “See J …some questions do not have clear cut answers. You just revel in the beauty of the questions and feel no need to unearth answers.” J would look at me and nod. You see both of us understand the profundity of such moments.
Anyway, coming back to the dahi samosas. By the time, I polished my plate, I would be in a daze. Tamarind and coriander have a way of invoking the craving angel within you. You crave for the fire of panipuris again. You want to return home with the taste of paani lingering on your tongue. You tell yourself you cannot wait for seven more days to come back to this moment again. “Ek aur plate paanipuri…one more plate paanipuri,” I would mutter finally. Taatha knew this would be coming. Ah! The man always knew. “No!” he would mutter while thrusting plates into the hands of the customers who just entered. “But I have money…and I am still hungry,” I would say in a small voice. Taatha would turn and look at me. His eyes would become kind. “No beta…your tummy won’t be able to take it,” he would say. “Half plate?” I would plead again.
But Taatha would shake his head adamantly. “Little children like you cannot digest so much mirchi,” he would say and go back to his customers. Clutching the change in one hand, I would walk back home with my brother in tow, wishing Taatha would have been a little more generous. A little more giving. A little less stubborn. Mom would be relieved on hearing that I had only two plates. Dad would exclaim this is what made Taatha special. He cared for children. And his customers.
I would nod grudgingly, although I would never fail to fathom what harm could half a plate of paanipuris do to my tummy. But then there was the next Saturday to look forward to. And hoping Taatha would finally relent. To three more paanipuris.
Now
Even as I type this, a new message pops up on my phone. It is from Dominos. “25% off on any order more than 400 rupees,” the text says. J is excited. “Call them,” he says.
“Mc Donalds has opened and now this,” he says, his eyes shining with excitement. I call Dominos. The person at the other end thanks me for calling Dominos and throws more questions at me.
“What crust would you like Ma'am?” he asks, “Classic? Hand tossed? Wheat? And would you like more cheese? More peppers? Stuffed garlic bread to go with it? Any dessert? Choco lava? Coke?”
The questions tire me. I am overwhelmed by the wide array of choices.
“Just the pizza and nothing else,” I say and disconnect the call. J waits for the pizza to arrive. I go and sit in the balcony. The delivery boy arrives. I pay him and tell him to keep the change. J takes a bite of peppy paneer and goes all “oooh” and “Aaaah”. I smile. As the sky outside my balcony turns violet, I am filled with a sudden longing— to clutch the twenty rupee note again,go scampering to Taatha and have my fill of paanipuris and samosas. Plead with him for another half a plate paanipuri and this time, when he would say No, nod gravely. Smile and give him a high five. For a moment Taatha would look non plussed, but would shake his head and mutter to himself, “these kids”. And in the lengthening shadows of evening, I would feel tall. And satiated. As though I had scored an A+ on my report card.
This is the Khichdi Pot. If you would like to know more about this offering, you would want to click here. If you find the Khichdi warm, scrumptious and flavorful, perhaps you would want to share it with your near and dear ones.
©: Sridevi Datta
I love this so much. Especially what you say here:
"You just revel in the beauty of the questions and feel no need to unearth answers"
Thank goodness for someone who feels this way