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The eater of paan
Every neighborhood has a focal point – a central place - where the energy of the locality is potent and focused. A place where the best and brightest meet and questions of great import and meaning are discussed. It is a place of remarkable mental energy and peace and this enables the great minds to grow and fructify, a place for them to relax and recoup their energies after the battles of day-to-day mundanity.
At the national level, such a place can be the Parliament hall or Legislative assembly; at a educational level it can be a convocation hall or a museum. In our locality this place is our neighborhood paanwaala.
Murarilal, our esteemed paanwaala, sits like a colossus at his stall and dispenses paan and aphorisms to the great minds that frequent him. The very sight of him is like visiting a temple. Imposing built, ferocious moustaches, kohl rimmed eyes, sandalwood paste teeka on his forehead, and of course, sensuously red lips, bearing evidence that he has as high an appreciation of his own paan as much as we do.
His abode is equally impressive. Not for him the apologetic corner presence of most of the miserable scum who pretend to be vendors of paan. He does not pollute his presence with cigarettes, soap, ballpoint pens, stamps and other rubbish the others keep. He has a large and imposing corner establishment, containing only paan and the allied equipment. Framed photographs of various gods, a smoking agarbattis giving forth a heavenly perfume, rows and rows of gleaming brass canisters, and a large (slightly cracked) mirror in which he considers himself when business is slow.
We all gather around him like acolytes around the master, and he graciously dispenses his offerings as we discuss pressing issues of state.
At that moment the benarasi with extra chuna, kacchi supari and lavang was holding forth on educational reform in the state. Apparently his son had got 87% in his matriculation and yet was not able to secure admission in any of the colleges of his choice. This incident had brought the sorry state of education to his notice and was holding forth at it on great length.
“The whole system is rotten. Is this an educational system or an armed robbery? Such and such college is asking for Rs. 28 lakhs as fees, and some other one is asking for Rs 32 lakhs. What facilities do they offer the students? What kind of life experience will they get? What will they learn? What kind of job opportunities will they get after they pass out? …”
The Poona sada with kimam and pakka supari and the Calcutta masala with 120 tobacco nodded seriously. The Poona tried to add his comments, but was overwhelmed by the benarasi’s flow of words.
“How the hell can the nation prosper, I ask you? The most important asset that our country has is its youth, and if this is the way the youth are treated, how can they become useful and loyal citizens of the country? That’s the reason why so many of the bright and intelligent children are desperate to go abroad – brain drain – that will be the real killer of the country.”
He had to pause at that point, because the load in his mouth had crossed the Plimsoll line, and he had to go to the roadside and let loose a red stream of paan spittle.
The Poona sada took advantage of the opportunity and promptly changed the subject.
“Arre bhai, did you see the paper today morning? They found another minister with his hand in the till. Some paper took photographs of him accepting a bribe to give out some contract.”
“Chee chee. What is happening to the country nowadays?” the Calcutta masala said piously. “Corruption in public life has reached terrible proportions.”
“Kya kahen saab. Nayi sarkar aayi hai. Earlier there were well fed rats chewing the grains, now there are hungry rats…” Murarilal let loose with one of his aphorisms, but before he could complete the statement, the Benarasi sada was back in the fray.
“I tell you friends, that is the problem. The education sector has been ruined by corruption in the education ministry. There are so many new colleges opening, but still they ask for 28 lakhs and 32 lakhs…” he was back on his current bandwagon.
“Arre, population is increasing so much, civic amenities are just not keeping pace” the Poona sada wisely added.
“And anyway, what will they do with such an expensive degree? Where are the jobs nowadays? They say that the economy is doing so well, but there are just no jobs…” Murarilal added, snipping the tops off some paan leaves.
And so the conversation went on. This was the normal evening and after dinner activity for us. We used to meet together, have our favorite paans, and talk of various issues and let off steam. Today it was the educational sector, someday it would be the national security situation and some other day a detailed critique of president Bush’s Iraq strategy and of course, a very detailed critique of every cricket match that India played.
A perfect end to every day.
“Arre, where is Mr. Mukherjee nowadays? Haven’t seen him for some time now.” Mr. Mukherjee was the Benarasi sada, one of our most vocal members.
“His wife must have hit him on the head.” Someone sniggered and there was a round of chuckles from the assembled group.
Mrs. Mukherjee was violently opposed to her husbands paan eating habits, and it was always fun to see Mr. Mukherjee turn pale and stop abruptly in the middle of one of his furious political tirades when he saw his wife approaching in the distance.
He would then quickly go behind Murarilal’s shop and spit his paan and greet his wife with a weak smile. She would never shout at him in public, but only shrivel him with a cold glare. Then he would make his mumbled apologies to the group and walk home with bowed shoulders.
Mrs. Mukherjee had apparently tried all kinds of strategies to make him give up, but he really loved his paan, and would be back for a mouthful of his Benarasi sada the next day. Murarilal loved the way Mr. Mukherjee would look at his paan being made – first the paan would be chosen, after rejecting a few leaves, then the top would be snipped off, then the chuna, the kaath, the various nameless masalas and chutneys, a sprinkle of kacchi supari and a couple of cloves. Then the paan would be folded, a little bit of chuna added on top and then he would reverently put it on his tongue, and close his eyes as he chewed it. His joy in eating the stuff was a pleasure to behold, and that was why he was Murari’s favorite customer. Mr. Mukherjee was our little clubs oldest member, and was among the first customers of Murari in those forgotten days when he had just started off in his stall. Now both of them were icons of the corner.
This habit had left its mark on him – his teeth were stained red, and even his lips looked like he was a user of Revlon’s latest shade of lipstick. His gums gave him trouble now and then, and his white kurta also showed stains of the occasional vagrant drop of paan juice. He was the epitome of the song “paan khaye saiyan hamaare, malmal ke kurte pe cheent lal lal…”
All of us laughed at his discomfiture when his wife caught and harangued him, but only because of the contrast of his fire-eating speech pre-wife, and hang-dog husband, post wife. But he was a well-loved person in our group, and the news of his ill health was received with dismay.
“Hospital…”
“Stomach trouble…”
“Ulcer…”
The rumors flew all over the place. Apparently, Mr. Mukherjee had been feeling under the weather for a few days, and one day had vomited blood and collapsed. They had taken him to Dr Sapre’s clinic and he had been admitted. The doctor had said that he had gastric trouble, and had put on a milk and intravenous drip diet.
But the greatest shock was yet to come!
“Give up paan!” the Poona sada was wide eyed
“Yes…” the Calcutta masala said. “The shock almost gave him a heart attack! Dr Sapre has forbidden paan strictly. He said that his intestinal tract has been irritated by paan, and he should not have a single paan in the future.”
We all stood in a moment’s silence, and then solemnly spat out red streams of paan spittle in tribute to the memory of the most dedicated paan eater among us. It was as poignant as a 21-gun requiem.
“Poor fellow.” I said.
“Well, at least his wife will be pleased.” The Poona sada said after a minute. “It is a vindication of her lifelong campaign to make him give up.”
“Yes. But I must say that her behavior has been exemplary.” The maghai and kimam said. He was a neighbor of Mr. Mukherjee. “She has not said a word of reproach or ‘I told you so.’ She has been amazingly sweet and understanding, and promised to make him all his favorite food and sweets to make up for his loss. Very good behavior I call it.” He let out a sigh, as if wishing that his own wife would be so sweet, and cook sweets for him. He was a diabetic, and most rich foods and sweets were banned for him.
I turned to Murari, and looked at him with sympathy.
“Murari will feel bad, poor chap. Losing his oldest and favorite customer.”
Murari just shrugged and looked upwards. “Kya kahen sahib. All happens as god wills.” But I surprised a small grin on his face, when he thought no one was looking.
Call it intuition or just a naturally suspicious nature, but I smelt a rat.
I have read a lot of medical journals and have never heard of plain paan causing such irritation of the intestinal tract. It was only paan with tobacco that caused such trouble, and I had never seen old Mr. Mukherjee take tobacco. He was a firm believer in plain paan, with only the regular masalas, some betel nut and a few cloves.
I happened to run into Dr Sapre the day after that, and asked him about Mukherjee’s case. He didn’t give me any detailed answer and just gave me some generic gyaan about the evils of paan. On further questioning, he just smiled and patted my back and went off.
Later I saw him having a paan at Murari’s thela! He had just given me a long lecture on the evils of paan and now he was reddening his mouth with the best benarasi which money can buy. I saw him chat with Murari for a minute, and then shook hands with him and went off, leaving a red trail of paan spittle in his wake.
The next day, I went to the stall earlier than usual, and caught hold of Murari when we were alone.
“Murari, you can’t fool me. I know there is something more than meets the eye. Tell me about it.” I said, catching him unawares.
“Kya saab. What are you saying?” Murari tried to look innocent.
“Cut the crap and tell me. I know you know something.” From a normal customer it would not have bothered him, but I am an Assistant Commissioner of Police, and he knew that he couldn’t mess with me.
“Come on saab. You know I would never do anything to harm my customers.” He pleaded with me. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Who said anything about anything wrong? I am just eaten up by curiosity. The only net result I can see is that somehow Mr. Mukherjee has been persuaded to give up paan, something that I never believed possible. How did this get managed? I am sure that you had something to do with this, or why should you and Dr Sapre be so chummy all of a sudden?”
Murari was silent, and so I tried to be conciliatory.
“Come on man, tell me. I promise I wont tell a soul.”
He looked at me beseechingly. “Promise?”
“God promise!”
He looked around to check that no one was listening, and then leaned over and whispered in my ear.
“It was Mrs. Mukherjee’s idea saab. She was desperate to get him to leave paan, so she made a plan with Dr Sapre and me. I put a chemical in his paan which would make him feel unwell and vomit, and Dr Sapre was bribed to tell him that this was due to over indulgence in paan, and to forbid paan forever for him. Mukherjee saab is a great hypochondriac, and a threat to his health was the only reason he would agree to give up his daily chew.”
“You rascal! How much money did she give you to do this?”
“Money? Money? Chee chee saab. Do you think I would do such a thing for money? I did it for the good health of my old customer saab.” Murari waved his hand deprecatingly, and I was blinded for a second by the flash of the large diamond ring on his finger. I was pretty sure that I had never seen him wear that ring before.
“But hats off to Mukherjee madam saab, what planning…what organization…” he continued, putting betel nuts on my paan.
“You could say that she took out a …Supari… on him.”
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End.
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