A plateful of KheeKa.

Even a Maharashtrian (and by that I mean a non-Punekar), I'm willing to wager, has not heard of KheeKa. To say nothing of MUST and ST.

But allow me to digress. Having written what I have, I must now spend some time in explaining the taxonomy that makes up my state. One can, of course, slice and dice up people in this state on the basis of religion, caste, language and dialect. And of course, people have done this for ages on end.

For a true blue Punekar though, the state is split along three primary categories.

If you are in Maharashtra, you are a Maharashtrian.
If you are in Maharashtra and in Pune, you are a Punekar.
And if you are in Mumbai, you ought to be kicked.

That's just the way it is, and Mumbaikars would be well advised to just suffer through life just so. It's their lot.

In the future, expect a post about Mumbaikars who come to Pune in the summer holidays and deride all that is Puneri. There is a lot of angst in me, as there is in every Punekar, about this very charming trait of every Mumbaikar.

But be that as it may. This post is about breakfast in Pune, and today we talk about the most Puneri of establishments.

In one of the many bylanes of Deccan Gymkhana - in fact, this bylane ends up at Garware Bridge and at the end of this lane lies Chitale Bandhu Mithaiwale - is the prestigious, and ancient, Deccan Gymkhana. A large, sprawling club, it holds within it's campus a large cricket ground (on which, if memory serves me correctly, Neil Harvey once played), some tennis courts, a basketball court, it's offices, and in one little corner, behind the tennis courts, the Deccan Gymkhana cafeteria.

Appa. Started way back, and again, if memory serves me correctly, in 1958, Appa used to run this little joint to which members of the Deccan Gymkhana club would flock after an invigorating game of tennis. Over time, people who lived in the vicinity also started queuing up for the snacks that Appa would serve. Today, the same joint is run by his son, Shree - a delightfully eccentric character who runs his little fiefdom with an unwavering acerbity that is the quality most revered in a Puneri shopkeeper.

He'll glare at you as you step into the dingy little seating area that has in it four ramshackle benches, in front of which lie four equally flimsy tables. There is a dark, dusty caged fan that whirrs along manfully, making not the slightest difference to the stifling air in the room. The walls are painted a light blue, and were last varnished back in 1958.
To the right is the kitchen, at the mouth of which stands Shree. Bowlegged, with a stubble that is not quite a beard, in trousers and a half sleeved shirt, Shree looks at you as if he's contemplating murder. Rest assured, he means no harm. He is merely calculating if he can fit you in that little room. Permutations mapped, he'll either nod in the direction of the tables, or wave a hand towards the door. Your cue taken, you wait further commands.

Depending on the day of the week, these will include a grudging offer to partake of pohe, khichadi, dosa, sheera, matar usal, idli, or dahi vada. All of these are made in an even dingier kitchen, which is even more dimly lit. Four people work in that cramped space, dishing out plate after plate of the above mentioned items.

And well may Shree be rude, and well may he drive his regular patrons to distraction. But in the matter of leaving his clientèle with well satiated tummies, he is unsurpassed. They come to him year after year, and suffer his idiosyncrasies with delight. Indeed, they wait for the sarcasm to drip onto them - a trait that all Old Punekars share, for they love to receive sarcasm as much as they love to dispense it.

You'd be well advised to go there on a Saturday, for that is the day when the khichadi, the matar usal, the dahi vada and the dosa are all available. Play tennis, if you will, before you go there, for a whetted appetite is a handy companion.

Stuff yourselves to the gill, and then, as an Old Punekar would, go home and sleep.
Shree would approve.

Oh, I almost forgot. KheeKa stands for Khichadi Kakdi. MUST stands for Matar Usal Sev Takun - and forgive me if that is not clear - the essence is lost in the translation.

ST is another story altogether. KheeKa, you see, is a plateful of khichadi, and a plateful of kakdi. Most patrons could not finish both, and would hence ask for either half a khichadi and a full of the other, or the other way around. Until, that is, a patron who was also, it would seem, rather a whiz at marketing, suggested that Shree offer a plate that had only half of each.

His name happened to be Sanjay Tatke - and in his honour is the dish called ST. Ask for it the next time you go there.

Shree will still glare at you.
But there will be, you might find, a spark of benevolence in that glare.

Before the first light of dawn

Yellow lighting.
A bright yellow that rapidly diminishes in intensity, leaving a dull haze all around you, and the darkness begins to close in. Suddenly, the intensity increases, and then diminishes again. Dull grey tarmac below you, with a dotted white line passing by intermittently.
It's cold - and that's as it should be. It is, after all, three thirty in the morning.
Law College road by the night is nothing like it's counterpart during the day. During the day, the little road that connects Senapati Bapat road to Nal Stop is a busy thoroughfare. Offices, schools and colleges lie on this busy road, and at the best of times, it is sheer pandemonium.
During the night though, it lies practically empty, save the occasional bike that speeds along.
And if you ride a bike after having drunk through the night, all you'll remember is a bright yellow that rapidly diminishes in intensity, leaving a dull haze all around you, until the intensity increases again. The sulphur lamps that the PMC uses all over Pune - or used to, at any rate - are fondly remembered by many a Bacchanalian devotee.
But it is not only the tipsy brigade that you will find on Law College Road at three thirty in the morning. You shall also find students on this road at that unearthly time of the night. Having spent the night in pleasant chit chat, with unread heavy tomes for company, they too have decided to make the journey with us this night.
Our journey takes us across the length of Law College road. From NCC circle, past the newly opened Mocha, beyond Rangoli, beyond the HDFC ATM, beyond the school on the left, beyond Law College itself, with it's blessed canteen, Kanchan Galli, FTII, SNDT and finally to the end of the road, where Law College road joins up at a right angle with Karve Road.
And at night, with the cold wind blowing past your ears, this is a very pleasant journey.
At that right angle, towards the left, you will see a cheerful congregation. The happily buzzed members of the Tipsy Brigade, the earnest students and the rest of the night owls are joined by newspaper vendors at that corner.
All of Kothrud, or at any rate, most of it, gets the morning daily, be it in either English or Marathi, from that corner.
But the reason the non-newspaper people are there is at a little neighbouring shop.
I do not know the name of the place - I think it is Amruteshwar, but I could be wrong.
At three thirty in the morning, this little place opens up for business.
A little stall right at the very start, behind which lie cigarettes in little shelves, pan masalas, mints and chewing gums. Opposite the counter, on a little raised surface, in a large vessels, bubbles without resting a large copious amount of chai. Forgive me, I cannot call it tea.
In the little shop, beyond which lies the kitchen, lie three or four ramshackle tables - and until around seven in the morning, these are always fully occupied.
At the stroke of three thirty, pohe, upma, sheera and sabudanyachi khichadi are bought out in large hefty containers, and kept on the little counter.
And Anna, otherwise a kind gentle soul, begins mortal combat with the large crowd that descends all over him.
Wearing a tattered brown banyan and shorts, with a little stubble that neither grows nor goes away, Anna is a man whose bark is considerably worse than his bite. Patiently and without ever completely losing his cool, he dispenses with remarkable rapidity the meal of choice to his loyal clientèle.
In little bowls made out of dried leaves, for example, he will dole out with a dexterity born out or regular practice a small tidy heap of pohe, garnished with a sprinkling of sev and a wedge of lemon. Grab your spoon, make your payment, and get out onto the rather crowded footpath for your first meal of the morning, or, and this is far more likely, your last meal of the night.
A small cup of chai to round things off, and a sutta if that be your thing.
It's not the tastiest food around - there are far better breakfasts served in Pune. About which we shall talk in the days to come.
But at three thirty in the morning, after a night with friends, there is no better place to come to for breakfast. Indeed, there is no other place to go to.
And so after an hour of idle chit chat, with hot breakfast and steaming cups of chai, you encounter the bright yellow lights that fade in and out once again.
Homeward Bound, as S and G would say.

A Gourmet in Pune...

... is a pretty happy person.

Pune is a city that takes it's food very seriously. It's food might not be as robust as Delhi's, or the variety might not be as intimidating as Bangalore's, but the sense of tradition that Pune imparts to it's food is rarely to be found elsewhere.

Be it the humble vada pav, with imli chutney and lightly fried green chillies, or the Steak Cordon Bleu at Touche's - everything that is anything to do with food is taken very, very seriously.
There is a mindnumbing list of restaurants alone that one must talk about when talking about food in Pune - off the top of my head you have The Place, Marzorin's, Mona Foods, Diamond Bar (my philosophy has beer as a form of food), Burger King, Kamling (Old Punekars will draw a reverential breath and shed a sentimental tear), Georges, Blue Nile, Budhani's, Dorabjee's, Nayab and the Kathi Rolls at Olympia.

As you may have noticed, and this is by no means a complete list, we've thus far salivated over restaurants in Camp only. All of Deccan Gymkhana (visions of Cafe Good Luck and Vaishali), all of Aundh (the Mann Dairy Lassi, Mal Tup), all of Old Pune (Nagpur and Bedekar's for starters) and all of Kothrud yet to be done. And that's restaurants only.

We still have the tapris, the bhelpuri stalls, the coffee stalls (Durga!) to go. Leave aside Kayani's and Chitale Bandhu.

And waiting patiently in the wings is the food to be had at a Puneri home. Shrikhand and basundi, aamras and puri, masale bhath and jilebis, solkadhi, pohe, upma, the many asorted vegetables, garma garam poli (with a little ghee), the many amtis (dals), the tantalisingly simple varan bhat, the pickles, the chutneys and all of the many condiments that Diwali conjures up.

Like I said, all of this is off the top my head. Honest. A well thought out list will be a little bit longer. Just a little.

We'll deal with all of this, all in unhurried Puneri Fashion. Starting with the first meal of the day, the holy act of breakfast.
Every now and then, when food gets to be a little too overwhelming, we'll return to the Puneri Spirit - noting, of course, the fact that the food in Pune is a rather critical component of the quintessential Puneri spirit.

And that is as it should be, wouldn't you agree?

The Puneri Spirit. In which an attempt to explain it is continued.

There is complete silence.
The air is still, the leaves on the trees are not moving. There is no traffic on the road, and the TV is off. Nobody is playing any music, and strain your ears as much as you will, you cannot hear the sound of children playing, or dogs barking.
Nursery teachers the world over have this unearthly silence in mind when they ask for pin drop silence.
It is achieved, every afternoon, with effortless ease, by the citizens of Pune. For immediately after a satisfyingly satiating lunch, across all homes in Pune, the curtains are drawn, the lights are switched off, the TV is turned off, the fan is set on a pleasantly drowsy speed, a shawl is drawn over a gratefully reposed body, and sleep is sought.
Beginners to the game sometimes have to lay recourse to reading a Puneri magazine - about which more shall be written later - or maybe a paperback novel. After three pages, in that slumber inducing atmosphere, the mind switches itself off, and the book falls from temporarily lifeless fingers.
Nidradevichi Aradhana.
A prayer offered to the Goddess of Sleep.
Young and old, experienced veterans and novices, all join in the great tribute to Dreamland.
And, as many an irritated visitor to the city will testify, the shopkeepers of the city are also a part of this noble act. A little after lunch, shutters are drawn, and closed notices are hung outside windows. Business will resume after four in the afternoon, but for those two hours, nothing is more important - including the act of earning one's sustenance.
And for the sake of that afternoon sleep, people would, and will, stop at nothing.
The bungalow that I spoke of earlier had two doors - one at the front, and one at the rear. My granddad, after lunch, would go out from the rear door, lock the front door from the outside - with a rather large ostentatious lock, and get in to the house from the rear door again.
And then sleep. Salesmen, friends - relatives even - they would all return from our doorstep during the afternoon - for we were never at home.
My granddad was an Old Punekar for sure.
And in case anybody called, his daughters were given clear, firm and unequivocal instructions.
"Tell 'em all that I'm not at home."
His daughters, grand Old Punekars in their own right, would tell any and every soul who called that their father was asleep, but that he'd given instructions to say that he was not at home - would the caller please leave a message?
And at around four in the afternoon, in every kitchen in Pune, this glorious tradition is bought to a close.
A vessel is put on the stove, with a little water, a little sugar, some ginger. It is brought to a boil, and tea leaves are added - Old Punekars will now recall Pratap Tea Depot's BOP/OP - and a little milk is added.
And the Old Punekars will then sit in their living rooms with a cup of tea and some biscuits by the side. A reverential first sip, an appreciative nod, and a gentle smile.
"I had a really nice nap" an Old Punekar might say to another, conversationally.
"I know... so did I" the other will reply, "but I had to put the fan on 2 today - it's getting really hot these days."
"I know! Pune simply isn't what it used to be, isn't it?"

And so it goes.

The Puneri Spirit. In which an attempt to explain it is started.

Tusadepana.

It’s a difficult enough word to pronounce, let alone explain.

But if I had to tell you about the Puneri spirit, “tusadepana” would play a rather large, starring role.

As I mentioned earlier, my grandparents (on my maternal side) stayed in a lovely bungalow just behind Cafe Good Luck in Deccan Gymkhana. There is a little lane that runs by the side of the Cafe, and as it runs along, it meets a couple of other lanes and forms a nice little intersection. Right at that intersection was the bungalow.

Lanes in and around Deccan Gymkhana are not what you’d imagine them to be otherwise. Small little excuses for lanes, they are barely wide enough to let two cars pass side by side. Lined with old bungalows – or at any rate, they used to be – on either side, these little lanes criss-cross throughout Deccan Gymkhana. Even today, you don’t get to see the same volume of traffic on them as you would on the major thoroughfares, but earlier they would remain practically deserted. The odd car would toot along every now and then, but for the most part, these lanes would get to see kids speeding along on bicycles – having mastered that delightful art in the recent past.

Between Bhandarkar Road and Prabhat Road lie no fewer than 16 lanes, or gallis. These may then have little lanes cutting the little lanes, and in that glorious maze, you can spend an entire day on your cycle. Scoot up to Kamala Nehru Park, back down past the charming little bridge on Deshmukh Hospital, up towards Symbiosis School, cross the abandoned canal road, go up towards Law College Road – the possibilities were truly endless.

Along these lanes, back then, would trudge an endless stream of delights. In the morning, an idliwala would go along from door to door, tootling on a little horn. Bhajiwalas would follow up the act in mid-morning, and the aunties would descend onto the street for the Great Indian Haggling Act. People would come along with horses in tow for the kids to have a ride on – a camel if you were truly lucky. Or sometimes, you could get on to an elephant. Sometimes, a madari would come along with his monkey – that was not a pun, and that was certainly not racist; I speak factually – and set up a little monkey act for the amusement of the kids.

In the afternoon, after lunch would come the guy all the kids were really waiting for. Just when lunch had been done, and the adults of the house were settling down for some serious slumber – and the afternoon slumber is a holy act of consecration, make no mistake – there would emanate from without the melodious ringing of a little bell. As of one, kids in various houses would run outside with unholy shrieks. For two rupees you could get a stick of kulfi dipped in the most divine malai. True happiness, I tell you.

But forgive me, I digress.

As I was saying, our bungalow was at the intersection of three little lanes. One day, when I and my grandfather were sitting on the steps outside the bungalow, whiling a pleasant evening away, we saw a guy on a bike swing across from one lane to the other. While doing so, he managed to bump into an old lady who happened to be crossing the lane.

He wasn’t travelling very fast, but she fell down nonetheless. The guy was very sweet about the whole thing. He immediately got off the bike, helped her up. She wasn’t very badly hurt, fortunately – some scratches on her elbow, and maybe a little weak from shock, but otherwise fine.

“Are you fine, Aunty?” young Lochinvar enquired solicitously. “Did you get hurt?”

The old lady, draped in a pretty saree, a pale blue sweater, and with the kind of glasses that only a granny can wear, looked up at him.

“Not at all, son,” said the Old Punekar, in a clear ringing voice.

“I got tickled.”

Tusadepana.

As a Little Primer

I do not know if Old Grumpy Face existed, obviously - may he rest in mythical peace - but when I tried to dream up Pune's first pensioner, I could only come up with a grumpy face. Hence the nomenclature, and if you know your Pune, you cannot help but agree.

I grew up in what is now the central part of Pune, Deccan Gymkhana. My childhood was spent mostly at my grandparent's place, a lovely bungalow that was situated just behind Café Good Luck. That is, my weekends were spent there - the rest of the week was spent daydreaming in school and in not doing homework at home.

But in and around that house stayed the kind of person that made up, and still makes up, Pune's spine - the old, gloriously cranky, outrageously cantankerous, magnificently eccentric Punekar. Seldom on the face of the earth has walked a set of human beings that was as happily loony as was the Old Punekar.

People well versed in the affairs of the city will know that one need not be old be an Old Punekar - to appropriate lines made famous in another, more apt tongue, even a four year old kid in Pune is in the habit of bunching up his shorts, pouting his lips, and disclaiming to the world that things simply ain't the same anymore.

It is the Old Punekar's lot to be happily unhappy about the universe at large. Nothing ever works, cynicism is the only way to go, pessimism is the operating philosophy - and yet, don't worry, be happy.
We Old Punekars are what you get when you cross a laid back Goan with a pessimistic Britisher, in other words.

"It's going to rain today - I can feel it in my bones" the Britisher will say, glumly staring out of the window. He will then square his shoulders, grab the umbrella, and phlegmatically step out into the grey sleet.
"I didn't work today - it was raining", the laid back Goan will grin, as he sips his Kings. His fifth of the afternoon, naturally.

"I won't go to work because it's going to rain today - I can feel it in my bones" the Punekar will announce over his morning cuppa.

In the evening, over a steaming plate of kanda poha, he will then blame global warming for the total absence of rain. Pune's weather is just not what it used to be, he'll add for good measure.

Over the course of many centuries of painstaking research, we've thusly acquired the best of all civilizations. It is an ongoing process - several of Pune's most famous sons are currently engaged in researching foreign civilizations abroad.

This little description of the Old Punekar does not begin to do justice, naturally. There are very many nuances to the species, and to fit all of them into the length of the conventional blog post will be a little difficult. Moreover, to describe the Old Punekar, one would have to describe Pune as well - and that is a whole other Herculean effort.

But one needs the other, and we'll begin by describing the spirit of Pune - that elusive, yet ever-evident concept.

As I remember it, of course.
It's simply not the same anymore.

In The Very Beginning

Old Grumpy Face stared across the rolling plains in dismay. As far across as the eye could see, and for all he knew or cared, further than the eye could see, the plains rolled implacably.
He had just crossed the crest of a little hillock, and in the manner of those who hope for a miracle, had been hoping for a reason to halt. An insurmountable pass, a wall of rock, a gate, anything at all would have been reason enough to stop awhile. And in this he was, as is usually the case with those who desire miracles, to be disappointed.

He was a reasonably fit man, was Old Grumpy Face. Approaching forty, he was tough and wiry. Of reasonably small build, dark features, a small, well-groomed moustache and with the weather beaten looks that suggested a life spent in the outdoors.

Given that it was earlier part of the 10 century or so, outdoors was certainly the place to be.

He was a farmer when the weather suited him, down in the northern fringes of the outer reaches of the fiefdom of Bijapur, and a foot soldier when the payroll was better than the sustenance on the farm.

Off he would go, gallivanting across the Deccan with the rest of his comrades, under the sword of whoever was rich enough to pay, and foolish enough to wage war. Foot soldiers are rarely enthused about war, and the conquest of land that they cannot till. They are even less enthused about the prospect of having a sword thrust into their innards, but for the even more painful alternative of starving to death in the dry season. And so they made use of their swords.

Swords. That rang a bell. It had been a while since the last campaign, and their weaponry was rusty - some would need repair, and some would have to be discarded. Naturally, some would also have to be bought. He vaguely recalled talk about there being a little settlement not far from where they were, where such matters could be dispensed with. Naturally, he reflected, there would be a market near such a place - a chance for some relaxation before their madcap capers in the Deccan recommenced.

A day later, they were at the little market. On the banks of a river, just outside a little excuse of a street called Tambat Aali, their rag tag army stopped for replenishment.

Nice place, thought Old Grumpy Face to himself, as he walked around the next morning. His army having decided to put up it's boots for a little while, he was free to roam around town. Not that there was much to it though... the river by the banks of which they had camped joined with another one a couple of kilometers away, where they had a passable temple. Not fifteen minutes away by horseback, they were hewing caves out of solid rock - for what purpose, he did not know, nor care. And that was about it.

But the place had a certain charm to it - he could feel it. The weather wasn't bad, the water was good, so was the soil, he had been told. There was a thriving market for weapons, and he knew a thing or two about them. Perhaps he could drop out of the army and settle down for good.

He'd earned enough, and maybe he could earn his keep from now until eternity by doing some business or the other in this little township. Not too strenuous, not too complicated - but enough to get by.

Take it easy and chill, Old Grumpy Face decided - and if ever there was a place to do so, Punya Vishaya seemed to be it.

And so, with that admittedly apocryphal tale, my city acquired it's first pensioner - Pune was under way.

Bhelcome to Heppy New Year 2008

Hellos children.
Kulkarni Ungaal is back in bijhness in 2008, and here's wishing all my loyal readership a very heppy 12 months.
It's been a hectic time for yours truly - I attended a couple of weedings (well, I meant to type out weddings, but perhaps my subconsciousness got it right there) in the last couple of months, and the great funeral procession has finally started. One by one, the brave and valiant brothers who call themselves my peers are being led up to be guillotined by people who claim to be their well-wishers. It's started, and this year, it threatens to become a landslide.
Sigh. Well, sooner or later. Had to happen types se hai.
Self is uncomfortably aware that Damocles blade is swinging over self's cranium with a rather more enthusiastic oscillatory motion this year, but self will cheerfully ignore it. Hah, so there.
Apart from that, life consists of getting busier at office, watching movies (Taare Zameen Par - take a bow, Aamir Ungaal), reading books (A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson, and The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid by the self same chappie - he can take a bow as well) and other such mundane stuff.
I know, I know. But now what to do.
But anyways, that and all that and all that stuff aside, me be wondering about what to write on the blog this year.
More poems? More short stories? More reminisces about Pune? All of the above? None of the above and a whole new direction altogether?
Or, as has been the proud tradition till date on Life Beyond Gokhale, write when inspiration strikes?
Me, as usual, be wondering.
Hmmm.



----------------
Now playing: Dire Straits - Telegraph Road