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.