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.