Above all, the coffee. Above all.

 

Early morning time in Pune. Around seven thirty, say.

The early morning rush hasn't really started yet. A not-yet-fully-begun morning, if you know what I mean. The sun is out, but the heat is not.

People come back from their morning walks, from their game of badminton, tennis or squash. Out for a jog on BMCC ground, perhaps. A climb up the revered tekdis, or maybe some yoga at home. Better still, nothing at all. You've woken up, and you're here. All around you, people abound.

The middle aged salaried class is out in force, grey hair and clipped moustache. Maybe the squarish, rimmed spectacles that shield crinkly eyes. Short shorts, as were fashionable in circa 1980. A t-shirt that reveals a slight paunch. Bhabhiji is similar in spirit, but wears a salwar kameez. With the duppatta tied across the shoulders, satchel style. And if she is a true Puneri, she will have on her head a cap. Colour blue.

The youth brigade is well represented as well. Slight, not-quite-formed moustaches and the ghost of a straggle of a beard on obviously adolescent faces. T-shirts drenched in sweat, and a tennis racket for company.

And of course, the pensioner regiment. Ramrod straight, with newspapers opened in front of them, with glasses (not cups) of coffee on their tables, they'll give a disapproving once over to nearly everyone who enters the place.

Waiters abound everywhere, with young boys running around clearing tables so that a new lot can sit. The owners in a little corner to the left as you enter, minding their galla and running their restaurant. The kitchen diagonally opposite, behind the rather large refrigerator that houses the cold drinks, from which emanate the clash and the bangs of many vessels, and in unfailing succession, steaming platefuls of the holiest of heavenly foodstuffs.

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Roopali.

As you come down from Fergusson College's back gate... allow me my idiosyncrasies, won't you now?

Fergusson College, around which Deccan Gymkhana arranges itself. Sprawled over a large rambling, self indulgent area, Fergusson college plays host to a variety of departments, and an asylum's worth of lunatics. Settled at the foothills of the Maruti Tekdi, Fergusson College has within it's confines many a hostel, department and canteen. Another blog post, in other words.

But the reason I digressed is this. On Fergusson College Road, as you proceed towards the Police Ground, you encounter first the Fergusson Girl's Hostel. Then, a little later, you come to the Main Gate. Opposite which is Savera, where half the students sit. The other half are at Vaishali. Then, a while later, you encounter another gate, which leads up to the Staff Quarters and the Hostels. Known, with a whiff of the common sense that Pune is renowned for, as "Third Gate".

So when you have a gate that opens on to BMCC road, you call it, with another dash of the common sense that I referred to earlier, as "Back Gate".

Because.

So as I was saying, as you proceed from the Back Gate down towards Fergusson College Road, you park just before this road ends. On the left, in front of Jai Jalaram Xerox centre. 25 paise, back to back. At least, that's what it used to be. Cross the road, and on the other side lies Roopali. Started way back, long before I was born, Roopali has served to it's loyal clientele South Indian food of a quality unparalleled. Nonpareil, if you will.

Soft fluffy utthappas, garnished with a smattering of chillies and onions. Or maybe a crisp-at-the-edges and soft-in-the-centre dosa. Maybe you feel like a fluffy idli today, or would you prefer a freshly fried medu vada? Try the cutlet then, if that's your fancy. Personally, I'd go for the utthappa to start with, and then a plate of medu vada.

But the coffee. Oh my God, the coffee.

Served in a simple white cup with a brown rim, on a saucer of similar design, with white freckled foamy froth at the top. Hot to the touch, you lift the cup delicately as you would grip a pen. The first draft of the aroma hits your nostrils, and the sweetish tinge of fresh filter coffee assails your senses. Your eyes close in reverence, and you take the first sip. The bitter introduction of the thin, biting coffee is assailed by the milk present, which leads on the sugary aftertaste.

A smile creases your face and you open your eyes. And on the visage of the member of the retired regiment who looked at you disapprovingly as you entered, is the ghost of a smile. He does not quite raise his glass of coffee in salute, but in that caffeine charged moment, one Old Punekar acknowledges another.

Salaam.