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.