The Paan craving

"Pitaji, you cannot get paan here".

As if he did not know. He had had that conversation with her several times. It almost always culminated in the paan details. As if that was that vital to his health and happiness. Nowadays even the "I will bring my own" did not sound funny enough. The first time he had mentioned it, she had gone off into details about airport security and checks and a lot of other things. Why had none of his children taken after him in the sense of humor department, he wondered?

Taken after their mother, he thought uncharitably- then felt guilty as he remembered his dead wife. She had known how to make really good paan. From an ancient metal box shaped like a peacock. With the best banarasi betel leaves, the right dash of Kattha and Chuna- spiced with a hint of tobacco, a bit of freshly crushed supaari all rolled up into a dark green morsel- a fitting end to a meal. To be chewed and relished as its sweetish bitterness mixed with the saliva and became a red paste to be spitted out in a brass spittoon- which was always cleaned after every use.

Things had changed after she had gone. For one, he could no longer bear living in that old house. He had tried. But it was not easy. He would sense her in the room on the roof, in the evenings. He had it locked up and stopped going there. But then he would strain to hear her climb down the steps. So, the next time one of his children suggested he visit them, he jumped at the offer. And thus began a trans-India tour. After Ranchi for three months he went to Jamshedpur, then to Bangalore and was just wondering if he should not visit the same places in reverse before getting back, when his eldest child decided to expand his horizons and have him come over to England. The brass paan-box a constant companion. The spittoon had been replaced by toilets of differing whiteness levels.

The eight hour British Airways flight was more cramped than the train compartments he remembered from the Quit India movement days. But they were solicitous. Too solicitous in his opinion. The slightly raised voice and slow instructions for everything, including unpacking his vegetable cutlets was more than wearisome. The toothless old gentleman sitting next to him, relished the attention with the air of seasoned world traveler. But he was on a wheel chair and so probably needed all the help he could get till he was transferred for more care to his son and daughter-in-law.

His daughter picked him up at Heathrow. She was thinner than before but looked happier. Well, maybe the divorce had not been such a bad thing after all. Though it had been awkward meeting Mr Mishra back home, now that were no longer related to each other. But she had not told him anything. Except "we are parting ways". And only too politely listened to the "It is bad for the child" advice. And constantly steered away the conversation, lately to the paan talk.

He was struck by how quiet it all was. Quiet and clean. Even the wind did not rustle as much as it did back home. And even the dust was raised in neat orderly piles. She had cooked for him, she said. Maybe, here an elaborate meal meant just a dal and a subzi. But it tasted just like what her mother used to make. After dinner, he tried to unpack, but gave up half way. It was a peculiar kind of restlessness.

"Jet lag, nanaji" announced the grandson, who had come home from university for the weekend. He vended his way to the bedroom. It was clean, quiet, well ordered. The bed had thee pillows, an extra throw and his pankhi neatly arranged on it. He climbed between the sheets and closed his eyes. It was too light outside. "Oh, yes, summer" he told himself. He drew the blinds and closed his eyes. But sleep would not come. He tossed and turned. And willed himself to lie still. But woke up just as he nodded off. He had smelt cardamom- like she used to put in the paans on special days. Why was he thinking about paan, he wondered. He had gone without before. When the doctor had forbidden it after his appendicitis surgery. And when he had run out of ingredients in the train to Ranchi. Of course he could stay without it. He thought about the plane journey. At least tried to. But sleep would not come. He tossed about a few more times. Turned a bit more. And then sat up on the bed. It was a little darker outside. So he had got some rest. He looked at his watch. 11pm it said. Exactly an hour of rest. He went downstairs.

"Bye Mum" and the front door shut.

"He is going out with some friends, nearby" she offered.

"At this time?"

"He is a grown adult" she said. And suddenly he could not argue any more. She had been so different. Never argued. Not even for decisions made on her behalf. Even decisions that turned out so wrong.

"Tea" she asked.

"But the caffeine. I won't be able to sleep"

"You are not sleeping anyway" she said.

He shrugged. And watched her put more water into the kettle.

"I just found these really good Tetley bags" she said.

"Does the convenience make up for the taste" he wondered.

"For me it does."

The kettle whistled. She measured out the boiling water into the mugs. "One of sugar, stirred clockwise" so she remembered!

The tea was not all that bad.

"Actually rather good" he said" But the ones Amita had got back in Jamshedpur were not as good"

"I think it depends on making it the correct way" she said.

"For tea bags" he could not help being derisory.

"Yes, even cleaning spittoons" she said. How did that come into the conversation.

"Maa had been so particular about how it must be scrubbed, so the brass did not spoil."

"Yes they did shine when was around".

"She hated it though"

"But she was so particular"

"Yes, you liked it just so"

"There is something about paan" He thought about the crunch of the betel leaf and the slow burn of the spice as his teeth masticated it into an ever sweeter- pulp. And the tobacco, bitter then slowly dissolving into a refreshing paste.

"We used to find it very filthy, And throwing away the slops was the dirtiest. I was always made to do it. I guess being the eldest has its problems"

"Also the rewards of being the first born"

"Or the pressure of being the one whom everyone was supposed to follow. And the one whom the parents experiment upon " She laughed. It sounded bitter.

"Nonsense, it turns out right" he waved his hands around the gleaming kitchen with its chrome fittings.

"Yes, after having a divorce lawyer wash piles of dirty linen in front of your only child. And filling applications for alimony payments, begging for what is right fully mine. And having my siblings pretend to forget to keep in touch with me."

"But.."

"At least Maa was spared this. She would have understood though. She knew I was unhappy. She said it is our lot as women- we need to do a lot of unpleasant things in order to keep things nice on the surface. Like washing the spittoon. And then polishing it. Even if it only has spit inside".

He put aside his tea cup. And put an arm around her. Held her close. She drew away and then moved closer as she buried her head in his shoulder. Like she used to, when a little girl. They sat there a while.

"You must go to bed, Pitaji . Try to sleep, you need to"

He walked across the hall to the foot of the steps and yawned.

The paan craving was gone. Gone for good.

Paan: betel leaf. It is also used for the prepared morsel for a the morsel created with a betel leaf with a dab of lime and catechu, with crushed betel-nut, cardamom, sometimes tobacco. It is used to as a breath freshener and a palate cleanser. It is eaten after meals. The remains of paan are usually spitted out in brass spittoons made for the purpose. Ingredients for paan, the leaves and the spices were usually kept in elaborately ornamented paan-daan or paan boxes, sometimes handed down in the family for generations.

Banarasi: from Varanasi. Betel leaves from Banaras are considered to be among the best among paan connoisseurs.

Pitaji: father

Maa: Mother

Kattha: catechu

Chuna: lime

Supaari: betelnut

Nanaji: grandfather- mother's father.

Pankhi: a heavy woolen blanket