PAAN.
Sarvajit bought me a paan today. Evoked a bunch of halcyon memories; few, far between but luminous gems in my simple life.
I was introduced to paan at Pishimoni ‘s, more significantly by her mother in law. Like all repositories for antiquity, this too was exquisite. Born in Bangladesh, bred in Kolkata and kept iridescent by Ishaq, post lunch the said paan box was opened, along with the myriad boxes within, and the regular ritual of paanshaja, (making) would unfurl before my ever enchanted eyes.
The emerald green of the leaf, glistening with droplets, lemon yellow in parts, would be stained with the blood of khoyer, the moonlight of chuna, the rain of mouri, and yes, supari. Cut with geometric precision, I would watch the hard brown betel nut being sliced into pieces thinner than wafers, finer than thread, each a mirror image of the other! And then the expert three way fold, held together by a long stemmed fragrant clove. As I watched the ladies tuck the paan expertly into the corner of their mouth, I would drool with greed, the greed of the unknown. I was never given a paan…
Consequently the paan assumed the lure and draw of the clandestine, the ‘forbidden fruit’. Biye baris were the soul recourse and the following competition between us cousins, as to WHO had the reddest mouth. At marriages and other festivities, I always made up for the paan I was deprived of at home…
Marriage and covering of the visage before lowering the leaves to glance at the groom’s countenance, for me was a flashback into the have and have nots of the much coveted paan…
It was after a recital at Qutb Minar by Abida Parvin, that paan became prominent once again. As was our habit, post show we drove to the Darga to avail of the most transcendental music. It was there that we first saw the world’s no.1 living legend, Shri A. R. Rahman ji, immersed in spirituality, both by soul and through music. We watched from afar, paid our respect silently, and in repose headed for our car. Suddenly Sarvajit was nowhere to be seen. Lost in my own world as I usually am, I had barely begun to panic, when he returned. In one hand he held a garland of jasmine for my hair and in the other, a Benarasi paan, overflowing with gulkand…
Today was a day of private celebration, just the 2 of us. Nothing special, but a beauteous paan from my friend of 43 years, wrapped in silver, dipped in coconut, it was more a dessert than a paan!
Such is the evolution of all things common and uncommon; they all have a story to tell, like the PAAN of yore and the PAAN today…
Sarvajit bought me a paan today…
Rupa Chakravarti