Lucknow Musings: Pappu

Pappu wasn't his real name. We didn't even know if he had a name or not. He just sat behind the counter which stacked fragrant erasers, sharpeners in different shapes, pencils of all brands and other stationery knick-knacks designed to delight a fifteen year old and an eight year old's collective sense of wonder (my sister and me). From precarious strings of threads hung various notebooks and other paraphernalia which could be termed as a school-goers wish-list. Along the Walls of his tiny four feet shop were shelves stacked with paint tubes, pots of water colour, wooden rulers, plastic rulers, lead boxes (that's all I remember but am sure there were lots more) on one side and great sheets of cardboard, colourful wrapping paper, cellophane, thermocol and what-have-you's. We always took a little while to absorb in the newer products, displayed proudly in the transparent counter or hung up right in front. This was Pappu's stationery store- adjacent to another stationery shop, of equal measure, manned by Surly Man (you can guess who's shop was more crowded).  Of course Pappu had learnt his lesson in retail really well and chosen the strategic location of being right next to Arya Kanya Pathshala and stocking most of their course books. Once this school got over, all students made a beeline for Pappu's shop- needless to say he minted cool money the day a new textbook was announced. The beginning of a new term spelt brisk business for him- and us- as we bought new fountain pens (yes, I do belong to that old generation who were taught to write with fountain pens only) and new Chelpark ink pots- it was only later that we migrated to Pilot pens (most frowned upon by teachers) and much, much later to Reynolds (Goodness! Is that a ball pen you are using?!). Pappu was the sole provider of paint brushes, art sheets, hard boards and files for exams as well as the sundry pencils, pens, erasers and sharpeners. Not one exam was complete without his blessing- even the dreadful Board exams! We stayed faithful to Pappu through college and even frequented his shop when we'd return home during MBA vacations. But sadly, this link also expired once I got married and shifted base. Now that I'm a stay-at-home mom, the only time I use a pen is to write down my request for the driver to buy from the store. My vast collection of pens languishes in one drawer. What would Pappu have said had he seen the state of the Parkers, the Mont-Blancs, the Cross', the Sheaffers?  Why nothing, of course. That was his most endearing quality. To be there and just acquiesce to our demand. Never speak. Never offer any opinion.  We miss Pappu.

Lucknow Musings: The Post Office

The Post Office was located a little drive away from our house, but it was (is) a noble structure- quite like a doll-house- with a steep flight of steps on each side- leading to the main landing and then a few more to the iron- gated office. Once inside, you were greeted by a neat row of counters- each with their teller window - numbered and labelled- don't remember what they actually said but there was one for stamps, envelopes and inland letters which we frequented the most. So we had to patiently (or impatiently) wait our turn in the queue and softly whisper our requirement- for the whole area in an atmosphere of high ceilinged fans and airy large windows seemed more like a library- it was always so quiet. If you had a special request like a registered letter, you had to fill up some forms- on a clean mica table with some pens and a few writing boards left specially for this purpose. No one ever thought of stealing such things and they lay there- unfettered- quite like the place itself- languid, quiet and reassuring. In front of the Post Office were three post boxes- tall, round and wearing the typical round hats- one for local letters painted green, one for domestic mail painted red and the other for international mail painted yellow. We always read the label carefully each time- even though we invariably used the familiar red box- and felt excited when the postman opened the box and a barrage of letters fell out (these were the days pre-mobile phone and pre-e-mail) and he stuffed them into his brown rucksack gleefully. We always looked for Noddy's Postman- like behaviour in all postmen. Many a stamp was bought at the old Post Office and many a registered form sent off to the prospective MBA college. Needless to say, the staff was always polite, respectful and helpful. Such was the courtesy of a doll-house like Post Office. In a tiny lane leading upto the Arya Kanya Pathshala was a postbox- hammered to the wall- and it was here that the monthly bulletin to the Delhi Mausi was dropped in. Earlier Granny used to do it, our hands never quite reaching so high- later we used to drop other people's letters for them. It was such a joy to see the envelope slide into the mouth of the postbox- greedily- as if he wanted more! In today's age of emails and mobile phones no one bothers about sending snail mail. A couple of years back, Papa had visited the Post Office at Mumbai for some work. He rued the fact that it was populated by brash, fast talking people who were always in a hurry to get to the last of the waiting queue. I miss the languidness of the old Post Office and all that it stood for in my life.

Lucknow Musings: Mota Halwai

Mota Halwai's shop was really a couple of mud thrones. There was a gap between the two platforms which led to a pucca room- here he kept the tools of his trade- great kadhais, ladles, cans of vanaspati (remember these were the days pre-Saffola) and the ubiquitous aluminium trays which held his wares. He himself sat on one of the mud embankments - fat, brown, glistening with sweat and wearing only a small loin cloth. His shirtlessness could put Salman Khan to shame. He would often be seated in front of the great fire- which held a massive black kadhai- and seemed to be perpetually frying oil- and here he would design some of the most delectable jalebis, imartis, samosas and namkeen-pare (slurp!). The other khoya sweets were kept in greased aluminium trays in  a large glass counter on the other side which also served as the cash counter. One had only to point to the besan ke Laddoo, nariyal barfi, pede, Bengali mithai or motichoor Laddoo and his help would swiftly pick out the pieces and put them in those red-gift papered bandhini print boxes that we even till today associate with mithai ke dabbe. Usually we would pick just before tea-time for our visit to his shop- adjacent to Munna-ji's- and stand in the heat, waiting for fresh samosas to be fried- somehow the rivers of sweat trickling down our backs seemed to evaporate as we fed in the first mouthful of this treat. There was something opulent as well as basic about his shop. The trays of mouth-watering delicacies, prepared in such humble conditions. He was regaled in many a tea-time conversation- the tea made so much sweeter with one of his trademark samosas accompanying it. Such was the cleanliness around him that never once had we fallen sick after eating from his shop. Now, we buy from the air-conditioned Brijwasi Sweets across the road. The namkeens are untouched by hand and hygienically packed. The helps use tongs to pick out the desired sweets and place them in logo-bearing cream coloured boxes. The whole experience is so... so... sanitised that even the samosas are fried in an electric kadhai, drained on slotted sieves and then eased into pre-sealed packets.  There is no Halwai. Only a clerk in a crisp uniform. I miss Mota Halwai.

Lucknow Musings: Ashok ki Dukaan

His shop was located a little way off the Arya Kanya Pathshala in a street bustling with vegetable vendors, stationery shops, the odd-cake shop, a photo-studio-cum-video library and a few residential houses. His was the shop my parents most frequented coz he was the old avatar of the modern day Big Bazaar. He stocked everything- from grains to pulses to shampoo to maggi to dusters and mops. It was amazing, how he stacked the shelves with almost everything a household would need in a month (mind you, these were pre-liberalisation days and choices were a tad limited). To the untrained eye it looked like clutter but once a customer had placed a request, one of the shop boys would clamber up or down the product labyrinthine and produce just the desired thing- right down to the correct size.  Ashok ran the dukaan with his elder brother Pradeep. It was a decent sized largish shop- about ten square feet both ways- made attractive by the varieties of brooms and mops and plastic pails hung about the entrance. Some days we would see their father- a fat old sharp gentleman- a true Lala in the whole sense of the word- and some days we'd see their sons- who studied in one of the finest schools in town- helping around.  It was a convenient shop- and almost everything we consumed was provided for by Ashok. That, and of course the local going-ons with a liberal sprinkling of news on the corporate front (HLL was going to drop the prices of detergent so buy it next week- or- a new combo pack of Maggi had just arrived- P&G will offer a free soap next month...) We witnessed the spread of the Ashok empire. He bought the store adjacent to his own, and soon even started occupying the pavement with grains of rice and dal.  Then one day we were shocked to see a wall go up between the shop. Both brothers had decided to part ways. Most blamed the feisty Ashok for this wrongdoing as the stoic Pradeep bore it all tight lipped.  After this development things were nearly not the same anymore, as both brothers found loyalties divided weren't so good for multiplying profits. A lot of the neighbourhood sided with Pradeep which led to Ashok's dwindling misfortunes. Anyhow, he continued. Last I heard was that Pradeep had started free home delivery within half an hour to counter the Big Bazaar menace. He had even started heavily discounting some items but Ma had already shifted to Big Bazaar. True, she found great value and variety there, but she missed the gossip factor. That, and Pradeep's smiling face behind the counter. 

Lucknow Musings: Munna-ji

His shop was a tiny four feet square with a wall mounted noisy fan for company. His wares- bread - mostly the White maida ones(remember these were the days untouched by the calorie- conscious brown revolution) and trays of eggs balanced precariously on top of each other- dominated the sole counter, which also doubled up as a till. The third ware- packets of milk- were kept outside the shop in blue or red trays- according to the 'tone' of the milk- we used to get Parag milk- blue for toned and the dangerous red for full cream - conveniently- so all one had to do was to walk upto his shop- located just off the crossroads in our neighbourhood- pick up the desired milk packets and bring them to his counter for payment. If we were on time, we'd actually see the big blue and white Parag milk van driving away after depositing fresh trays of milk packets outside the shop. Needless to say, most of the neighbourhood congregated just around the time of the fresh milk delivery- at about four in the afternoon - to exchange gossip over this daily household chore and the delicious samosas of the halwai right next door (he's going to feature in one of the other posts too) with chai.  The anda-bread shop was manned by Munna ji, a God-fearing Muslim with a voice as thick and warm as fresh hot bread itself. He was (is, I hope still) such a contented man selling just these three staples to the entire neighbourhood- yes, Sir- there was no other shop in the vicinity of at least five kilometres who offered the same spread with a liberal sprinkling of gossip- as Munna ji- that never once in my life of twenty one years there, did I see him stock or sell a fourth thing. His shop had a few shelves along the side wall, but these were always empty- dusted well - though the glass doors bore faint yellowing stains- but always empty.  He had a regular register- long exercise book - in which he noted the wares given on credit and at the end of the month- I went with Papa just to see him do it- draw a line across the account and sign his name with a flourish, accompanied by Papa's rather authoritarian scrawl at the bottom.  His shop was adjacent to a clean, small, White washed house, with a green iron gate. It bore the 'Mullick' nameplate but we'd never really seen anyone step out or lounge about the house. This was a good topic of gossip- as well as the trifle goings-on- which progressed in subject just as we grew in life- earlier revolving around the main bread-earner of the house- to where his offspring had been selected to study- and later to the sad fact of houses being sold and people moving out of the city. Though Munna ji always had some nuggets of information- he never added his own bit to it- he was merely a messenger spreading knowledge around. On the other side of his shop, separated by a crisscross bamboo curtain was a halwai shop, from which emanated decidedly mouth-watering aromas all times of the day. A trip to buy 'anda-bread' was never complete without peeking across to see what was being fried. Sometimes Munna-ji even worked on telepathy- keeping aside two packets of milk for us when we were unable to make his shop on time. His shop and he, had no phones of any kind. So he sat there, for a couple of hours morning and evening, satisfyingly talking with his few customers and being enormously contented.  I rue the fact that there's no Munna-ji near where I live. True, there's an Aarey milk centre which drops in a packet of milk in the morning at home- but no gossip, no warm thick voice welcoming us to his shop. Bread - brown bread- is bought at the downstairs grocery store and eggs- farm fresh vitamin enriched ones- from Natures Basket across the road.  We may be eating healthier but we've lost the human touch.

Icy moments

Last evening, on a shopping spree in Raania's paternal hometown of Jaipur, we decided to treat ourselves to ice- lollies- the magnificent barf ka gola. Oooh and what a treat it was right from the word - ice.. As the 'bhaiyyaji' shaved off the sumptuous brick of ice (hubby decided to look the other way all through my misdemeanour) and patted it into shape, my mouth had already started watering imagining the many flavours plastered across the signboard. Finally I settled for a mix of Rose and kala khatta. The amazing masala added onto the ice cone made it even more enjoyable as I slurped up the delicious bit of ice and liquid down to the tiniest speck! Hubby of course, laughed all through and Raania looked positively amused seeing her normally stolid mum melt like the ice herself into a puddle of enjoyment. Oh, for life's silly small joys! 

Of Sunday baths and stone bathrooms!

There was a time when the word 'shampoo' was synonymous with Sunsilk- in it's pre-highfalutin avatar. It was a simple bottle (don't remember though, how it looked) but shampoo usually meant Sundays. Mom would massage amla oil into our hair the night before and we'd take enormous joy in the washing off ritual. Our bathroom (pre-renovation) was a little stone alcove with a wooden door, with a straight built in shelf which housed the basic- shampoo, soap. It had a bulb for no-nonsense lighting and a lovely stone lattice high in the wall which acted as the exhaust - with those old golden aluminium taps you see only in school books and villages now. We loved the bathroom.  But more on the shampoo now- Sunday morning baths were a little longer, as we scrubbed out the oil and toweled ourselves dry. Those were the days of no-conditioner and air-drying the hair. So all of us would comb our hair and dry it under the fan or under the sun- in winters.  Alas. When we renovated our house, the little stone bathroom was demolished and in it's place was a spanking new one- with tiled floors and walls and metal shower heads and a matching exhaust fan. It also had a big built in shelf with compartments for everyone's soaps and shampoos and conditioners- yes- by this time those long sleek tubes had made their way into our bathing routine- as well as sockets for the hair dryer. No more drying hair under the fan or sun- we could have beautiful salon-like hair in a matter of minutes. Though we were awed by such opulence (it took very little to amaze us in those days), guess which room my sister and I most missed? The little stone bathroom and it's fond memories of the Sunday bath!