Gili ki Suki, was gross. But that was one of the expected norms for toss up.Apart from the toss, Galli Cricket redefined many a cricketing terms. Some of them not even part of regular First Class Cricket.
For example one tip, one hand. Or "only off-side" rules. Or "current" out.
A game of Galli cricket usually evolved over a period of many cricketing sessions. It crystallized it's rules and contours based on what neighbor was a pain-in-the-butt (and hence hitting the ball directly in their compound was out), what side of the road had higher probability of traffic nuisance (as if traffic was a nuisance and not the actual game being played on public property), what side of the arena had more bushes/trees..
But once the rules got defined and refined, the show was on. It use to go into dark hours of twilight, in diminishing lights, until the symphony was broken by a shouting Mom of one of the 'studious' players. (That player would not be from S.F.S)
One of the other reasons for an unceremonious end of the game would be a broken window of a not-so-sporting neighbor. A khadoos and in all likely hood, a bald oldie, would stop the game by his ruckus over a broken window. So much so that by the time he came out of his house, shouting, the only concrete evidence of someone playing cricket was the small tower of red bricks which masqueraded as a wicket. Coz all the players would have vanished from the scene of trouble faster than my 401k's gains ..and those bricks would be standing tall and only helping in making the guy's face go red like them.
As kids grew into college going 'young adults', Galli Cricket also became an excuse for some bizarre activities. Like making an impression on neighborhood 'flames'. Some over enthusiastic fielder in the sleeps (yeah, we use to have sleep position too..go figure) would make a seemingly simple looking catch into a Jonty Rodesque diving acrobatic stunt just to impress 'her'. She wouldn't even notice, but no one was blaming this 'impresario' for trying too hard. His many fake dives for a simple catch would not even invite a nod or a hello after several weeks. In most cases, the flame wouldn't even know the guyz existence. These stories would begin and die on the cricketing field itself.
Although there was lowest common denominator ground rules for all Galli Cricket, some of them got tweaked from neighborhood to neighborhood or even cities.
For example when I use to play in Mumbai with my cousins on vacations, they played Galli Cricket with a different set of rules. (Being Bombay, they called it 'Box Cricket'). The kids there were extremely conscious of space limitations, and that notion had got hard-wired into them. So much so that when we played cricket on Versova Beach near my aunt's house, we would even make a boundary line and play box cricket although there was no compelling reason to 'box' it.
When I visited India last year, I found Galli Cricket was conspicuous by it's absence. Probably Cable TV/ Pool Tables / Competitive exams.. or a combination of these factors all have conspired to replace my dear Galli Cricket off the slate.
Long before T20 became the cool poster child of cricket, 80s school kids, had already identified a fast paced, intense, easy to consume , fast-food cricket. It was Galli Cricket. And boy did we enjoy it! Right from the toss, to the controversial run-outs and nics, to touching of bats when the non-striker and striker swap positions, to contributing 25 paise for one MRF ball, to deciding the batting line up based on who bowled first, to arranging "matches" with 'next Galli' folks and signing off on a notebook, declaring a win or a loss.... every game ensured an intense drama of cricketainment.
P.S : Not to blow my own trumpet, but I did have a lethal doosra in under-arm spin :)
Showing posts with label Nagpur. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nagpur. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
The Hitavada
Nagpur is the 3rd biggest city in Maharashtra, and I have not checked the latest census, but I am sure it's in top 15 cities of India by population. It is also officially the 'second' capital of Maharashtra (whatever that means).
And yet for all this, it does not have a decent local newspaper to cater to it's populace. It has 'The Hitavada' of course and it 'had' something called as 'Nagpur Times' sometime back; but that's about it, I guess.
First of all the Name. I mean what in hell does that name mean! Who comes up with such names for a Newspaper- 'The Hitavada'??
I have heard names with Times,Express,Daily,Tele in it. But this must be the most unique name for a newspaper ever. On a related topic that I won't go into too much now, I have a feeling Nagpur brings up these random names which I can never make sense of. Specially some names of it's localities or *suburbs*, if you will. (Sample this - Jaripatka, Bhamti Parsodi, GaddiGudam.. and of course SitaBuldi, smack at center of the town)
So coming back to 'The Hitavada', I tried to look up for it's website. And Bingo! I got it. They have an online version of it. And the quality is just terrific.
For instance if you click on the Editorial link, you are taken to a page that will give you some local news. One such news item is hilarious.. Another fake currency circulation detected, it's by a Staff Reporter. This newspaper has turned the notion of Editorial on it's head. Makes you wonder what the Staff Reporter is reporting on the Editorial section.
I find this snippet hilarious..
Also in the Editorial Section there are stories like.. "Girls more dedicated, hard workers than boys:" ..., "Orange City’s own Santa Claus"... etc. All are funny.
Well, what can you say. Nagpur *is* funny.
Also most people there have an air of arrogance about them. It's a mystery though, "for what and why"?. PuLa Deshpande nailed it in his brilliant essay .."Mumbaikar,Punekar ani Nagpurkar". He brings out the perfect, loud and pompous character of a Nagpurkar. The way he depicts it all, is just stupendous.
Keeping in tune with that Nagpuri smugness, I am sure every Nagpurkar worth his salt thinks of Hitavada as no less than their own NYTimes. ... I wouldn't be surprised if I ever hear this.."Are tumhara New York Times kya hai ho!... apna Hitvad koi kum hai kya..?"
And the person who says this would say it with such mega confidence you would be speechless. There's no rejoinder you can ever have for that! You cannot make a comeback. Period. After all The Hitavada is "ours" and it's spectacularly Nagpuri :)
And yet for all this, it does not have a decent local newspaper to cater to it's populace. It has 'The Hitavada' of course and it 'had' something called as 'Nagpur Times' sometime back; but that's about it, I guess.
First of all the Name. I mean what in hell does that name mean! Who comes up with such names for a Newspaper- 'The Hitavada'??
I have heard names with Times,Express,Daily,Tele in it. But this must be the most unique name for a newspaper ever. On a related topic that I won't go into too much now, I have a feeling Nagpur brings up these random names which I can never make sense of. Specially some names of it's localities or *suburbs*, if you will. (Sample this - Jaripatka, Bhamti Parsodi, GaddiGudam.. and of course SitaBuldi, smack at center of the town)
So coming back to 'The Hitavada', I tried to look up for it's website. And Bingo! I got it. They have an online version of it. And the quality is just terrific.
For instance if you click on the Editorial link, you are taken to a page that will give you some local news. One such news item is hilarious.. Another fake currency circulation detected, it's by a Staff Reporter. This newspaper has turned the notion of Editorial on it's head. Makes you wonder what the Staff Reporter is reporting on the Editorial section.
I find this snippet hilarious..
According to Police, Dr Murtuja, a resident of Bajrang Square and his driver Ankush Rajaram Pal (27), a resident of Jai Hind Nagar, Mankapur were coming from Kalmeshwar to Gittikhadan in a Mahindra pick-up van (MH-31/CQ-3831).Why so much of information! Like for example the number plate of the pickup van. Why would you do that? Unless you expect people to go their DMVs / RTOs and check who the guy with white van and that number plate is? "Oh, so it's HIM"?
Also in the Editorial Section there are stories like.. "Girls more dedicated, hard workers than boys:" ..., "Orange City’s own Santa Claus"... etc. All are funny.
Well, what can you say. Nagpur *is* funny.
Also most people there have an air of arrogance about them. It's a mystery though, "for what and why"?. PuLa Deshpande nailed it in his brilliant essay .."Mumbaikar,Punekar ani Nagpurkar". He brings out the perfect, loud and pompous character of a Nagpurkar. The way he depicts it all, is just stupendous.
Keeping in tune with that Nagpuri smugness, I am sure every Nagpurkar worth his salt thinks of Hitavada as no less than their own NYTimes. ... I wouldn't be surprised if I ever hear this.."Are tumhara New York Times kya hai ho!... apna Hitvad koi kum hai kya..?"
And the person who says this would say it with such mega confidence you would be speechless. There's no rejoinder you can ever have for that! You cannot make a comeback. Period. After all The Hitavada is "ours" and it's spectacularly Nagpuri :)
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Safari Suit and the Drama
There's this notion of dressing style called Safari Suit. I am sure there's a reason why the suit is called "Safari" and I don't intend to dig it up. But I was surprised, there actually was a website called http://www.safarisuit.com/
Whatever may be it's origin or the story behind this suit, I think this form of attire is.. what's the word I am looking for here.. yeah... Obnoxious. It's creepy actually. Why would you want to do it to yourself? That is a fair question to ask, I think.
So last visit to Nagpur I took my wife to watch this Marathi drama at Vasantrao Deshpande Hall. This was part of my whole, "impress-Nagpur-on-her" syndrome. Basically Nagpur has the "culture" thing going too; something I somehow thought was important to prove (ok, you have to hold that look back.., I have my reasons.)
I booked the tickets for the show in advance. (Nobody does that in Nagpur it seems. I think the idea is to just show up. "Advance booking" is for dorks) We came to the hall around 12:50pm as the drama was to start at 1:00 pm. You'd think that if 1:00 pm is printed on the ticket, the show would start at 1:00, right? Fair assumption? Only it din't. Actually it did not start even at 1:30. Neither at 1:45. It started at 2:00 pm.
But that's not the worst part. There were people still coming inside the auditorium till 2:30pm; a good one and a half hour after the official start time. It's like they couldn't care less.
And every time someone entered that dark auditorium, a big stream of light would enter the hall via the open door, breaking the whole momentum of the show. The show never got traction coz of that. (Like it would have mattered)
By 2:30 I had already lost interest in the drama. I was observing my watch and people alternatively. I was not even freaking out. This all made no sense. So I had given up on anything remotely rational or reasonable. The people in general looked fine with all this. So I was ok too. I had turned native.
The drama was a comedy one. So you'd expect some moments of comic relief. Only both me and my wife felt out of place. It's not like we were not getting the humor. But it was just lame. Plain lame. Prashant Damle was making faces and would break into random act of song and dance once in a while too. Not sure what he had in mind.
Somehow all this made a lot of sense to the 'gentleman' sitting behind us. He totally "got it". He was totally digging it. Laughing out loudly and showing his deep admiration for Mr Damle's acting. But what bothered me more was, there was this one word he kept repeating ad nauseum.. "Class... Class... Class" even while he himself erupted into multiple uncontrollable LOLs.
I am sure he meant, it was a class act, but tiger..easy! Like this was some classic Shakespearean Comedy of Errors. He just could not gather himself. He was putting himself out there. Loudly sure, but it was not clear why. And yes he was wearing a "Safari Suit".
Man that combination. A loud man, a loud attire and the word "Class".
I was waiting desperately for the interval, although it wouldn't have mattered to anyone if I had just walked right through the exit door and left. But the samosa guys wouldn't be there. So I waited for that intermission ring and boy! did I run to the stalls to get those awesome tiny samosas.
For me, those samosa making dark circular oily maps on the white paper plate, more than made up for everything else. I'd say go to those shows for the samosas. It's easy to endure anything after that.
..
Post Script : Nagpur Samosa is the best snack ever. Period.
Whatever may be it's origin or the story behind this suit, I think this form of attire is.. what's the word I am looking for here.. yeah... Obnoxious. It's creepy actually. Why would you want to do it to yourself? That is a fair question to ask, I think.
So last visit to Nagpur I took my wife to watch this Marathi drama at Vasantrao Deshpande Hall. This was part of my whole, "impress-Nagpur-on-her" syndrome. Basically Nagpur has the "culture" thing going too; something I somehow thought was important to prove (ok, you have to hold that look back.., I have my reasons.)
I booked the tickets for the show in advance. (Nobody does that in Nagpur it seems. I think the idea is to just show up. "Advance booking" is for dorks) We came to the hall around 12:50pm as the drama was to start at 1:00 pm. You'd think that if 1:00 pm is printed on the ticket, the show would start at 1:00, right? Fair assumption? Only it din't. Actually it did not start even at 1:30. Neither at 1:45. It started at 2:00 pm.
But that's not the worst part. There were people still coming inside the auditorium till 2:30pm; a good one and a half hour after the official start time. It's like they couldn't care less.
And every time someone entered that dark auditorium, a big stream of light would enter the hall via the open door, breaking the whole momentum of the show. The show never got traction coz of that. (Like it would have mattered)
By 2:30 I had already lost interest in the drama. I was observing my watch and people alternatively. I was not even freaking out. This all made no sense. So I had given up on anything remotely rational or reasonable. The people in general looked fine with all this. So I was ok too. I had turned native.
The drama was a comedy one. So you'd expect some moments of comic relief. Only both me and my wife felt out of place. It's not like we were not getting the humor. But it was just lame. Plain lame. Prashant Damle was making faces and would break into random act of song and dance once in a while too. Not sure what he had in mind.
Somehow all this made a lot of sense to the 'gentleman' sitting behind us. He totally "got it". He was totally digging it. Laughing out loudly and showing his deep admiration for Mr Damle's acting. But what bothered me more was, there was this one word he kept repeating ad nauseum.. "Class... Class... Class" even while he himself erupted into multiple uncontrollable LOLs.
I am sure he meant, it was a class act, but tiger..easy! Like this was some classic Shakespearean Comedy of Errors. He just could not gather himself. He was putting himself out there. Loudly sure, but it was not clear why. And yes he was wearing a "Safari Suit".
Man that combination. A loud man, a loud attire and the word "Class".
I was waiting desperately for the interval, although it wouldn't have mattered to anyone if I had just walked right through the exit door and left. But the samosa guys wouldn't be there. So I waited for that intermission ring and boy! did I run to the stalls to get those awesome tiny samosas.
For me, those samosa making dark circular oily maps on the white paper plate, more than made up for everything else. I'd say go to those shows for the samosas. It's easy to endure anything after that.
..
Post Script : Nagpur Samosa is the best snack ever. Period.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Nagpur
As the jetlite flight started descending over Nagpur Airport and I could see those small tiny houses dispersed in between green fields I was thinking how far has my city come. Or how far have I travelled away from it in last so many years. Both physically and mentally.
Nagpur is obviously not the same. But neither am I. We both have moved on. We both have changed. Taking a different trajectory from the time we both lived together.
People who know me, know that I, amongst other things, am unabashedly pro-Nagpuri and unabashedly pro-America. And I am apologetic about neither. Why pro-America? Simple answer - 'I have my reasons'. For a more elaborate explanation we need a whole new post.
Coming back to Nagpur, the obvious reason being - 'I am rooted here'. But let me go a little deeper than that.
Every time I come to Nagpur it feels like coming 'back home'. Whether I returned from my hostel life for vacation, or when I was working in Mumbai and came home or now when I am in Chicago and come to Nagpur. The feeling on landing at Nagpur, whether Airport or Railway st or Prasanna bus stop at Bole petrol pump,is similar. It just feels good. It just feels like my city, my home town is waiting with open arms to embrass me.
The feeling can best be described by the beautiful urdu word - Mehefooz. Yes, thats the closest I can think of.
The familiarity with everything just resonates from the word go. The language,
the traffic, the unnecessary honking of vehicles, the arrogant shopkeepers, the total disregard to value of Time, all ring a familair bell. It's home. It's here that my foundation was established. My family, my friends, my school, my childhood everything is deeply rooted here. This non-metro, second tier city of India, smack on the center of India's map.
This is the longest both me and wife have stayed in Nagpur in a very long time. And goes without sayin we are having a ball. That's an understatement actually. To put it in marathi Amhi jeevacha Nagpur Kartoye.
From eating different stuff every day to going to my paternal and maternal relatives almost every day, to flying kite, to playing with my niece and nephew, to having picnic in places around Nagpur, to taking long morning walks on well paved roads, to giving random calls to folks and making programs at run time, to meeting old buddy at coffee house, to contributing nothing to random family discussions and observing the ruckus to simply doing nothing and lying on bare floor and dozing off in afternoon naps.. we are making the most of it and we have not had a single dull moment so far..
The good part is I have been able to impress upon the positives of Nagpur to my non-Nagpuri wife. And best part is, I din't have to try too hard. Nagpur has changed for good.
Off course there are few things that haven't changed and won't in the future..
-General apathy towards Time and Appointments
-Method to chaos
-Endless discussions on any damn topic
-Pure and Wholesome Loudness of it all.
My battery is fully recharged now. I am taking a good mental picture of this vacation and leaving it on a positive note. Mumbai's tragedy on my first day of arrival overshadowed my stay initially. But now after having stayed with my family,cousins and friends I feel relaxed, re-fuelled and ready to go back.
If there's a notion of another life, and I am asked to choose a city I wish to be born again, it will be Nagpur for me. Simply No contest.
Nagpur is obviously not the same. But neither am I. We both have moved on. We both have changed. Taking a different trajectory from the time we both lived together.
People who know me, know that I, amongst other things, am unabashedly pro-Nagpuri and unabashedly pro-America. And I am apologetic about neither. Why pro-America? Simple answer - 'I have my reasons'. For a more elaborate explanation we need a whole new post.
Coming back to Nagpur, the obvious reason being - 'I am rooted here'. But let me go a little deeper than that.
Every time I come to Nagpur it feels like coming 'back home'. Whether I returned from my hostel life for vacation, or when I was working in Mumbai and came home or now when I am in Chicago and come to Nagpur. The feeling on landing at Nagpur, whether Airport or Railway st or Prasanna bus stop at Bole petrol pump,is similar. It just feels good. It just feels like my city, my home town is waiting with open arms to embrass me.
The feeling can best be described by the beautiful urdu word - Mehefooz. Yes, thats the closest I can think of.
The familiarity with everything just resonates from the word go. The language,
the traffic, the unnecessary honking of vehicles, the arrogant shopkeepers, the total disregard to value of Time, all ring a familair bell. It's home. It's here that my foundation was established. My family, my friends, my school, my childhood everything is deeply rooted here. This non-metro, second tier city of India, smack on the center of India's map.
This is the longest both me and wife have stayed in Nagpur in a very long time. And goes without sayin we are having a ball. That's an understatement actually. To put it in marathi Amhi jeevacha Nagpur Kartoye.
From eating different stuff every day to going to my paternal and maternal relatives almost every day, to flying kite, to playing with my niece and nephew, to having picnic in places around Nagpur, to taking long morning walks on well paved roads, to giving random calls to folks and making programs at run time, to meeting old buddy at coffee house, to contributing nothing to random family discussions and observing the ruckus to simply doing nothing and lying on bare floor and dozing off in afternoon naps.. we are making the most of it and we have not had a single dull moment so far..
The good part is I have been able to impress upon the positives of Nagpur to my non-Nagpuri wife. And best part is, I din't have to try too hard. Nagpur has changed for good.
Off course there are few things that haven't changed and won't in the future..
-General apathy towards Time and Appointments
-Method to chaos
-Endless discussions on any damn topic
-Pure and Wholesome Loudness of it all.
My battery is fully recharged now. I am taking a good mental picture of this vacation and leaving it on a positive note. Mumbai's tragedy on my first day of arrival overshadowed my stay initially. But now after having stayed with my family,cousins and friends I feel relaxed, re-fuelled and ready to go back.
If there's a notion of another life, and I am asked to choose a city I wish to be born again, it will be Nagpur for me. Simply No contest.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Saoji Beckons
Looking forward to India vacation next month. Can't see no reason not to have Saoji Chicken in Nagpur. Last time I had it near Sai Temple on Wardha Road...
This time I am looking to go to the "original" Saoji folks.. I am assuming this is controversial, because everyone would claim their chain as original. Last time one of my cousin bro-in-laws (and I think I have like 50 of them) suggested we go to a place called Umred, which apparently has the original Saoji.. (I was like wtf... why should Umred have it?). But the dude seemed convinced and one thing I have learnt over the years in Nagpur - NEVER ARGUE - with a hard core Ngpite. It's waste of time and energy amongst other things. Just go with the flow...
Saoji's taste, IMO, is directly proportional to how un-sanitized the place is. If the pot, is really burnt and dirty, if the place is filled with the (perversely defined term) "unwashed masses", you are in for a good deal.
Cant' wait..
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Zhunka Bhakar
Every region of the country boasts of one or two of its specialties as far as food is concerned. Chennai has its dosai and idli, Kolkatta has its rosogollas, Delhi has it's dahi bhalla and what not, Punjab of course has glamorized Sarso-ka-Saag and Makke-di-roti umpteen times via bollywood, Bombay has it's chaat thing going for it, Pune has it's wada pav, Indore has it's farsan, Hyderabad has its biryani, Kashmir has it's pulav, Gujarat has it's dhokla and basically an array of items which other regions have adopted, Rajasthan has daal bati...
The list is endless.
Nagpur has nothing. Well nothing, unless you have heard of Savji Chicken or Zhunka Bhakar. Now here's the thing though. Zhunka Bhakar can be claimed by all of Maharashtra. But i am going to argue it's very Nagpuri. The very "personality" of Zhunka Bhakar is Nagpuri. Now howz that?
Before we go further lets first establish something. A food dish is usually associated with the availability of resources around the region. So Punjab has sarso because it can grow sarso. Bombay became chaat heaven because it has been a very fast city since eons and the notion of chaat suited Mumbai's fast character. The food habit is built around the regions needs,convenience and resources.
Now, the region around Nagpur is suited for a few things including Jowar (or as they call in Marathi - jwaari). It also had chick peas (or besan) going for it. The region bordering Maharashtra and Andra Pradesh produces the chilliest of red chillies. And Nagpur happens to be close to that border. So the third and in my opinion the most important ancillary of Zhunka Bhakar, the "Thecha" also finds its way in here. In fact without thecha, Zhunka Bhakar would loose its most important ingredient( and also motivation for me to eat, personally).
The name Zhunka and Bhakar sound very Vidharbiya. You have strange names in this part of the world. And when someone calls something "zhunka", it's an open and shut case. It has to be from Nagpur area :)
So far so good. Now it's not something i should brag about though without applying a positive spin to the dish. For starters it's not "visible" on the Indian food radar. 99% people won't even know it exists. Yet for me its special. Leaving aside the nostalgia and memories it brings, i happen to love it immensely.
There are 4 things needed to build it. Red/Green chili, Besan (chick peas flour), Jwari and Onion. Thats all. If you have these four, you are good to go.
Now comes the tough part. The preparation. Actually it is not tough at all. And this is my wife's opinion who did not know much about this dish before marriage. She comes from a different eating culture. In fact before marriage, me and my wife belonged to two different planets as far as food habit was concerned. There was no overlap in our eating habits. Our culinary planes were skewed.
And if she says it's easy, than it is. Now here's the thing; although it is easy it needs dedication and fine skills in preparation. Meaning, a small amount of attention to detail can change the taste and aroma drastically. This notion can be argued for all dishes in the world, i guess.
Zhunka Bhakar is this region's fast food. Yet, it needs some amount of culinary skills to get it right. The right texture and softness is important. The color (for me) is very very important. I like a little reddish tinge to this yellow dish. And the Bhakar has to come out exactly right. Else it spoils the deal. It has to have those small tandoor like black puffed circles on the surface while still retaining it's greyish color. It should be "burnt" only so much so as not to loose it's essence of being a circular bread complementing the delicious Zhunka.
Now I am going to also argue that Thetcha happens to be one of the most important ingredient of this dish. If not the most. It completes the dish. Imagine this. You go to a village in Yeotmal district. You park your car at a road side hut. The female of the hut is baking circular Bhakars on a mud stove, while simultaneously blowing the fire of stove with a small wooden pipe. Parallely the cut onion Zhunka is being cooked on the side which is steaming and yellow in color.
As you start eating on the road side cot, Bhakars are being prepared at run-time and served. What would be the only thing missing? Thetcha. In few cases curd. The perfect antidote for Thetcha.
Wouldn't you be green with envy if i tell, i have experienced this version of Zhunka Bhakar at some point?
The list is endless.
Nagpur has nothing. Well nothing, unless you have heard of Savji Chicken or Zhunka Bhakar. Now here's the thing though. Zhunka Bhakar can be claimed by all of Maharashtra. But i am going to argue it's very Nagpuri. The very "personality" of Zhunka Bhakar is Nagpuri. Now howz that?
Before we go further lets first establish something. A food dish is usually associated with the availability of resources around the region. So Punjab has sarso because it can grow sarso. Bombay became chaat heaven because it has been a very fast city since eons and the notion of chaat suited Mumbai's fast character. The food habit is built around the regions needs,convenience and resources.
Now, the region around Nagpur is suited for a few things including Jowar (or as they call in Marathi - jwaari). It also had chick peas (or besan) going for it. The region bordering Maharashtra and Andra Pradesh produces the chilliest of red chillies. And Nagpur happens to be close to that border. So the third and in my opinion the most important ancillary of Zhunka Bhakar, the "Thecha" also finds its way in here. In fact without thecha, Zhunka Bhakar would loose its most important ingredient( and also motivation for me to eat, personally).
The name Zhunka and Bhakar sound very Vidharbiya. You have strange names in this part of the world. And when someone calls something "zhunka", it's an open and shut case. It has to be from Nagpur area :)
So far so good. Now it's not something i should brag about though without applying a positive spin to the dish. For starters it's not "visible" on the Indian food radar. 99% people won't even know it exists. Yet for me its special. Leaving aside the nostalgia and memories it brings, i happen to love it immensely.
There are 4 things needed to build it. Red/Green chili, Besan (chick peas flour), Jwari and Onion. Thats all. If you have these four, you are good to go.
Now comes the tough part. The preparation. Actually it is not tough at all. And this is my wife's opinion who did not know much about this dish before marriage. She comes from a different eating culture. In fact before marriage, me and my wife belonged to two different planets as far as food habit was concerned. There was no overlap in our eating habits. Our culinary planes were skewed.
And if she says it's easy, than it is. Now here's the thing; although it is easy it needs dedication and fine skills in preparation. Meaning, a small amount of attention to detail can change the taste and aroma drastically. This notion can be argued for all dishes in the world, i guess.
Zhunka Bhakar is this region's fast food. Yet, it needs some amount of culinary skills to get it right. The right texture and softness is important. The color (for me) is very very important. I like a little reddish tinge to this yellow dish. And the Bhakar has to come out exactly right. Else it spoils the deal. It has to have those small tandoor like black puffed circles on the surface while still retaining it's greyish color. It should be "burnt" only so much so as not to loose it's essence of being a circular bread complementing the delicious Zhunka.
Now I am going to also argue that Thetcha happens to be one of the most important ingredient of this dish. If not the most. It completes the dish. Imagine this. You go to a village in Yeotmal district. You park your car at a road side hut. The female of the hut is baking circular Bhakars on a mud stove, while simultaneously blowing the fire of stove with a small wooden pipe. Parallely the cut onion Zhunka is being cooked on the side which is steaming and yellow in color.
As you start eating on the road side cot, Bhakars are being prepared at run-time and served. What would be the only thing missing? Thetcha. In few cases curd. The perfect antidote for Thetcha.
Wouldn't you be green with envy if i tell, i have experienced this version of Zhunka Bhakar at some point?
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Sankrant in Nagpur
According to me there are two festivals that are celebrated uniquely in Nagpur. Sankrant and Holi. Although both are possibly celebrated all over the country, in Nagpur these two take an altogether different meaning.
Well may be not anymore, but it used to, not too long ago.
Sankrant was special for me. I was passionate about kites. So much so, that if i ever rebelled against my father in my entire life, that was once in my very early teens, and that too for Kites.
Yes kites.
It so happened that we had moved into this new building just a year ago and our building secretary was a real jerk. An old guy in his early 70s who had the keys and control to the building terrace or gachchi as it's called in Nagpur. And that Sankrant day in 1987, this jerk was being real cranky. He refused to let us on to the terrace. We, young kids got restless and made some noise and complained to our parents. To my dismay my father instead of supporting us, sided with him. This was too much to take for me. I remember that was the first time in my entire life till that point that i actually answered back to my Dad. Such was the passion i had for kites.
My obsession for kites was so overwhelming, i actually crossed the line that day. And if you have been a kid in Nagpur during the 80s, you would know i was not the only one so passionately in love with kites.
During the kite season, which had a one-two month build up period from say November, till passions reached its zenith on the D-Day, the 14th of Jan, the day Sankrant was celebrated, we were totally mesmerized by Kites.
Each neighborhood had these local heroes, who were like the real Kings of the kite flying domain. They almost reached celebrity status during this time of the year. Nobody would challenge them, as in no one would take a "pecha" with them. Pecha is a term used for a kite contest where one fella tries to "cut" the challengers Kite. It's one helluva on-air battle.
During the kite season we would get the most tan per square cm of our skin. The reason being we would invariably be on the terrace of our building on every weekend in scorching sun flying kites, ALL Day.
There were a few popular kite stores that had become famous during my time. Ramu patang store in Giripeth was one of them. This simple immigrant from UP [probably], Ramu had become quite a stud. He was doing roaring business during the kite season. He had almost acquired a brand loyalty. So much so that basking under his glorious brand his neighbour actually opened a parallel competition called Shamu patang store. Ramu and Shamu both did great business during the season.
The Sankrant day was no ordinary day for us in Nagpur. It was the day when guys/men of all ages would come on the terrace very prepared. Each had a territory fixed for years. It was lame and a non-guy thing to be sitting at home without friends on the day of Sankrant. Even if you had no interest in flying kites it was the moral duty of every male kid to be on terrace and if not fly atleast support his more skillful friend in shouting the competition down.
O Par, was the war cry for every victory achieved on the on-air kite battle. If you happen to beat an expert the cry would be much louder. We would actually keep a count of how many competitors kites we were able to dislodge and how many of our boys we lost. At the end of the day if your balance was in the positive, you had a great day.
Surprisingly nobody would ever concede that they lost more kites than they won. This was defying the logic of sum of the total kites available in the Air.
Nevertheless there was so much obsession and passion involved for kites we actually would have fist fights over a 50 paise Kite. The stealing of manja [or the sharp thread] that is used for flying was another issue people would get worked up with.
But we all survived those moments. We were happy to be a part of the great kite flying community. We all had our own territory to guard. We always had plans made for the final day. Some of us prepared the manja till late in the night on 13th Jan, one day before Sankrant and most of us had the stocks full of kites for the final day.
Nagpur came up with unique terms for kite fliers. If you were a regular kite flier those terms were pretty much a part of your lingo for the rest of the season.
Girgot, laggi, kanna etc. Even different kites had different names. There was the macho Khada Sabbal Muchcha Khada, then bhang dar and then bhangdar tokdor. Funny names like haddi muddi or dabbedar were pretty common.
You would have no idea what i just talked about if you were not a part of that kite flying community. But even if you remotely were, then these names wouldn't be alien to you.
Even the manja had two popular ways of making them. There was the luddhee way and then there was the professional seerus way. Even the saddhhi or the original white thread that ultimately gets converted into the deadly manja had various names.
So while the guys flew their kites the girls and their mothers would be busy on the day of Sankrant with what is called as Haldi Kumkum - a marashtrian ritual where the women folk of the household go to each others houses and do something. That something, I never knew what it was, as i was always on the terrace during that time. But i knew that was a ritual religiously followed at my home for years.
The fathers would usually stay away from house during that time. The guy kids would be on terrace and sisters would be with mothers helping them with haldi kumkum.
Sankrant is possibly the only festival where fathers were "left out" of the action. Some enthusiastic fathers though would join their sons on the terrace. But not many i can tell.
On 14th of January every year, the skies of Nagpur had a decorated look. The makeover from silent sky to a sky full of colors of different shades of Kites, some small some not so tiny was phenomenal. It was like the Gods had decided to add color to the vast open canvas of Nagpur sky. The air would be filled with the clarion sounds of O par every second of the day. Some kid would be trying to catch a kite from dying with his laggi while still another kid would be hiding under the parapet wall of his building trying to steal as much manja as possible from his neighbors lost challenge. Everyone wanted a pound of the kill.
Their would be fights between neighbors over people entering their region. There would be heartbreaks and great victories at the same time. Ego clashed in the Air at every street corner and every moment of that day. The honour was taken after every victory and every fight lost was a moment of great depression.
I actually felt sad when Sankrant would end. It was like the summer holidays getting over or the cricket world cup coming to an end. The fear of the ensuing vacuum post-Sankrant was not very pleasing.
Some of us would keep flying kites even post Sankrant. Some would fly the tri-color kite on the 26th of jan. I am sure not out of any patriotic feeling but just the final passing tribute the season ending. Slowly though the passions would recede and rationality would take over. For those 2 months of kite flying season everything felt different in Nagpur.
In recent years Nagpur has seen the popularity of Kites drop to abysmal levels. The next generation of kids did not probably take over the passion or the skill with equal zeal. Somehow the kite lost its pristine position from every guys sense. I am not even sure if Ramu still sells his kites or Shamu still bothers to compete with him in their great corporate fight over trying to monopolize the Nagpur terraces. May be kites are a thing of past.
As Nagpur advances forward into the new phase of development and becomes more and more commercial, it probably has to let go those glorious festivities that defined it in some sense. As Nagpur finds new avenues of growth the old has to go. May be its not bad as it sounds, but i for sure am going to miss those Muchcha Khaddas and Bhangdars for all the 14th Jans that i ever live to see.
Well may be not anymore, but it used to, not too long ago.
Sankrant was special for me. I was passionate about kites. So much so, that if i ever rebelled against my father in my entire life, that was once in my very early teens, and that too for Kites.
Yes kites.
It so happened that we had moved into this new building just a year ago and our building secretary was a real jerk. An old guy in his early 70s who had the keys and control to the building terrace or gachchi as it's called in Nagpur. And that Sankrant day in 1987, this jerk was being real cranky. He refused to let us on to the terrace. We, young kids got restless and made some noise and complained to our parents. To my dismay my father instead of supporting us, sided with him. This was too much to take for me. I remember that was the first time in my entire life till that point that i actually answered back to my Dad. Such was the passion i had for kites.
My obsession for kites was so overwhelming, i actually crossed the line that day. And if you have been a kid in Nagpur during the 80s, you would know i was not the only one so passionately in love with kites.
During the kite season, which had a one-two month build up period from say November, till passions reached its zenith on the D-Day, the 14th of Jan, the day Sankrant was celebrated, we were totally mesmerized by Kites.
Each neighborhood had these local heroes, who were like the real Kings of the kite flying domain. They almost reached celebrity status during this time of the year. Nobody would challenge them, as in no one would take a "pecha" with them. Pecha is a term used for a kite contest where one fella tries to "cut" the challengers Kite. It's one helluva on-air battle.
During the kite season we would get the most tan per square cm of our skin. The reason being we would invariably be on the terrace of our building on every weekend in scorching sun flying kites, ALL Day.
There were a few popular kite stores that had become famous during my time. Ramu patang store in Giripeth was one of them. This simple immigrant from UP [probably], Ramu had become quite a stud. He was doing roaring business during the kite season. He had almost acquired a brand loyalty. So much so that basking under his glorious brand his neighbour actually opened a parallel competition called Shamu patang store. Ramu and Shamu both did great business during the season.
The Sankrant day was no ordinary day for us in Nagpur. It was the day when guys/men of all ages would come on the terrace very prepared. Each had a territory fixed for years. It was lame and a non-guy thing to be sitting at home without friends on the day of Sankrant. Even if you had no interest in flying kites it was the moral duty of every male kid to be on terrace and if not fly atleast support his more skillful friend in shouting the competition down.
O Par, was the war cry for every victory achieved on the on-air kite battle. If you happen to beat an expert the cry would be much louder. We would actually keep a count of how many competitors kites we were able to dislodge and how many of our boys we lost. At the end of the day if your balance was in the positive, you had a great day.
Surprisingly nobody would ever concede that they lost more kites than they won. This was defying the logic of sum of the total kites available in the Air.
Nevertheless there was so much obsession and passion involved for kites we actually would have fist fights over a 50 paise Kite. The stealing of manja [or the sharp thread] that is used for flying was another issue people would get worked up with.
But we all survived those moments. We were happy to be a part of the great kite flying community. We all had our own territory to guard. We always had plans made for the final day. Some of us prepared the manja till late in the night on 13th Jan, one day before Sankrant and most of us had the stocks full of kites for the final day.
Nagpur came up with unique terms for kite fliers. If you were a regular kite flier those terms were pretty much a part of your lingo for the rest of the season.
Girgot, laggi, kanna etc. Even different kites had different names. There was the macho Khada Sabbal Muchcha Khada, then bhang dar and then bhangdar tokdor. Funny names like haddi muddi or dabbedar were pretty common.
You would have no idea what i just talked about if you were not a part of that kite flying community. But even if you remotely were, then these names wouldn't be alien to you.
Even the manja had two popular ways of making them. There was the luddhee way and then there was the professional seerus way. Even the saddhhi or the original white thread that ultimately gets converted into the deadly manja had various names.
So while the guys flew their kites the girls and their mothers would be busy on the day of Sankrant with what is called as Haldi Kumkum - a marashtrian ritual where the women folk of the household go to each others houses and do something. That something, I never knew what it was, as i was always on the terrace during that time. But i knew that was a ritual religiously followed at my home for years.
The fathers would usually stay away from house during that time. The guy kids would be on terrace and sisters would be with mothers helping them with haldi kumkum.
Sankrant is possibly the only festival where fathers were "left out" of the action. Some enthusiastic fathers though would join their sons on the terrace. But not many i can tell.
On 14th of January every year, the skies of Nagpur had a decorated look. The makeover from silent sky to a sky full of colors of different shades of Kites, some small some not so tiny was phenomenal. It was like the Gods had decided to add color to the vast open canvas of Nagpur sky. The air would be filled with the clarion sounds of O par every second of the day. Some kid would be trying to catch a kite from dying with his laggi while still another kid would be hiding under the parapet wall of his building trying to steal as much manja as possible from his neighbors lost challenge. Everyone wanted a pound of the kill.
Their would be fights between neighbors over people entering their region. There would be heartbreaks and great victories at the same time. Ego clashed in the Air at every street corner and every moment of that day. The honour was taken after every victory and every fight lost was a moment of great depression.
I actually felt sad when Sankrant would end. It was like the summer holidays getting over or the cricket world cup coming to an end. The fear of the ensuing vacuum post-Sankrant was not very pleasing.
Some of us would keep flying kites even post Sankrant. Some would fly the tri-color kite on the 26th of jan. I am sure not out of any patriotic feeling but just the final passing tribute the season ending. Slowly though the passions would recede and rationality would take over. For those 2 months of kite flying season everything felt different in Nagpur.
In recent years Nagpur has seen the popularity of Kites drop to abysmal levels. The next generation of kids did not probably take over the passion or the skill with equal zeal. Somehow the kite lost its pristine position from every guys sense. I am not even sure if Ramu still sells his kites or Shamu still bothers to compete with him in their great corporate fight over trying to monopolize the Nagpur terraces. May be kites are a thing of past.
As Nagpur advances forward into the new phase of development and becomes more and more commercial, it probably has to let go those glorious festivities that defined it in some sense. As Nagpur finds new avenues of growth the old has to go. May be its not bad as it sounds, but i for sure am going to miss those Muchcha Khaddas and Bhangdars for all the 14th Jans that i ever live to see.
Dharampeth Coffee House
I was a regular visitor to Dharampeth Coffee House [DCH] for around 2 years; between the period when i was just around end of my college and my regular job. The period when i was mostly unemployed or trying things and failing consistently.
We were a group of guys, who had recently passed their Engineering and were looking for either jobs or generally taking the next career step.
Now get this, Nagpur was not exactly the kind of city where one could launch a career in a technical field. It was neither a manufacturing hub like Pune nor a professionals paradise like Bombay. In terms of lack of employment opportunities Nagpur ranked higher than most cities.
The only option we had was to move out from Nagpur and look for *greener pastures*.
Moving out of Nagpur? - well that required some motivation.
That was a period when the IT revolution was slowly unraveling in India. But we Nagpuris were sort of detached from this phenomenon. Not that we were not aware; oh no, we were actually very aware. Only thing we did not know the gateway to that revolution.
At 21-22 , we simply were the young turks who had the energy but not the direction to get it right. The growing expectations of our family was not helping either. We were the quintessential *Educated unemployed* romanticized in some art movies of bollywood. Not that we considered ourselves to be that.
Given this situation where at one end i was trying to avoid eye contact with my father and at the other end was not motivated enough to go out of the city and find something, I found a haven in Nagpur called the Dharampeth Coffee House [DCH]
DCH, a place where you could spend hours together and not spend more that 2.50 INR by sipping one cup of coffee. Being a government run house, neither the manager nor the waiter would give you those condescending looks for ordering "just one coffee" and occupying the chair for hours and along the way consuming the resources like newspaper endlessly. They were least bothered. They were equally laid back.
The thing about newspapers at the DCH was that you would never get a full version of "todays news" in a single bunch. The daily and its supplement would usually be scattered amongst different tables of the DCH. The sports section would be at one end while the editorial would be lying under someone else's cup.
Anyway our interests were not about current affairs. We were more interested in solving the crossword puzzle; a thing or liking we picked up while preparing for the MBA entrance. (ya right!)
So even as we *were* discussing the current situation, we were more bothered about that English word which was not fitting the puzzle.
The real charm of DCH was in its visitors. The absolute regulars. From around 10:00 am in the morning till 5:00 in the evening you would end up seeing the same faces all the time. It made us wonder what these "professionals" , some of them dressed always in formal attire were actually into? Were they really working somewhere? Or they had come so far at a point in their lives of trying to dodge an eye contact with their fathers that they had made DCH their professional home?
Nevertheless it helped build the place into what it was. A bustling and breeding ground for wannabe professionals. Professionals discussing complex world issues around a table complete with empty coffee cups and cigarette ashtrays. The *smoke screen* that those cigarette puffs created couldn't have been more ironical given the situation.
We were all having our own SMOKE SCREENS. We were escaping the hard realities and DCH provided us with that escape route. It was a place where you were not accountable for your actions. And spending hours without the monetary counter balance for doing that was economically viable for unemployed like us.
2.50 INR [less than 10 cents] for 3 hours or more made perfect business sense. The Government of India after all was taking good care of us.
DCH had more to it than the regular faces. It had regular waiters. The ones who came from Kerela and were in Nagpur for their respective "onsite" opportunity. Nagpur offering some one with an onsite opportunity was in itself a notion, lot wouldn't find amusing. But so it was. The same waiters who would become so familiar with our faces, they would hardly ask us for orders. They knew we could not afford more than one cup, ok may be two on good days tops. They were humane enough to understand our "situation".
But there was also a class of people, the achievers, who strangely found a safe haven in DCH. This was sort of a mystery for me. Whom were they escaping from? These guys were successful doctors [my own family doctor was a regular visitor], successful business men [some of whom i knew personally] , successful lawyers etc. What was bringing them here? And everyday.
I realized that DCH was a magnet that was attracting people of all walks of Nagpur's life. In some sense it was a true melting pot of Nagpur's educated young/old turks. We had people from age of 25 to 50 sitting on the same table, having coffee and cigarettes and often not even in conversation with each other. Yet they were bound by the same thread of DCH. You were *cool* if you were a DCH regular. You don't know the person, you never speak to him, yet you probably KNOW him. He is the same guy who like you spends hours in DCH and yet is un-apologetic about it. He may occasionally come over to your table for taking a "current" from your puff [current - a term used to take another persons live cigarette and using it to light your own] and move on without saying a thank you - yet in strange ways acknowledging it.
DCH for me is symbolic of Nagpur's professionalism , or lack of it. Laid back and non-demanding. Easy going and not too convoluted.
A place that actually made you feel more intellectually empowered. A place where unemployment wasn't a taboo. A place where waiter was called Anna and he would feel endeared. A place where the super achievers shared the space with non-achievers or potential achievers and yet feel perfectly comfortable.
DCH was that one stop shop for all our miseries. And we did not have many in fact. Yet Coffee House somehow filled that vacuum. A day not spent at DCH was a day wasted. We felt like we were integral to that culture. Our only contribution being warming the chairs of DCH for hours together. The style accompanying the puffing of your cigarette and entering through the door, the association of adulthood to that place was unmistakable. The putting up a facade of maturity and forcing yourself into the men's world was an act of desperation and yet it was endearing.
After almost a decade I did visit the place again in recent past; probably last year. I somehow did not like what i saw. The old faces were replaced by new less known ones. The waiter wore the same attire but he was not the same. The aura was missing. The DCH i knew was not there anymore. May be it is for the new unemployed of my city. But for me the DCH i knew had passed.
For those years of my life when nothing concrete was being achieved, when i was not contributing locally, domestically or nationally to the economy and was Indian government's unwanted guest , a parasite if you will, an era when i was visiting DCH so that i could feel amongst the MEN of Nagpur and associate myself with a community that virtually existed on cigarette and coffee, an era when my only achievement was solving the crossword puzzle incompletely and an era when i did not feel left out because i had for my own convenience created a social mechanism of which i could be a part of without paying for it ; the DCH, Dharampeth Coffee house was my second home.
In some sense it was my last stop of the splendidly relaxed days i spent in Nagpur.
We were a group of guys, who had recently passed their Engineering and were looking for either jobs or generally taking the next career step.
Now get this, Nagpur was not exactly the kind of city where one could launch a career in a technical field. It was neither a manufacturing hub like Pune nor a professionals paradise like Bombay. In terms of lack of employment opportunities Nagpur ranked higher than most cities.
The only option we had was to move out from Nagpur and look for *greener pastures*.
Moving out of Nagpur? - well that required some motivation.
That was a period when the IT revolution was slowly unraveling in India. But we Nagpuris were sort of detached from this phenomenon. Not that we were not aware; oh no, we were actually very aware. Only thing we did not know the gateway to that revolution.
At 21-22 , we simply were the young turks who had the energy but not the direction to get it right. The growing expectations of our family was not helping either. We were the quintessential *Educated unemployed* romanticized in some art movies of bollywood. Not that we considered ourselves to be that.
Given this situation where at one end i was trying to avoid eye contact with my father and at the other end was not motivated enough to go out of the city and find something, I found a haven in Nagpur called the Dharampeth Coffee House [DCH]
DCH, a place where you could spend hours together and not spend more that 2.50 INR by sipping one cup of coffee. Being a government run house, neither the manager nor the waiter would give you those condescending looks for ordering "just one coffee" and occupying the chair for hours and along the way consuming the resources like newspaper endlessly. They were least bothered. They were equally laid back.
The thing about newspapers at the DCH was that you would never get a full version of "todays news" in a single bunch. The daily and its supplement would usually be scattered amongst different tables of the DCH. The sports section would be at one end while the editorial would be lying under someone else's cup.
Anyway our interests were not about current affairs. We were more interested in solving the crossword puzzle; a thing or liking we picked up while preparing for the MBA entrance. (ya right!)
So even as we *were* discussing the current situation, we were more bothered about that English word which was not fitting the puzzle.
The real charm of DCH was in its visitors. The absolute regulars. From around 10:00 am in the morning till 5:00 in the evening you would end up seeing the same faces all the time. It made us wonder what these "professionals" , some of them dressed always in formal attire were actually into? Were they really working somewhere? Or they had come so far at a point in their lives of trying to dodge an eye contact with their fathers that they had made DCH their professional home?
Nevertheless it helped build the place into what it was. A bustling and breeding ground for wannabe professionals. Professionals discussing complex world issues around a table complete with empty coffee cups and cigarette ashtrays. The *smoke screen* that those cigarette puffs created couldn't have been more ironical given the situation.
We were all having our own SMOKE SCREENS. We were escaping the hard realities and DCH provided us with that escape route. It was a place where you were not accountable for your actions. And spending hours without the monetary counter balance for doing that was economically viable for unemployed like us.
2.50 INR [less than 10 cents] for 3 hours or more made perfect business sense. The Government of India after all was taking good care of us.
DCH had more to it than the regular faces. It had regular waiters. The ones who came from Kerela and were in Nagpur for their respective "onsite" opportunity. Nagpur offering some one with an onsite opportunity was in itself a notion, lot wouldn't find amusing. But so it was. The same waiters who would become so familiar with our faces, they would hardly ask us for orders. They knew we could not afford more than one cup, ok may be two on good days tops. They were humane enough to understand our "situation".
But there was also a class of people, the achievers, who strangely found a safe haven in DCH. This was sort of a mystery for me. Whom were they escaping from? These guys were successful doctors [my own family doctor was a regular visitor], successful business men [some of whom i knew personally] , successful lawyers etc. What was bringing them here? And everyday.
I realized that DCH was a magnet that was attracting people of all walks of Nagpur's life. In some sense it was a true melting pot of Nagpur's educated young/old turks. We had people from age of 25 to 50 sitting on the same table, having coffee and cigarettes and often not even in conversation with each other. Yet they were bound by the same thread of DCH. You were *cool* if you were a DCH regular. You don't know the person, you never speak to him, yet you probably KNOW him. He is the same guy who like you spends hours in DCH and yet is un-apologetic about it. He may occasionally come over to your table for taking a "current" from your puff [current - a term used to take another persons live cigarette and using it to light your own] and move on without saying a thank you - yet in strange ways acknowledging it.
DCH for me is symbolic of Nagpur's professionalism , or lack of it. Laid back and non-demanding. Easy going and not too convoluted.
A place that actually made you feel more intellectually empowered. A place where unemployment wasn't a taboo. A place where waiter was called Anna and he would feel endeared. A place where the super achievers shared the space with non-achievers or potential achievers and yet feel perfectly comfortable.
DCH was that one stop shop for all our miseries. And we did not have many in fact. Yet Coffee House somehow filled that vacuum. A day not spent at DCH was a day wasted. We felt like we were integral to that culture. Our only contribution being warming the chairs of DCH for hours together. The style accompanying the puffing of your cigarette and entering through the door, the association of adulthood to that place was unmistakable. The putting up a facade of maturity and forcing yourself into the men's world was an act of desperation and yet it was endearing.
After almost a decade I did visit the place again in recent past; probably last year. I somehow did not like what i saw. The old faces were replaced by new less known ones. The waiter wore the same attire but he was not the same. The aura was missing. The DCH i knew was not there anymore. May be it is for the new unemployed of my city. But for me the DCH i knew had passed.
For those years of my life when nothing concrete was being achieved, when i was not contributing locally, domestically or nationally to the economy and was Indian government's unwanted guest , a parasite if you will, an era when i was visiting DCH so that i could feel amongst the MEN of Nagpur and associate myself with a community that virtually existed on cigarette and coffee, an era when my only achievement was solving the crossword puzzle incompletely and an era when i did not feel left out because i had for my own convenience created a social mechanism of which i could be a part of without paying for it ; the DCH, Dharampeth Coffee house was my second home.
In some sense it was my last stop of the splendidly relaxed days i spent in Nagpur.
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