“Isn’t
Pune more like a big village than a city?” observed my friend Sachin Sashital while having
lunch at Samrat Restaurant where they accepted coupons from our company for
payment. We had quit our previous jobs,
many of us from public sectors and had landed into a multinational company in
Pune with over 300% raise in our salaries. It was mid 1990s, the time of economic
liberalization when India was transitioning
from the end of Nehru-vian era to the beginning of Manmohan era.
Interestingly, this was paralleled by a feeling of liberation from
the lifelessness of Bangalore after being catapulted from suffocation in our
professional and family lives. The spirit felt much like how Waheeda Rehman must have felt in the
song from Guide:
kaanton se kheench ke yeh aanchal
tod ke bandhan baandhe payal
koyi na roko dil ki udaan ko
dil woh chala aa..
aaj phir jeene ki tamanna hai
My attempt to paraphrase:
From tiresome bonds I tore apart
Unshackling, I set afloat my heart
Lo and behold, there it flies
Above up in the skies
Let no one stop, may it soar
For I want to live like never before
Pune – a big village?
Sachin
was right. Pune used to be indeed like a big village in the 90s. Barring neighbourhoods like Camp, Koragaon Park and MG
Road much of the city was inhabited by topi clad paan chewing Punekars. One only had to go vegetable
shopping on Sunday mornings to Mandai market in Shaniwar Peth to get a feel of rustic
Pune. Fresh produce from nearby villages
converged at the stalls before making their way into the homes of the lucky
Punekars.
In the
old quarters of Pune where we lived, processions
of local gods had right of way over traffic on already congested roads; and even the local gods had to
wait for buffalo herd crossings, whose rights had to be respected as Punekars insist that the milk be thick and fresh for their chai, basundi and phedhas. (The fat in cow’s
milk isn’t fat enough, fyi. In the 1980s
when Chitale dairy reduced the fat to 9% from 10% the entire city
went on a strike which forced the Chitales to rescind.)
Not all Kobras are Punekars, not all Punerkars are Kobras
Much has
been said about the “audacious attitude” of Punekars. Before we dig deeper it is
important to understand that the jokes
we hear about Punekars are inspired by the behavior of "Kobras" (bramhins from
Konkan region). They are also known as Chitpavan bramhins distinguishable
by their fair (phoren) complexion and cat eyes. In manners they project an air of superiority and are remarkable
for their extreme frugality and bluntness.
A first impression of them will make an outsider feel like an outsider
in their midst. We were outsiders and we lived in their midst for three years.
Yet I
glow when I look back at our Pune days,
because there is more to Kobras than their intimidating selves
and there is more to Punekars than the Kobras.
Our neighbours
We lived
at a rental on a cul-de-sac off Karve
Road very close to Alurkar Muisc House (alas, it no longer exists). We were the
only non-Marathis among the mostly Kobra community around. I remember our first
day as we unlocked the door and walked into our unit in the 3rd floor of a
1950s building, after a twenty
hour train journey. We did not know anyone in our chawl.
However within minutes we heard a knock on the door and
there stood a young man holding a large pot
of water. “My mother asked me to give this. You should know that we get
drinking water in the tap only in the morning,” he said and left. After about
half an hour he came back again, this time
with a flask of tea. “My mother
wants the pot and the flask before tomorrow,” he said curtly and left. That was our first encounter with our Kobra
neighbours – the family of Sohonis.
There was no welcoming bouquet nor warmth in their words. Instead they
had welcomed us with their actions.
There
was a small Ganapathy temple on our street that was looked after by our chawl and
Tuesday 7 PM was arathi
time. Families would congregate for about 10-15 minutes and chant “sukha karta dukha harta” clapping their
hands while one of them took turns to do arathi.
Our
community chairman Shri Kochak was the
eldest and perhaps the fittest too. He was a picture of old world orthodoxy
with his Gandhi cap, an imposing sandalwood tilak,
and walking stick that also served as laathi.
Kids in our complex would run away and take shelter upon seeing him.
On our
first Tuesday he invited us to the arathi and told us in no uncertain terms that attendance
is compulsory, otherwise Ganapatahy would be angry. We weren’t sure about Ganapathy but we didn’t
want to anger Shri Kochak and so we took part in the ceremony, and eventually
fell in love with the ritual of
community coming together under the spell of Ganapathy bappa. On our first
Tuesday while distributing the prasaad (pheda) Kochak said, “Galagali, I will let you know when would be your
turn to get phedas”.
Within a
few weeks I had learnt to sing the Ganapathi anthem by heart. I did not then realize
that I had gotten a lifelong visa that would enable me to fit in with Marathi communities elsewhere.
Malathi Bai
Unlike the
difficult maid servants of Bangalore, the baayee-s
of Pune were more dependable. Remarkable among the lot was the elderly Malathi Bai. Quintessentially Puneri in her 9 yard saree and thick round kumkum, she
was gracious, extraordinarily fair in complexion and reminded one of Hindi screen-mother Durga Khote. She quickly developed good chemistry with my wife and spoke with
her only in Marathi, and my wife would communicate back in a mix of Kannada,
broken Hindi and sign language. She would
say, “your wife is like my daughter” to which I would quip, “that makes you my
mother-in-law, wouldn’t it?” My wife
picked up a good deal of Marathi, thanks to Malathi Bai.
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| Twin sister? |
It was
Diwali time. My family was already in Bangalore and I was to join them soon.
That morning while I was packing for my trip I was surprised to hear Malathi
Bai still in the kitchen not cleaning but cooking; surprised because cooking
wasn’t a part of her job description. A
few minutes later she had readied my lunch box and said, “railway food is bad,
take this for your journey. ” Even as I
started looking for my wallet to give her a tip, she was gone. A few hours later in the afternoon as I
savored her delicious chapattis and aloo bhaji in Udyan express, I felt
I was the most fortunate person in the whole compartment.
Puneri aam
admi
It was
only our first week in Pune. As we got flowers from a street vendor near
Sambhaji Park the vendor realized she did not have sufficient change. She gave
me back the Rs 50 note and I reluctantly proceeded to return the flowers. She
refused and told us to keep them. “You can pay me tomorrow,” she said. As I hesitated, surprised at her readily trusting
someone whom she had never seen before, she replied “It is fine, I know you
will not run away” and gently touching
the chin of our 3 year son she asked “I am sure this बाळ will want to
come back to the park again tomorrow”
Auto-rikshaw walas
Auto-rikshaw
drivers tendered exact change and
would let you know in advance if
it is necessary to take a longer route due to bad road conditions. In which
other city have you seen them assemble near chowks, hoist flags and sing jana-gana-mana
in the middle of Aug 14-15 nights?
This is Dhyaneshwar Digambar Medekar whom I chanced
upon in 2015. He has been driving auto-rikshaw for 47 years
and is proud of his English speaking skills. I recorded bits of our
conversation which concludes with some advice for me!
Rendezvous with Gopal Godse
Yes, Gopal
Godse, brother of Mahatma
Gandhi’s assassin and a fellow conspirator used to live in Pune. My b-i-l, is a hard core RSS sympathizer and meeting Gopal Godse was his life time ambition.
In the pretext of seeing us he came all the way from Coimbatore to Pune. He assumed that I was well connected in Pune
and would be able to facilitate a meeting with his idol.
Lo and
behold , I did manage to find a
connection at work who was related to Gopal Godse, a Chitpavan bramhin. On the
appointed day and at the appointed hour I drove my b-i-l on my Hero Honda in neighborhood
of Mehendale Garage. His home wasn’t
difficult to find as everybody around seem to know his place.
The door
was opened by a servant who walked us into the hall. As we waited for him we
looked around at the portraits and calendars of
his Spartan home. There was a
group picture of all the conspirators that was beginning to arrest my attention
when a hale and healthy septuagenarian walked in looking at us questioningly. Oddly enough I did not think much about him
and with my mind pre-occupied with matters related to relocation to US, I did not process
the fact that I was in presence of someone whose brother was
Gandhi’s killer. After mentioning my colleague’s name his manner seemed
to ease. I did the introductions but was
in a rush to leave as I had to get back
to work. I can’t say I regret not having
stayed back.
I was in and out in two minutes but my b-i-l had a most
agreeable time with Godse. Later in the evening he gave us an animated account
of the two hour meeting he had had with
his idol keeping us awake until midnight.
K L Saigal punyatithi
On a
week day morning in “Today’s Engagements” section of Times of India’s Pune Plus edition, I saw an
interesting event commemorating K L
Saigal’s death anniversary. After coming back from work we quickly rushed to
the venue which was in one of the alleys of old quarters of Pune. I climbed the
stairs with increasing curiosity wondering
about the connection between Saigal’s memory and this old building.
Expecting to find a dozen or so
balding heads reminiscing about good old days over vada-pav and chai,
I was surprised to find a large group of
youth with a few senior citizens squatted silently on the floor. Their attention was on
two men who were seated over a pedestal on either side of a turn-table gramophone. One was
the master of ceremony (MC) and I was to learn that the other in his advanced
years was an invited guest from Bollywood who had worked with Saigal. It was a listening session of Saigal’s rare
collections interspersed by comments by the Bollywood guest. He would say a few
words about the song and more interestingly, an anecdote about his personal
interaction with swargiya Kundal Lal Saigal.
It is
pity I cannot recall what songs were played on the turntable and what stories
about Saigal were told, but I do remember being enthralled in the moment.
After a
few minutes, our son, three years old then (the only kid in the hall!) started
becoming restless. We tried to quieten him with a shh.. but to no avail. He started
beating my chest with his little fists suggesting that he had had enough. The Saigal fans too had had enough of us and they didn't disguise their displeasure as
they shot cold glances at us. The MC on
the chair asked us to leave the hall
immediately. We walked out respectfully, taking no offence.
Vitthala temple – the devotion
that bonds
During
our recent trip to Pune we encountered a curious group of pilgrims clad in
whites at the Vitthala temple near Lakshmi Road. They were on their way to join
the vari to Pandharpur and were devotedly chanting abhangs. Sitting next to them I realized these were
the very songs we sing at our monthly satsang with Paramesh and Priya-behen.
Without my knowledge I started lending chorus to the group. They were thrilled
to have me too in their midst! I was
moved by their devotion and also envied their ability to be with one another
taking time off from the demands of their gruhastashram.
Food scene:
 |
| The Mithaiwale of Chitale Bandhu |
We lived
barely a kilometer away from Deccan Gymkhana – the home of Pune’s food Gods.
Chitalale’s
bhakar vada is world famous, however their basundi is known only to locals as
it has to be eaten the same day. We had to carry our own container and there
was always a long queue. No crowd in front of the basundi outlet meant you
would be greeted with the board “basundi
sampli” (basundi out of stock).
Asha
Dining Hall, Janseva, Sarvodaya were some of the historic boarding halls that have existed since
independence days where delicious Maratha style food is (still?) served. Waiters were
brusque but service was always quick. Some
of the restaurants charged severe penalties
if they saw food being wasted. Janaseva used to open all days in the week but closed on Aug 15 and Jan 26.
Thinking
about Amruthatulya’s tea, “my heart with pleasure fills” just like poet William Wordsworth’s
heart “dances with daffodils”.
These tea stalls are owned and operated by UP bhaiyyas and have been charming students, office goers, auto-walas, dabba-walas, dukan-walas, IT-walas who stop by these joints to rejuvenate themselves with the elixir.
And for those unfamiliar with the drink, legend has it that Lord Krishna
served Amruthatulya to the Pandavas on all eighteen days of the Mahabharatha war.
Friends and family:
New
town, new job, new friendships! I shall spare the details as I don’t want this
piece to get too personal. Suffice to say that many of our new friends then are
old friends now. They made us feel Pune our new home, and my grandfather's home in nearby Bijapur kept me buoyed from my roots.
So what is it about Pune?
My ISRO friend Prabhu
asked me the other day if I would see myself settling down in India. I told him the only
place I ever imagine going back to is Pune.
Why this Romance for Pune? Why not Bangalore, Tirupati or Timbuktu?
I do not have a
logical explanation. All I know is, as
soon as I step out of Lohegaon Airport and breathe the air, I feel like a
tuning fork that has found its resonance.
