I for one am a firm believer in the truism that we as individuals are constantly living in the past as well as in the present. The triggers of course can be as varied and as bizarre as they come. A fragrance here and a sound there or a song from an old movie or the opening lines of a poem long forgotten and lost in the labyrinths of our mind.
Well, something strange but similar happened today. While I was cooking dinner my son went to get some bhel from our neighbouring bhel shop. I didn't want any, but he offered me a spoonful of his favourite dahi-bhel. The minute I tasted it, time seemed to stop still. I switched off the gas stove and savoured the taste and the moment that took me decades back to those evenings spent at Madhuvanti, a place in Nagpur that sold bhel , Panipuri and ganne ka ras in the summer. I wouldn't call it a restaurant per se but a place for families and friends to spend an enjoyable evening together.
I was surprised that I should be reminded of the taste of long ago by a spoonful today, when I must have had heaps over the years but nothing jogged a memory like this one.
Madhuvanti :
Madhuvanti was an open air eatery where tables and chairs were placed on the lawn interspersed with light bulbs in fancy holders. A stone pathway led the way to the counter through the middle of the lawn. We as kids would love to walk up and down the stony path. There was a beautifully painted wooden replica of a tree with coloured lights blinking at intervals and a radio inside a case would be hung on it that invariably played the melodious song" Bole re papi hara" from the film Guddi, a hugely popular movie of the early seventies.
Being a short walk from our house,it was our favourite place to go on a summer evening. At times our post dinner walk would end at Madhuvanti to relish a glass of cold sugarcane juice. Life offered simple pleasures then and happiness was always there for the taking.
As I was recounting all of this to my son I could picture us siblings sitting around a table along with our parents enjoying bhel or panipuri. A clumsy movement at times resulted in a spoon clattering to the floor or causing water to slosh on the table. My father would promptly ask for a fresh spoon and the incident would be forgotten. Before we left he would walk up to the counter to exchange pleasantries with Mr Pathak , the owner who knew most of the local residents quite well.
Ashoka :
Despite his busy schedule my father made time for us. My parents' anniversary was incomplete without the customary dinner at Ashoka, a fancy restaurant in the upmarket area of Sadar. We simply loved to dine at this place with a quiet ambience that had soft music playing in the background. The food was good with the dessert being the highpoint of the meal, which would be a choice between caramel custard and ice cream.
A single square of vanilla or strawberry ice cream would be served in a quarter plate, speared with a pastel yellow rectangular wafer biscuit.
Dinner at Ashoka has a somewhat scary memory linked to it and though I don't know why I can still recall the details. There would be a beggarman moving in the area, a dark, bald man in a dirty shirt and pyjama with a deranged look on his face.
Beggarman :
Once while we were having dinner he caught our eye and started making faces at us through the window panes. We ignored him and continued with the meal. But he was lying in wait outside the restaurant and started shouting and running behind us as soon as we emerged through the heavy doors. My father who had walked ahead to the car heard the commotion and shooed the beggarman away, his voice resonating through the night.
As I came to the end of my story I realized that we were talking about my father on his birthday. We talk about my parents quite often as my children have fond memories of holidays spent with them in Nagpur. But talking about him on his birthday made me feel happy and somehow close to him.
I took it as a sign that told me of his presence all around me, unseen yet tangible, as strong and commanding as he was.
His fragrance as beautiful as the parijatak blossoms, lingers on, enveloping us in its warm embrace just like the gentle breeze that floats in through an open window.
