|| Ambrosial ||
Dr. Arunshankar's English version of my Marathi Short story
॥ अमृततुल्य ॥
Dr. Arunshankar's English version of my Marathi Short story
॥ अमृततुल्य ॥
Raising clouds of dust and throwing blasts of hot
air, the Aurangabad-Kolhapur bus entered Satara bus station, and stopped with a heave. Shaking off the sleepiness
from my eyes, I got down.
It was the month of May in 1984. The afternoon sun
was scorching, but the time of 4 pm was just the time for
tea.
The sultry weather had drenched me in sweat.
Sitting cramped for several hours had made my limbs sour. The conductor had
announced a stop for just twenty minutes, so there wasn’t enough time to eat
anything. After a quick visit to the cloak room, I decided to have just tea.
As usual, the exit gate of the bus station was smothered in a crowd of
newspaper stalls, betel-leaf stalls, taxis, autorikshaws, porters, etc.
In front of an adjoining betel-leaf stall, a group
of local rustics was animatedly discussing current political affairs, and the
jingles on the cane-crusher flywheel in the sugarcane juice stall next to it
were ringing rhythmically.
A decade or so ago, I was working with the State
Transport Corporation’s Civil Engineering Division, and stationed at Satara
itself. During my tenure there, the extension work of Satara Bus Station was
executed. Seeing my own work still standing robustly, and rendering the
intended service to the passengers, rewarded me with a different kind of
satisfaction.
Instead of the insipid watery tea in the bus
station canteen, however, I started looking for a local stall of ambrosial
tea.[1] Passing a variety of
hawkers within and around the stand, I approached a betel-leaf stall. It’s
owner, albeit vaguely, seemed to recognize me, and guided me, saying, “You see
the Janata Bank there Sir? Just enter the lane next to it, and you will find
Dadoo wrestler’s ambrosial tea-stall. You will get the best tea there,
just like you want!”
Pleased, I crossed the street. The name Dadoo
wrestler seemed to ring a bell in my memory, albeit faintly, and the impression was dim and cloudy. Lost in that thought, I reached
the tea-stall and sat down on a bench there.
The well known aroma of the ambrosial tea permeated the entire lane. A
kerosene stove was burning on a low platform, and the ambrosial tea was boiling
in the pan over it. A young boy, shining in sweat and wearing a light cloth
around his waist, was standing in front of it, stirring the boiling broth with
a long ladle. Every now and then he was raising the full ladle head-high and
pouring the orange-colored nectar into the pan in a long, frothy stream. On a
stand beyond him stood large glass jars containing eatables such as biscuits,
cream rolls and crisp spicy coils. A handful of vagabonds were savoring two
cut-teas[2] among them.
Taking the scene in, and in anticipation of a sip
myself, I thought these tea-vendors deserved to be awarded a patent for
perfecting their ambrosial tea.
Finally, the 'chef ' dropped some dried ginger and
cardamom seeds in a brass mortar, pounded them with the pestle into a fine
powder, and dropped it into the boiling tea, stirring it vigorously, and
raising the ladle high for the final run of its frothy stream.
Placing a large strainer on a brass kettle, the boy
poured the mixture through it, turned the stove down, and let out a yell,
“Dadoo Anna… … … pour the tea into cups.”
An elderly person of about seventy stepped out. In sharp contrast to everything
else in the stall, he wore a perfectly white doublet and dhoti and a black
round mark on his forehead. His body, now leaning towards being obese, must
have been undoubtedly well sculpted in his
youth. His cauliflower-like ears hinted at his career as a wrestler, and the
leather sandals on his feet squeaked rhythmically as he flitted around the
stall.
With surprising agility, he arranged the cups and
saucers in a row, poured tea into them, and began placing them in front of the
customers.
When placing a cup before me, he looked into my
eyes for a split second, and folded his hands respectfully, asking me, “Sir,
did you not recognize me? I am Dadoo wrestler!”
I was stumped!!... ...The face and the courteous manner
were nudging my memory, but not very successfully. So he went on, “Sahib… … … were
you not working in Maharashtra Scooters?”
Now my tube-light switched on!!!
The character in front of me was none other than Dadoo Cantinwalla[3] from Maharashtra Scooters Limited, at Satara.
The character in front of me was none other than Dadoo Cantinwalla[3] from Maharashtra Scooters Limited, at Satara.
When I was in Satara in 1975, Maharashra Scooters Limited started their project there, and I had left my job in
the State Transport Corporation to join them.
The project had taken shape right in front of me.
In the beginning, all there was consisted of the shanties of the civil
contractor’s workers and our small office. And Dadoo used to run his canteen in
one of the huts. He was then the sole caterer to one and all. He served
delectable snacks, and meals also on a coupon basis. In his spare time, he
applied himself to body-building and watching the rustic theater, topping these
hobbies once in a while with a shot of booze too!! But on the whole, a simple,
trustworthy, god-fearing guy. Always humane in his behavior. If someone was
broke at the moment, he would feed him on credit… … … sometimes even free of
charge.!!!
Being gossip-loving, his canteen was a meeting
place for all the staff. Good-hearted camaraderie was the mood of the stall,
sometimes with friendly leg-pulling. He participated in the revelry, but always
respectfully… … never transgressing the line of modesty.
In course of time the Maharashtra Scooters project
was completed. All working on it scattered in search of other jobs. I too went
off to Uttarkashi to join a hydro-electric power project of Hindustan
Construction Company Limited. By and by the memories of Maharashtra Scooters
got dimmed… … …
All that came to life in a flash!!!
Dadoo was staring at me with unblinking eyes… … …
Maybe he saw some sign in my eyes indicating that
the memories were refreshed. Picking up my cup, he said, “Please move aside, Sir…
…"the bench you are sitting on, is full of dust. Let me wipe it clean.” And,
taking off his turban, he wiped the bench spotlessly clean with it!!!
Seating me on it again, and standing politely
before me, he shouted to the boy, “Sadya!!... … … do you know who has come to visit
our stall today? Look… …This Sahib is my old boss.!!
"I made a living by his blessings when you were a
tiny tot wetting your pants.!!!
"Look … … … the tea in his cup has gone cold… …take
it away at once!!!”
Dadoo then inquired about me from the time I left
Satara, till now. He even urged me to taste his Misal-pav.[4] When I declined, he
was dejected, “I understand Sir… …Now you are a big shot!!... … "How can you
relish food in Dadoo’s stall now?" !!!
I was touched by his affection. He seemed consoled
when I explained that I was on way from Aurangabad Kolhapur
During the talk I came to know his story. After his
stint at Maharashtra Scooters, he tried his hand at a variety of trades, but
none of them did well in the days of recession that followed. “Sir, this stall
is still running because of the blessings of you and your likes. I wanted my
son to be educated, but he didn’t have it in him. My wife runs this place in
the morning, and I take over after lunch. By your grace, I am somehow making
both ends meet.”
I sipped tea from the second cup which Dadoo had
placed before me, and made a face as I tasted some tea dust.
“What’s the matter, Sir?... … … Isn’t the tea to your liking?”
“The tea is unmatched as usual, Dadoo… … … but
there is some tea dust in it. Will you have it strained again, please?”
Dadoo shot a bloodthirsty look at his son… … … then
at the gaping hole in the strainer, and yelled, “Sadya, you bastard!!! ... … … "Is this how you serve the tea and run this stall… … …
eh? Had you learnt a few books, you would have got some sense in your head.”
Turning to me then, he said, “Leave aside that cup,
Sir.”
Picking up the cup, he poured it’s contents into
the sink… … …
Then taking a clean glass off the shelf, without a
second thought, he spread over the glass, a clean corner of the super white dhoti he was
wearing, and strained a glassful of fresh tea through it for me. !!!!!
“I am sorry, Sir… … … The boy is an ass. Have your
tea now… … … "I am sure, you won’t find a speck of tea dust in it.” !!!
I was dumbstruck with Dadoo’s flourish of
hospitality and devotion to me, and slapping my forehead in awe, I put the
glass to my lips … … …!!!!
Nowadays, whenever a friend calls and says, “Today
evening … at Barista … usual group,” I advance enough reasons to persuade him
to arrange the meet at one of the ambrosial tea stalls.
I do not doubt that in today’s foreign-crazy era,
if you throw a hundred rupee note on the counter, you can have a tumblerful of
international brand coffee.
But can you ever dream to find there, the
affectionate and impeccable hospitality of a Dadoo wrestler, wiping the seat clean
for you with his own turban, and the heavenly flavor of his ambrosial tea, even
by flashing a hundred-dollar currency note?
***************************************************************************************************
DR. ARUNSHANKAR.
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