A Big Friendly Giant (BFG) of Roald Dahl vintage woke me up early; unwaking none at home, me stepped out with the Big Friendly Giant for a 5 a.m. walk; Sri Adinath Marg, for a change, quiet as a parked car; BFG left with the first morning burrs as BFG of Dahl disliked days; 'wish they served chai midnights', said a disappearing BFG; a few friendly strays hopped around as me settled down on an old wooden bench of an unopened Murari Dairy Farm; lay down on the bench to watch the sun flicker over a cocktail of yellow crowns of copper pods and bright red of gul mohurs; to koel lullabies dozed off till senior Murari shook it out; his sons had left for Gorakhpur on vacation, leaving old man in charge the way it was when he first boiled tea over a Primus stove, which still burns and well. 'Neend khula nahin; abhi chai banaunga,' senior Murari said with a sorry tinge. As is the rite across tea addas in Mumbai, the first tea is splashed on the road for none in particular, with a prayer; stray dogs keep off the yellow outpourings; with a broad laugh, senior Murari, Ramji for all, came over with a glass of hot tea and a bada Goldflake filter; taking in the unstirred moments, me sipped and smoked alone as Ramji left me loose. Yes, meditated the running away time as 5 a.m. became 6.30 a.m. for the autos to buzz; parked cars unparked. May is an easy month, no schools, large populations migrate to tourist spots, no festivals, locked apartments. Ordered a second ageless glass of tea; the glass by me measure should have seen many lakhs of fingers and palms; that morning me did not chat; listened as friend Sethumadhavan talked of quitting Mumbai for Palghat; 'will miss Murari,' he said as Ramji probed for details of the Palghat acceptance. 'Baris ke pahle,' Sethu said as me heard. Four wooden benches, a Primus stove, glasses, tea, cigarettes and sometimes freshly fried samosas; plastic cups a new addition. That has been the unshifting menu; no diversifications management experts talk and write of; Chats over Chai and Chai and Chai; 'gaon mein paani nahin hai' is the refrain of every bhaiya staring into a glass of tea in every chai adda; auto drivers park their autos, order ek chai, settle down to mobile chats with wives in waterless villages far away. Water is the talk. Water is the concern. Water is the no hope. Years before at chai points in Calcutta, bhaiyas exchanged khabbars from home brought by friends; no postcards, no air mail letters, no mobiles; just khabaars travelling ticketless in unreserved trains. A particular favourite was the chai adda opposite Menoka Cinema abutting the Lakes in south Calcutta; a bhaiya from Bihar in front of a kettle on a charcoal-fired chulha, manufacturing teas after teas; looked like a priest in front of the holy fire; an artist has yet to film or paint or write of him; served in mud cups; me sat on the footpath sipping chai with beedis; beedis and not cigarettes go well with bhaiya made chai. Chai addas are meditation homes on the streets for strays. A proletarian democracy, entirely home made, no rules. Marx would have been delighted. He might have added a fourth volume to the 3 volumes Das Kapital at a chai adda. Have heard of tea ceremonies in Japan; a rule-based event. Murari and Marx over chai suffice.
Monday, May 9, 2016
Ek chai
A Big Friendly Giant (BFG) of Roald Dahl vintage woke me up early; unwaking none at home, me stepped out with the Big Friendly Giant for a 5 a.m. walk; Sri Adinath Marg, for a change, quiet as a parked car; BFG left with the first morning burrs as BFG of Dahl disliked days; 'wish they served chai midnights', said a disappearing BFG; a few friendly strays hopped around as me settled down on an old wooden bench of an unopened Murari Dairy Farm; lay down on the bench to watch the sun flicker over a cocktail of yellow crowns of copper pods and bright red of gul mohurs; to koel lullabies dozed off till senior Murari shook it out; his sons had left for Gorakhpur on vacation, leaving old man in charge the way it was when he first boiled tea over a Primus stove, which still burns and well. 'Neend khula nahin; abhi chai banaunga,' senior Murari said with a sorry tinge. As is the rite across tea addas in Mumbai, the first tea is splashed on the road for none in particular, with a prayer; stray dogs keep off the yellow outpourings; with a broad laugh, senior Murari, Ramji for all, came over with a glass of hot tea and a bada Goldflake filter; taking in the unstirred moments, me sipped and smoked alone as Ramji left me loose. Yes, meditated the running away time as 5 a.m. became 6.30 a.m. for the autos to buzz; parked cars unparked. May is an easy month, no schools, large populations migrate to tourist spots, no festivals, locked apartments. Ordered a second ageless glass of tea; the glass by me measure should have seen many lakhs of fingers and palms; that morning me did not chat; listened as friend Sethumadhavan talked of quitting Mumbai for Palghat; 'will miss Murari,' he said as Ramji probed for details of the Palghat acceptance. 'Baris ke pahle,' Sethu said as me heard. Four wooden benches, a Primus stove, glasses, tea, cigarettes and sometimes freshly fried samosas; plastic cups a new addition. That has been the unshifting menu; no diversifications management experts talk and write of; Chats over Chai and Chai and Chai; 'gaon mein paani nahin hai' is the refrain of every bhaiya staring into a glass of tea in every chai adda; auto drivers park their autos, order ek chai, settle down to mobile chats with wives in waterless villages far away. Water is the talk. Water is the concern. Water is the no hope. Years before at chai points in Calcutta, bhaiyas exchanged khabbars from home brought by friends; no postcards, no air mail letters, no mobiles; just khabaars travelling ticketless in unreserved trains. A particular favourite was the chai adda opposite Menoka Cinema abutting the Lakes in south Calcutta; a bhaiya from Bihar in front of a kettle on a charcoal-fired chulha, manufacturing teas after teas; looked like a priest in front of the holy fire; an artist has yet to film or paint or write of him; served in mud cups; me sat on the footpath sipping chai with beedis; beedis and not cigarettes go well with bhaiya made chai. Chai addas are meditation homes on the streets for strays. A proletarian democracy, entirely home made, no rules. Marx would have been delighted. He might have added a fourth volume to the 3 volumes Das Kapital at a chai adda. Have heard of tea ceremonies in Japan; a rule-based event. Murari and Marx over chai suffice.
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