KHAIKE? KHAIKE!

"Arre bhang ka rang jama ho chakachak,
Phir lo paan chabaay,
Arre aisa jhatka lage jiya pe,
Punar janam hoi jay…"

- By lyricist Anjaan for the song Khaike Paan Banaaras Wala.



Motilal Kasam, Jaleel Paanwala and Jaffar Sonaji Tamboli open shop at around 7 am everyday, but Sunday. 25 odd others do so with them, selling pan leaves of every possible variety on a half paved lane flanked dubbed Paan Gully around 150 years ago. Located in the Null and Bhendi Bazaar area the alley was born when the British constructed markets around the area, with streets being dubbed as per the wares they traded in. But Null Bazaar wasn't so named because it sold taps, and Bhendi Bazaar doesn't particularly provide ladyfingers. Despite numerous other paan bazaars today then, Paan Gully reeks of significance because it has for well over a century remained true to its title.

"What significant? Ever since Gutkha was launched 20 years ago, our sales have gone from Rs 40,000 each to Rs 2000!" cries Tamboli, who used to come in at 4 am in his heydays to meet market demand. Unable to compete with Gutkha for the price and convenience the latter's consumption is offered at, Paan's value as a connoisseur item (nurtured by royalty throughout) has been eroded by fine tobacco, coffee and wine.

Ironically, R M Dhariwal, chairman of the Manikchand Group and Vice Chairman of the Zafrani Zarda and Paan Masala Manufacturers' Association, had protested – much like Tamboli – when the Maharashtra government imposed a gutkha ban: "We feel the cigarette lobby is working against us!" So, it's a dog eat dog world. So paan sellers, sans industry or global marketing, are also sans teeth.

While their wares differ, most of the sellers are Maharashtrians whose families have sold paan for generations. Kasam, from Patoda sells Poona Paan at Rs 60 for a thousand leaves: "My supply comes in from Madras. My daily turnover differs, but it goes upto Rs 1,500." Jalil, from the same Beed Zilla, does better at upto Rs 5,000 per day, "but only during festivals and weddings!" Tamboli, whose worked here for 50 years, peddles a buffet: "Poona, Banarsi, Kalkatta Meetha, and Deshi!" While Poona lacks the sweet of Kalkatta Meetha, Deshi is for those who particularly want something bitter. Further down are a few supari shops. While shop No 35, 'M H Sethia' sticks to it's old offers with "Mangalore and Sevardhan Supari, Saada Tambaacu and Kanpuri Katta", some shops like No 34 has included items like Mangalore Snuff and Rajni Safed Bidi on menu to survive.

On the far end of the market, is an old paan seller who refuses an interview. Then he warms up saying, "My son is also a journalist." His wife worked in the survey department, and his other son works for Balaji Telefilms. Yet he comes into the gully everyday, "because it's my khandaani profession. If I leave it, I won't know what to do at home." He will have to leave it soon, he says though, because there are plans to convert the dilapidated structure adjoining the gully *'to be converted' cancelled here* into a mall, "whereby we will be cleared off." Close to him is a seller of the last essential paan ingredient. "Chuna for Rs 24 a kilo," announces Barsati Lal. The shop Barsati manages provided only chuna earlier – but today draws most of it's earnings from cigarettes. As if to educate us, he plays the old Khaike Paan Banaras Waala on his tape player. The words of a stanza from this straightforward Bollywood blockbuster acquire new meaning its remake might have missed:


"Arre Ram duhai! Kaise chakkar mein pad gayaa haye!
Kahaan jaan fansaai, main to sooli pe chadh gayaa haye!
Kaisa seedha saadha… main kaisa bhola bhala…
Jaane kaun ghadi mein pad gaya padhe likhon se paala."

At "Meethi churi se hua halaal," we ask him to press stop.