#100WordsOrLess There are some professions no one chooses – they just happen. Goalkeeper, HR Manager, Traffic Police – you get the idea. The journalistic equivalent was being a food critic. I was in charge of scouring second, third, fourth tier towns in rural TN to identify new culinary delights. The irony of being a man was that you were measured by your inches. Most men were subject to that level of scrutiny only inside the bedroom, but a journalist was subjected to it in the workplace too. After two years of working for the paper, I had two inches of print space on a life style supplement. I headed out in the scorching afternoon to “Ballu’s Dhaba” on a highway that joined two insignificant towns. The place had acquired quite a reputation in the vicinity and passed for a restaurant in an area dominated by hotels. I had a sneaking feeling it was yet another rip-off which served sweet and artificially colored Paneer Butter Masala as its signature dish. I flashed my press ID to the thirty-something lady in the billing counter. She snapped her fingers and the entire place seemed to spruce up in a second. Such welcomes were the high point of my miserable existence. My heart rose on seeing the menu – Butter Chicken and Paneer Butter Masala were mentioned only in passing. I ordered Lehsuni Tikki, Khoya Matar and Tandoori Roti. I was told that it would be a few minutes before the food arrived and that the owner would like to talk to me. Mr. Balwinder Singh joined me at the table and threatened to crush all the fingers of my right hand with his handshake. I was surprised. The chances of seeing snowfall and a Sardar were equivalent in Southern TN. I quickly tried to recollect the 6 phrases of Hindi I knew till date. Surprise #2 was his fluent Tamil. Sniffing a story here, I asked him about the restaurant. He recounted his story with a smile – I was pretty sure I wasn’t the first one to ask. “I came here in ’85 as a 22 year old Sir Jee. Things weren’t good in Delhi. Pappa was in IFS. I had fallen in love with a Tamil girl there. Both our parents didn’t like it. We ran away from home with 1200 Rs in our pockets but with no place to go. We came here to meet with her uncle. Her uncle also drove us away, but we met some North Indian cooks in Chennai. She could speak Tamil. I could speak Hindi. We decided we could start a livelihood managing those cooks on North Indian weddings. We would travel through the state on a borrowed lorry – going from one marriage to another, sleeping on the lorry.” “After a few years I had saved enough to start this Dhaba. It used to be a truckers place initially. But I gradually built it up brick by brick. And now, by God’s grace, it is good.” The food arrived and on my insistence, he joined in. We talked about the restaurant business, the Emergency, margins in this business, relative merits of Lassi vs Kheer as dessert. He owned this restaurant, a couple of mechanic sheds and huge tracts of land along the highway. I was giving the finishing touches to my Tooty Fruity as his near epic narrative came to an end. Something suddenly struck me. The lady in the billing counter must have been his wife judging by the way she ran the place. The Sardar must be more than 50 now. I glanced at the cash counter once more and confirmed she couldn’t be a day more than 35. It didn’t add up. She must also be 50 now. The Sardar had seen the glance and heard my unspoken query. He gave a sad laugh. “She ran away after 2 years with me Sir jee. She didn’t find me good. I was heartbroken for so many years. I always hoped she would come back. It turns out she married someone else soon after. For years, I thought I would never find someone who’d love me. I’m glad I was wrong. Sabar ka phal mitha hota hai.” I paid the bill, thanked the Sardar for the wonderful meal and headed home. I typed up my report and mailed it out. Before I slept, I Googled “Sabar ka Phal”. I wasn’t disappointed. “Kehte Hai Sabr Ka Fal Mitha Hota Hai, Kali Raat Ke Baad Sunehra Savera Hota Hai. Hum Der Se Zarur Aate Hai, Par Dil Me Aapke Hamesha Hamara Basera Hota Hai.” Translation which doesn’t do justice: The fruits of patience are always sweet, A golden dawn follows a gloomy night. Do not fret when I am late, Instead look at your heart, for I reside there.
Posted on: Fri, 25 Apr 2014 12:39:10 +0000
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