BENGALURU: Something happened last week that altered the way I see the world. Admittedly, it might not change the fortunes of the world. The Ukraine-Russia war is still raging, and Pakistan’s economy is spiralling further into chaos. IT layoffs continue to shake urban India. But what I discovered last week made me question my life, my choices, and the biases I carry. Last week, I changed my choice of pani-puri. It might not be a giant step for mankind, but it was a huge step for me.
There are two varieties of pani-puris generally available. On one hand, you have the pani-puri served with mashed potato as a filling. Mostly run by North Indian immigrants, the tiny stalls can be found by the sides of popular streets. Like a wise guru dispensing wisdom to his followers, you are required to stand in a circle and wait for your turn. The puri is punctured with a satisfying crunch, and filled with alu. They are then dipped in the water and handed out in clockwise order.
Then there’s the other variant. Mostly sold by local vendors, it is sold in push carts that also offer dahi puri, masala chaat, and samosa chaat. You stand around the cart and watch the chickpea curry boiling on a large, circular pan. The puri is punctured without much fanfare, dipped in the hot curry, then in the spicy water and served to you. For the longest time, my loyalties lay with the alu version of pani puri. Since I spent a significant part of my life in the eastern parts of the country, I was indoctrinated to believe that the alu version was the real pani puri. I held on to my purist’s approach to pani puri – like Bishen Singh Bedi cribbing about T20 matches in 2008.
But as life caught on with me, I began to notice a few drawbacks in the alu version. The waiting period, while you stand and watch everybody else eat their puris, would get to me. I also realised how much the alu version of pani-puri depended on the alu curry. It required precision, and even a minor miscalculation could ruin the formula. A pinch of extra salt, or a rogue piece of chilly could set your tongue on fire. Tired of waiting in line last week, I walked over to the pani-puri stall. ‘How bad can it be?’ I reasoned with myself. What I experienced shook my insides!
At my age, very few things shock me. Wars, pandemics and losses in the World Cup finals do not faze me anymore. But I was unprepared for the gastronomical fiesta that began inside me. The flavours were all popping in my mouth, taking turns to shine. If the alu version was an artistic French film, the chana version felt like a Manmohan Desai movie. You could customise any part of the flavour – salt, masala, or crunchy sev. You did not have to wait for the earth to complete another round around the sun before you got the next piece. And here was the true deal-clincher – the onions were unlimited!
I walked back home questioning myself. I like to believe I am a rational person. I have tried not to let my biases colour my opinions. I have believed in finding my truths myself, and placing emphasis on experience, rather than blind beliefs. But here I was, having discovered that I’ve been having the wrong kind of pani-puri for decades at stretch. It’s a thought I’d like to leave you with, dear reader. Life is complex and complicated. But pani-puri is one of life’s true great joys. Make sure you’re not eating the wrong pani-puri in life!