Bhel

Mumbai: At 10.30 in the night I got into an Ambernath local from Sion.
Terribly tired due to a long journey from Pune, I found heaven in a corner seat and started to look around. There were several young girls in fashionable dresses chattering continuously, women raising the admonishing finger at their children trying to misbehave by keeping their feet on seats, women that picked methi or peeled mutter probably making use of all the free time available preparing for the next day, women donning dark red lipstick and flashy clothes with a strange air around them which prevented anyone from sitting beside them, beggars who made pitiful faces at the ladies who acted as if they were invisible.

My eyes fell on a woman sitting a little far. She had used dark purple eyeliner on her eyes. Well I wondered if it was done with an eyeliner brush because it looked like she had used a paintbrush. It was a thick strap of blue paint. She looked scary and funny at the same time and totally out of place.

And then I spotted her. And my mind went 2 years back.

Back then we used to rush for the Dadar-Kalyan train for the journey back from college to home. And apart from getting comfortable seats and no rush, the reason had been the bhel.
She used to get into the train at Dadar and in a strange piercing
voice she used to shout 'bhel!!!'. Maybe it was the typical time of the day when everyone felt hungry or maybe she was too good at making it, several women would
rummage for the purses and shouts orders from different corners from the compartments.
And then her hands would start working like machine. In her hand she
carried a big tokri, which had all the ingredients. She would quickly make a paper-cone and throw some kurmura with an air of careless finesse, add some finely cut tomato, onions and raw mango and a bit of a mysterious masala she carried in an old metal container. She would then toss the mixture making some kurmura fly in all the directions.

'Come on!', someone in our group would nudge me, 'Let's get it. Looks yummy!!'
Even after seeing her old torn saree, hands smeared in the chutney and masala and the mysterious metal container I would finally give in once the flavor of the raw mango wafted around me.
'Gila or Sukha?' She would confirm the order. Then move around to
collect the money.
'Give it tomorrow. It is okay girl!' she would say impatiently to a
girl who would rummage for a rupee or two.

Suddenly the memories filled up in my mind like the monsoon clouds covering the sky. Back then there was an elderly woman who used to sell vegetables in train. Well she always grabbed attention because as she sold the vegetables, she would sing a song which described the recipe of curries made from it. And there were women who sold stuff from hairpins to clothes, purses to TV-fridge covers, nail-polishes, lipsticks.
The chics with branded clothes made faces at the cheap makeup items yet several others took the containers from those women and checked the shades on their nails. While the nail-polish container would be with the women in one corner of the compartment, the saleswomen would go to the other corner with the lipstick containers or the hangers with hair-clips. I always wondered how the small girls among them balanced those containers on their head, without any support and get in and out of the trains.

My mind came back as the familiar smell of mango wafted around me. I looked at her hands smeared in masala and chutney and remembered how the people in our office cafe wore head-gears and hand-gloves before serving.

A small smile spread across my face and I shouted my order.
She came back with the paper cone.
'I used to have your bhel when I was in college.' I smiled at her.
'Oh!' her face lit up, the machine-like mask on her face momentarily melted. 'Where do you work now?'
'Pune.' I informed her, 'I return on weekends.' I could feel the curious movement by the people beside me, clearly interested as I conversed with a bhel vendor.

I put some coins in her hand before I realized it has been two years after I bought bhel from her.
It couldn't be 7 rs now. I asked, 'How much?'
'10 rs', she said.
I smiled, 'It used to be 7 rs.'
'Jyada diya hai aapko,' she tried to justify the price with a grin.
I nodded giving her 3 more rupees.