Paowala

It was one of those pleasant Sunday mornings in the month of July, where you wake up to raindrops splattering on the windowpane and eagerly anticipate a nice, hot shower and a sumptuous breakfast that awaits thereafter. It was pretty late in the morning, past 10 am. My legs creaked to life and carried me to the kitchen, where a surprise was in store for me. After nearly two decades, grandma had bought bun paos to have with tea, just like she would when we were kids, every morning, without fail. Those mornings, I fondly remember. Overcome by a sweet sense of nostalgia, I started my day on a pleasant note.

Later in the afternoon when I was returning home after visiting a friend, I decided to stop by one of the oldest shops I’ve known. Everyone referred to the shop simply as ‘paowala’ (bun seller). Turn the clock back by 20 odd years, and this shop was as it is now. A small window with a platform on the outside, on which glass jars with cream biscuits and loads of confectionaries neatly sat in a row. Paowala would be busy throughout the day, wrapping his goods in neat paper packets and keeping them on the tin lids of those glass jars, as people would hand him money, pick up their goods, and make way for the next in line. Even though his shop would remain open till almost 11 in the night, Paowala’s day would start much earlier than most of us.

I remember those early mornings during my school years when we still lived in our ancestral home and Nanepada was pretty much still a village; there were no concrete buildings and homes, including mine, still had tiled roofs. Roughly around the same time when our roosters would start crowing, a familiar voice would call out from the dim morning light. Grandma would be one of the first people to wake up. As soon as she did, she would ritualistically switch on the small incandescent bulb on the verandah. The paowala would come, park his two bags, and wait patiently. One by one, half-asleep people would come out of their homes and buy paos, sweet buns, and Khari biscuits to have with their morning tea. Grandma would also buy sweet buns and paos for us kids (we used to live in a joint family, with two little goblins per family). After savoring the sweet buns with tea, we would get dressed in our neat little uniforms and scoot off to school. Those were the best times.

I picked up some essentials, and just for old time’s sake, a packet of cream doughnuts, and handed the money over. It was paowala’s son who runs the shop now. As I was leaving, I quickly mentioned to him that now, no one comes in the morning to deliver paos. As his dejected gaze met the ground, he said, as if remembering those very mornings, that baba was no more around, and there’s no one to do it now. It was a strange moment as if the pages of my life’s book had turned. The silhouette of paowala, shouldering his two bags and disappearing into the dim morning glow, flashed before my eyes. That moment was so eloquent in itself, nothing needed to be said thereafter. I breathed in the familiar smells of those confectionaries and left, lost in thoughts. Those mornings, I still fondly remember.