One man army of Dahar ka Balaji railway station

After an overnight stay at a cramped room in one of the cramped lodges tucked in one of the numerable narrow lanes opposite of the Jaipur Railway station, we somnolently dash to a manned ticket counter to get our tickets for the journey west towards Churu – a kind of gateway to the Thar. Even before I thrust my hand to pay the money for the tickets, one of the staff at the counter shoos me away “aaught bhaje aao”. I understand, it’s a PRS centre, where only advanced reservations can be made! But what I want is a normal journey ticket.

But why the counter is manned as early as 5:45 in the morning? I scratched my head and as I was dashing towards a general ticket counter. A sudden surge in the crowd indicated the arrival of yet another train into this busy junction. I stand at one of the four or five counters issuing general tickets, and after few minutes I realize that the queue is not moving (at all), and fearing the worst, I jumped to another queue.

The station clock now shows 5:55 hours, and we got just 10 minutes for the departure of our train. I have at least 15 people ahead of me, and the rate at which the clerk was issuing tickets, I realize it would be difficult for us to catch the train even if I jump ten places ahead in the queue. By 6.00, I gave up; I rushed to the lone shabby MG platform where the morning service to Churu was waiting for the go ahead from her masters. As I enter the dimly lit, impoverished platform, I hear the guard blowing the long whistle, and tell my two friends, “we’re travelling ticketless”. Even as I say, the train has started its 170-km long journey. We threw in our rucksacks on the moving train, and climbed in, circusing, with a cup of chai in our hands. Traveling ticketless was a no-brainer for us, as missing the train would result in missing different connections in the next five days, and we’ve resigned to the possible chance of getting fined in a far-off land.

Inside the coach, it was utter darkness as people were sleeping with the lights turned off – looked like they were sleeping now for hours. We settled near the doors, enjoying the cold breeze caressing the face – but the deep in the heart I fear for the ticketless travel. Our train continued to gather pace, and after travel alongside the BG track towards Phulera for a while, we took a right turn, even as the morning sun beginning to take a decisive impact on the darkness. I’m now eagerly looking forward to the next station – hoping against the hope of getting our tickets. Odds seemed to have staked in our favour, when our train slowed down and entered the loop line.

Even before the train came to a halt, I jumped out waking up a whole group of canine. As I began the run towards the ticket counter, for obvious reasons even the dogs started running along with me, and to my relief, they galloped ahead of me – nevertheless a scary moment. It’s a long jog really to the counter, as our coach was the second of the last coaches, and I was trying to outrun quite a few ticketless noble souls seeking tickets.

I am now at the ticket counter at the Dahar ka Balaji Railway Station, and I stand fifth in the short five men queue. When my turn came, I pushed my hand through the tiny hole in the ticket window from nowhere few more hands try to sneak in. I decide not to take my hand out. The long horn of the diminutive YDM-4 is imminent, and I have to run a long way to the reach my coach. However, the ticket clerk was casual in approach – I became restless and I started grumbling about the whole inefficiency of the lone clerk, as he continued giving tickets to the sneaking hands. After what looks like eternity, finally he hands over three tickets and the little balance to me, and the next moment, he turns 180 degree and clicks couple of knobs on the panel giving the go ahead for our train.

Even as I stand astonished, he walks out briskly to the platform with both green and red flags to exchange signal with the crew. He’s the one man army of Dahar ka Balaji railway station. Finally, the YDM-4 gladly lets out the sweet twin tone morning raga, and I rush to join my anxiously waiting friends - ending not only the precious three minutes of time at DKBJ, but also the guilt of ticketless travel.

Pothi Choru - An Antiquated Tradition

Recently I was at Kerala Kitchen Take Away at Picket, Secunderabad. When I flipped through the menu, one item that got my attention was Pothi Choru. It took me back some twenty years. The word made me bit emotional. For the beginners, pothi choru is nothing but rice wrapped in plantain leaf, and paper, often old newspaper. 


OK, for the beginners, pothi choru is nothing but rice packed in plantain leaf, and newspaper. 

I grew up watching my ammamma (paati/grannie) making the pothi choru day in and day out for my brothers, and later for me. Every morning, in the smoke-filled kitchen, fighting the smoke, my grannie patiently flips flops the tender plantain leaf freshly cut from our backyard over the fire. This helps not only to bend the leaf while packing, but also drives away an odd insect that sticks to leaf taken from the garden. Once this is over, a full sheet newspaper will be spread on winnowing basket - chulavu (in Malayalam?) or muram (in Tamil), and then the plantain leaf will be placed.

On a typical day, it will be rice (choru) (mostly lemon rice or curd rice) then aviyal, and thenga chammanthi (coconut dry chutney). Once the food items are in, the packing starts. First, from your end, the paper along with the plantain leaf has to be taken to the opposite side, then the left side comes over, and then the right side, and finally roll it over. 

This is just the beginning of journey. As the pothi moves from my paati’s hand; to our school/college bags, and finally opened at our school desks at lunch time, the packing would have done several rollovers. What the rollovers do to the pothi choru is, it evenly spreads the spiciness of chammanthi, and other ingredients. Until lunch time, the rice gets soaked in the plantain leaf, and retains the freshness, and gives a divine taste. However, there were some lows. If the plantain leaf got torn, especially days, we get curd rice, our books used to get soiled. It’s not that I loved my books so much, but the soiled books mean it diminishes the resale value the next academic year. We go back home and rant at the poor paati. Now I realise how much patience she would have had making the food and sending us to schools day in and day out! I miss her really. The Tupperware generation may never taste this experience.