Nuts about groundnuts
IT has been over four decades since I made that trip. The train from Mumbai trundled into the Lonavala railway station. It was late afternoon. The vendors made brisk business peddling their wares — tea, coffee and other items. Over and above the hubbub, a particular vendor caught my attention as he announced, ‘Chikki… Lonavala chikki… Maganlal Lonavala chikki!’
There was a certain mystique in this vendor’s enunciation, like a classical vocalist building up a raag, step by step. He created an element of suspense by starting with just chikki. He followed it up with more detail by mentioning ‘Lonavala chikki’ and finally, he hit the crescendo with the grand, climactic finish of ‘Maganlal Lonavala chikki’! That’s how you market a product effectively.
Chikki — that delightful groundnut sweetmeat — is synonymous with Lonavala. Like Tirupati and laddu, Meerut and revdi, Agra and petha.
Chikki was packaged in an attractive cardboard case. There was ‘groundnut-with-jaggery chikki’, ‘groundnut-with-caramel chikki’ and even a ‘powdered-groundnut chikki’ version. No self-respecting train traveller could resist the indulgence.
By the time the train reached Pune an hour later, I could scarcely believe that the cardboard case was completely empty. Only the chikki crumbs were left — they lay scattered on the lap and on the train seat. I ran my finger over the crumbs and gave the finger a good lick to taste the remnants.
If chikki was a favourite for the foodie with a sweet tooth, the groundnut in its salty avatar was a greater hit. As I loitered around the great cricket maidans of south Mumbai, I was irresistibly drawn to the groundnut vendor. He moved around with a basket strung from the shoulder and hanging at the belly. The basket was full of groundnuts, kept warm by the embers of a compact coal pot. On one side of the basket, paper cones were strung like a multi-storeyed building.
The moment someone expressed interest, the vendor drew out a paper cone with a flourish. His fingers reached out for a tiny metal-measuring cup. One scoop filled the cone.
Warm, crisp, laced with a dash of salt and with the hanging aroma of coal, the groundnuts were a delightful snack. The paper cone was indeed a piece of artwork. It gave the illusion of being commodious — a tall cone, but was crafted so unbelievably narrow that barely one column of groundnuts could fit in!
Groundnut is often called a ‘poor man’s almond’. If it were human, it would have protested and filed a defamation case. And rightly so — after all, can anyone, least of all almond, beat the groundnut for its taste and variety?
In the US, groundnuts are called peanuts. ‘I work like a dog, but they pay me peanuts,’ the American complains. I wish I could tell him, ‘You get paid in peanuts? Give me your job, man! I will make some sweet chikki and munch away!’
