The way it was: Memories of another time
Mian Ijaz Ul Hassan
Ghannia must have realised that he had achieved his best, there was nothing more
to be done. He had no desire to perpetuate himself by even opening a proper
restaurant. And like an artist, he chopped and fried the inner layer of the last
onion of his life and melted away into another dimension like a slab of butter
on a hot platter
The Indian coral tree is showing off its raving red blossoms these days. The
blooming coral has been quite a favourite with many of our painters. Even Khalid
Iqbal who finds considerable empathy with the dark demeanour of the acacia has
not been able to ignore the coral’s haughty spring presence. Personally, I
find its red far too bright and overbearing. The dhak trees, only a few
remaining in the city, have a much more interesting and random form and flowers
in orange clusters. In appearance the dhak is much more harmonised than the
Coral whose flowers seem stuck onto the branches.
I first saw the Indian Coral in March 1948. There is a handsome avenue beyond
Aitchison College’s mosque. The red flowers and the way they adorned the
tree’s dangling branches dazzled me. The birds and bees loved flocking to it.
It was without doubt one of the favourite haunts of Starlings, commonly called
Tillyars. Perched on the coral tree, the relentless loud twitter of these
migratory birds, believed to fly in from Japan, transformed it into a symphony
of music and colour.
I believe the coral tree is also called Kesu, sometimes also Gule Nishtar
(flower of arrows) because its flowers have pointed tubular petals resembling
the fingers of the human hand. There is obviously a poetic twist in the name.
The arrows are meant to draw blood. The coral or the kesu flower is associated
with the hand of a beloved that has drawn blood from a loving heart.
The really grand avenue of Gule Nishtar was on Davis Road. It stretched from the
Mall to Simla Pahari, which deluded the Lahoris into believing that they were
not far from the forested Himalayan slopes. Even when we took off on French
leave (translate freedom leave), we would cycle around the Simla Hill at least
once before proceeding onto Abbot Road or Mcleod Road to see a film or order
platefuls of Takka Tin.
Takka Tin was Ghannia’s innovation. Ghannia had his shop adjacent to the late
Regent Cinema, opposite the Odeon. He sat perched on his feet like a bird on the
footpath — except that there was no evidence of a footpath — before a
considerable round platter on a stove, which he spasmodically stroked. He
wielded a flat instrument in his hand, usually employed by house painters to
scrape off paint, which he deftly used to dice, slice, cut, scrape or admonish
various ingredients and even to scratch his back.
It was a culinary delight to watch Ghannia cook. He would throw two to four
slabs of butter on the hot platter depending on the individual order and while
the butter melted, he would hurriedly chop up an onion, roughly dice a root of
ginger and cut a few green chillies, and allow them to sizzle in the butter. The
required number of minuscule kebabs were then counted in lots of ten and smashed
back into mince and mixed with the lightly fried greens. Ghannia at this stage
became very alert and would continuously nudge and prod the mix and as soon as
he felt it was ready, would break open four eggs on top of it. A few more tosses
and turns and the Takka Tin was ready and was neatly scraped off the platter on
to a plate. There was a choice; you could either have plain hot nans or the
soggy ones. Many preferred the soggy ones, which are steamed and fried in the
leftover fat and spices on the platter.
We had a friend called Chozy, who had an incredible appetite. He could polish
off four helpings of Takka Tin and order an additional side helping of six to
eight eggs fried in slabs of butter. Have you ever tried six eggs fried in slabs
of butter? If you have not, you haven’t lived. Chozy was an amiable person but
quite a character. He was known for his ample nose and off-spin bowling. He had
an extremely deceptive style. Even to this day the unfortunate batsman who got
caught or were bowled out cannot say with any degree of certainty whether Chozy
was a left- or a right-armer. Unlike our great Abdul Qadir, he never made the
Test side because his nasal endowment would constantly get in his way.
Those days we rarely opted for the spicier concoction of chopped chops, and
diced up kidneys and kapooras, which were sold in Ghannia’s neighbourhood.
Occasionally when one felt strong in the stomach and weak in the head, we dared.
Rasheed Toru, who was in constant trouble at school, could also be quite
unpredictable. It baffles me to this day, why he, instead of asking Pehlwan jee
for the usual plate of kidneys and kapooras, referred to the latter by its real
name? Why not stick to the established innuendo? We were all astonished and
embarrassed because Toru had addressed Pehlwan jee in a shrill high tenor. The
obese mass of fair flesh that constituted the proprietor of the roadside
establishment, who took orders while he cooked squatting under an old Banyan
tree, remained visibly cool. He merely looked up in Toru’s direction and
pleaded, “Baoo jee, why are you bent upon ruining my business?”
We continued to visit Ghannia and Pehlwan jee for years before going abroad for
“higher studies”. I left to study art at London, but returned with a degree
in English from Cambridge. In our days in England, there was hardly anything
available, which could be legitimately called our own real cuisine.
In an evening Latif Fancy a friend taught me how to make curry of sorts, which
could either be had with a toasted or a plain slice of bread. I liked the hard
loaf ends with the one side baked, which are usually discarded. It was the
closest thing to our roti.
The curry with slices of bread always reminded me of food prescribed by the
doctor when a person was sick. Actually with lots of chillies and big round
Simla mirch and diced potatoes thrown in, it became quite nice. But one missed
the Roti. In England I felt convinced that if other people could be persuaded to
get onto a paratha cooked in butter for breakfast, we could conquer the world.
On coming back home after an absence of more than three years, I was impelled to
visit familiar haunts where I had spent a good part of my impressionable years.
Top of the list was of course to tuck in a bit of Takka Tin. Ghannia was dead.
Had died the previous year. His lifelong associate and second in command was
extremely competent but Ghannia was something else.
Ghannia must have made millions, which he squandered away on cards and betting
on horses. In the field of culinary arts, Ghannia had created an original dish,
which is today popular all over the city, but seldom replicated to the level of
his excellence. A man of his talent was inevitably estranged from the times in
which he lived. I believe in order to overcome the tedium of cooking everyday of
the year he took to drugs. He must have realised that he had achieved his best,
there was nothing more to be done. He had no desire to perpetuate himself by
even opening a proper restaurant. I believe he had an eye for his own sex but no
other passion or attachment. And like the artist that he was, he chopped and
fried the inner layer of the last onion of his life and melted away into another
dimension like a slab of butter on a hot platter.
Prof Ijaz-ul-Hassan is a painter, author and a political activist