The Paan Man

Everybody needs a fix. I don’t care if it’s a simple cup of coffee, a cigarette, or a kale and blueberry smoothie with a shot of wheatgrass, everybody seems to need a kick in the ass sometimes.

It’s no different in he rest of the world. The truck drivers of Yemen chew their khat leaves, a mild stimulant that probably requires fewer bathroom stops than a thermos of coffee.

The Victorians of England seem to have preffered ‘snuff’ – a finely ground mixture of tobacco and spices. It seems no Englishman of the age would be caught out without his snuff box, ready at all times to rip a line up their powdered noses.

India, up until quite recently, has preffered Paan.

Sold from small colorful shops and stands known as Paanwallas, the ingredients of this stimulant concoction, as with most things in India, vary by region.  

Taken for it’s nicotine-like effects, Paan has been used for hundreds of years as a appetite suppressant, pain reliever, and digestive.

Noted Arabian explorer, and travel blogging badass, Ibn Batutta, described the process from the 14th century:

“The betel has no fruit and is grown only for the sake of its leaves … The manner of its use is that before eating it one takes areca nut; this is like a nutmeg but is broken up until it is reduced to small pellets, and one places these in his mouth and chews them. Then he takes the leaves of betel, puts a little chalk on them, and masticates them along with the betel.” 

This basic mixture of compounds, the Betel leaf, calcium oxide (slaked lime) and Areca nut would be adopted and augmented by many other Asian cultures over the years from Burma to Cambodia, to Taiwan.

The addition of tobacco came later with the British, but for hundreds of years a simple sweetened version was made by adding candied fruits and chutneys. 

The reaction of the alkaloids in the Areca nut to the lime paste and Betel leaf is said to impart the user with a mild euphoria and energy akin to a couple cups of strong coffee and a cigarette.

Travel India in any direction and you are bound to cross a hundred Paanwallas.

Ancient shacks, done up in bright colors to lure passerby, the Paanwallas sets up shop wherever people congregate – ferry docks, bus stations, and of course, the Indian agora of the train station

Waiting for a ferry to get me out of dreary Cochin, I am drawn in by the process and speed of a nearby Paanwalla.

A crowd of office workers and blue collar types with battered briefcases and distinctive metal lunch pails wait patiently in line. I decide to join the queue, figuring the ferry will be a long slow chug upriver, and a little pickmeup might be good.

The looks I encounter from the others in line is nothing like the surprise from the Paanwalla himself when I finally reach the front. He asks me my order in Hindi without stopping his work. The extra long pause causes him to look up impatiently, finally meeting my eyes and breaking into a wide smile.

‘Hallo’, he says, a little sheepishly, eyeing the growing line behind me and the soon to depart ferry.

‘One’, I say, pointing at the already made Paan he is handing to a customer, hoping that his taste and mine somehow are kindred.

He nods, seemingly pleased with the ease of the order, and begins pulling tins and jars from every part of the small stand until he has the five or six he wants.

The Betel leaf, soaking in water in a small pot, is first. Then out comes a dingy brown jar of slaked lime. This slurry of water and calcium oxide is painted onto the leaf with a single brush stroke. The chemical reaction is almost set, the final psychoactive ingredient being the small crushed pellets of potent Areca nut.

He tops mine with a dollop of sweet fuit chutney, and what look at first like sprinkles, but later turn out to be candied fennel seeds. The final packet arrives in my hand no more than 45 seconds from placing my order. About the size of two matchbooks, I’m not really sure how this thing is supposed to fit in my mouth. Nevertheless, I fork over my ten ruppees ($.15), thank him, and jump onto the gangplank of the waiting ferry.

We chug noisily out of the dock and past the famed Chinese fishing nets that ring Cochin. The monsoon has made the river bloated and filled with trash, and there looks to be little fishing to be done.

Pulling my Paan from my bag I pop it into my cheek and wait. The rough leaf takes time to soften, making the comic bulge slowly less and less pronounced. My saliva mixes into the packet, leaching out the sweet flavors of the candies and fruit, as well as the acrid chemical taste of the slaked lime.

I can tell from the disgusting red walls and sidewalks littering India and many other parts of the world that I’m supposed to spit. The pungent juice has built up and I feel like I’m drowning in it, so I press my way to the railing of the ferry and spew a stream of crimson red into the water – a disgusting act to both take part in and witness, I’m sure.

I’m getting slightly lightheaded, but that could be more attributable to the rolling of the waves and the cloud of diesel exhaust filling the cabin than the Paan. It is in fact becoming less and less terrible. The harsh edge of the slaked lime has worn off slightly, and the taste of sweetened fruit and mango remain.

Nevertheless, after about twenty minutes of appearing to spit blood, I decide to dump my Paan unceremoniously into the river. It leaves a lasting taste of green from the fresh leaf and a bitter, chemical, sweetness that stays with me, staining my teeth for hours.

Like many things in India I don’t understand it. I’m not meant to most likely. It would be presumptuous to think I can at all.