At the Paan Pasal

Four hits of sweet paan in the making in Patan

What the hell is that guy selling, a non-initiate is apt to wonder as s/he ambles past the neighborhood paan vendor. Besides cigarettes and chewing tobacco, all that's visible in the narrow storefront or miniature roadside tent are a bowl or two of heart-shaped green leaves soaking in water of questionable origin. Hidden from view, however, are dozens of containers ranging from thimble-sized to a couple of quarts, containing the minutiae of the paan man's (usually a man’s) craft. Corrosive limestone paste; tiny cubes of bright red candied papaya; chunks of broken betel nut; and a thousand and one other flavors, textures, and colors.
But what compels one to halt here, to shell out 7 or 15 rupees--what, in short, is the appeal of this morsel of a mouthful that stains mouths crimson the subcontinent over? That, friend, is the nut of the matter, the inexpressible kernel of supari that keeps you coming back again. For paan is more than a digestive aid, a mouth freshener, a heart tonic, and a welcome distraction from the infinite frustrations of life here, though it is all of these. It is a custom-folded moment of bliss. According to your stripes, that bliss may consist mainly of the taste explosion and slight head-tingling effect of a mitha (sweet) paan, but it may also involve the less subtle effects of a lacing of tobacco. The leaf itself makes a difference: there is the standard mithapatta, the basic, mild and sweet-natured leaf. There is its idiosyncratic yellowish cousin, whose sourer, spicier flavor is not without its devotees. Then there is the banglapatta, a roguish leaf, which is frowned upon by some for its more blatant narcotic effect. But the beauty of paan is that it's appeal is never reducible to a single ingredient, or even a simple combination of two or three.
It always begins with the leaf, that which gives paan its name. Next comes a scant swipe of chuna, the white lime paste that somehow activates whatever subtly addictive alkaloids the leaf and betel nut contain. The stuff is corrosive on its own (a factor that may be inseparable from its role in paan—more research required), but in the context of the whole it is neutralized by the next ingredient, a light brown paint made of the bark of a tree. I have to admit this ingredient remains mysterious to me, but I like to theorize that it complements and tones down the chuna. From here the particulars of paan production diverge wildly, but it can at least be said that most paan contains a good piece or six of supari, the infamous betel nut. Here is one of our active principles, a seed of great distinction. Activated by the leaf and/or the chuna, the supari stimulates digestion to an almost miraculous degree. It also causes a slight feeling of constriction in the throat, as though you've swallowed your jawbreaker. Not to worry, chances are you're not allergic. Just enjoy the bizarre and (I'm convinced) benign effects of this storied, stone-like nut on your stomach, your cranium, and (according to the Michaelangelo of paan vendors, soon to make his entrance onto the page) the heart.
If you're asked for a mitha paan, your lime ad bark-smeared leaf will now be graced with shredded coconut, clove, cardamom, candied papaya, fennel seeds, silver sugar balls . . . if your order was for a special sweet paan, the list will grow and include a big dollop of heavenly, gloppy rose-petal jam, and the final, folded product will be adorned with silver leaf (not for those of us with silver fillings in our teeth) and that true luxury, a maraschino cherry. A jarda paan, on the other hand, is more about the tobacco, and for reasons of pride or purity of purpose, habitual eaters of this harsher pleasure tend to eschew the sweet delights that make mitha paan so blissful. But compromises can be made. There is also, of course, the "plain" paan, which is almost as fiendishly complex as the sweet version, but omits some of the more sugary additions.
But a paan is never only a paan. I learned this one warm autumn day in Kuleshwor, when I stopped by an untested paan shop on a quiet street. I was with friends, and we were all in the mood, so to speak. In Nepal there is little sense of 'first come first served,' especially since our order for 5 or 6 deluxe mitha paan would take longer than other walk-up requests for a pouch of tobacco, a single cigarette, a bit of supari wrapped in paan leaf with chuna (paan at its most elemental, strictly for the addict). But when the sahuji--honourable shopkeeper--did turn his attention to us, he did it fully. Fielding our newbie curiosity with grace, he lovingly presented a sample of each successive ingredient for our tasting. His ingredients were anything but ordinary, for here was a man for whom work was service, and service divine. Take the rosepetal jam. He had not make it himself, it's true--his wife had. The supari he soaked until tender and cut to order, with an iron implement, into paper-thin slices. The coconut chunks were perfectly toasted. The cardamom he decorticated on the spot, removing the sticky black seeds from the inedible papery green pod. Each perfectly folded leaf was sprinkled with rosewater before being skewered with a toothpick and served. And he forewent the synthetic masala ("spice mix") and maha (honey) that most paan vendors use as a matter of course--saccharine, artificially-flavored, for the birds. His paan was pure, constructed with devotion, presented with pride. It was orgasmic.

In this employment-deprived country, it’s common to be asked to bring someone to America. How, it’s easy to say dismissively, by putting you in my luggage? This might get a laugh, but it does little to address feelings of resentment or inferiority. But lately a local paan vendor had an idea. Is there paan in your country, he wanted to know? Well, a little, I began to reply, in places where Indians have settled . . . other Americans don’t know what paan is. But he had spied the glint of opportunity in a fat, glistening, folded up leaf: bring me, he said, and we’ll start a paan business together. Rarely have I been so tickled by a version of that old saw, the American Dream.