by Matthew Schmalz
It’s Fall in Massachusetts. 2019. Oak and maple leaves are beginning to turn orange and red.
Today, I’m wearing a black double-breasted suit, driving my old silver RAV4 with Egg McMuffin wrappers and peanut shells littering the floorboard.
I’m a college religion professor out for a fix.
My RAV4 goes down a hill, burping and belching as it picks up speed on the Boston Turnpike, past UMASS Medical School and over the Worcester/Shrewsbury line.
I’ve been clean—actually abstemious is more accurate–on and off, for nearly 35 years. Still, resisting the urge is always a challenge for me. I’ve just finished grading my first set of exams for my Hinduism class and want to take the edge off before student complaints come in.
I’m Jonesing for betel.
A green billboard rises up ahead, “Patel Brothers: Celebrating Our Food, Our Culture.” The familiar old sign is competing with a new yellow banner announcing the opening of a hydroponics store. Surely the hydroponics store is a welcome presence to local petunia lovers, but its success will depend on a plentiful supply of potheads and cannabis entrepreneurs.
Patel Brothers’ is an Indian grocery—a supermarket really—though its cramped aisles don’t seem quite up to code. But familiar and comforting smells greet me when I enter: sandalwood, camphor, and jasmine; mango and banana; tamarind, cardamom, and clove. I grab a shopping basket and browse. Down one aisle are the frozen foods, and I spot some lentil preparations and lamb kebabs in varieties that were actually prepared in South Asia, not New Jersey. I flip a stack into my basket. I’m tempted by a pack of ready-made puris—small round flatbreads deep-fried, buttery but still crisp. I say to myself: “No, Mathew. We’re trying to lose some weight.”
I step out of the aisle, my stiff wing tips squeaking and sliding on the linoleum floor. My ultimate quarry lies in front of me, right by the register: small triangle packs of betel leaf and nut wrapped in foil for freshness. With a hurried “excuse me,” I cut in front and snatch up a few packs, five dollars each. Another hurried “excuse me” as I move to the back of the line.
And there I stand and wait—conflicted as always. Shortly, right out there in the parking lot, all that will cease.
#
It’s a hot Massachusetts summer. 1986. Dragonflies buzz and the humidity is heavy.
But where I’m at it’s cool—although not exactly comfortable. There’s bubbling and whirling in the background. Antiseptic smells chase wafting scents of grape and bubble gum. A vinyl squeak as I dig my fingernails into the chair arms.
The cadence of my dentist, Dr. Fromm, is even as she counts: “28, 29, 30…”
I didn’t know teeth had numbers.
She reaches my molars, pauses, and begins to probe. I feel a sharp point run along my gum line; the vibrations of muffled scratching on my teeth. Another pause. More muffled scratching.
My gag reflex is about to kick in.
Dr. Fromm says, “The rear molars are worn and cracked—all of them.” From the corner of my eye, I see the hygienist taking notes. Dr. Fromm sums up her findings with a muttered hint of exasperation: “Everything’s stained red-black—it’s in the enamel and doesn’t want to come off.”
Several years later, in graduate school, I will learn that members of the Japanese royal household once lacquered their teeth black. Fushimizu, it was called–a sign of elevated status.
“Betel nut,” I gurgle, anything but elevated. I want to pull the dental bib over my face and hide.
“Betel Nut? Wait a minute.” Doctor Fromm momentarily looks up to the row of florescent lights and then exits, only to come back immediately with a colleague. He’s long and lanky, Coke-bottle glasses and crewcut.
I lie motionless, expectant. Despite me, my jaw begins to work. Dentists make me cringe. In my younger days they all wore high collars; they looked—and felt—like priests. Dentists were inquisitors and, in their presence, I would confess my sweet-tooth sins. And now I’m going to dental hell along with hockey players and bar brawlers and snaggle-toothed mountain men—a hell where everyone must gum their food for all eternity.
Blame it on India.
Crewcut bends to examine me. I smell peppermint and his salt-and-pepper razor stubble almost brushes against my cheek; his lenses make his eyes appear preternaturally large. He takes a deep breath and says, “I saw something like this in dental school. They brought in some old guy from Indonesia for us to work on.”
I gurgle, choke, and mumble, can’t get the words out. I want to say that nearly 10% of the world’s population uses betel nut habitually—and not just in Indonesia. Dental hell is crowded.
Crewcut goes into lecture mode: “Betel nut, right. Named after the tree, not the insect. It’s hard on the teeth—highly addictive and carcinogenic too.”
“Take a look,” Dr. Fromm says, motioning at me with her dental mirror, which she quickly wipes on her sleeve and turns into my line of sight. “See? These creases in the enamel are called craze lines—you usually can’t see them unless you’re up close, but yours are bright red. See your canines? Looks as if they’ve been filed razor sharp. From all the chewing, I suppose.”
I push her away, spit into the sink, finally blurt, “I just came back from my junior year abroad. I was living in India. ”
“But not all Indians chew betel nut, right?” She isn’t buying my “going native” routine.
“Where I was, everyone did.”
Dr. Fromm shakes her head and continues, “The reconstructive work will be delicate—and extensive. But let’s get those gums pink and healthy first.”
Crewcut concurs: “Betel nut chewing damages the buccal mucosa.”
“The what?” I’m gurgling again.
Dr. Fromm translates: “Your cheeks—it hurts the inside of your cheeks. You’re lucky you can still open your mouth.”
I get it—I’m disgusting yet exotic. Or maybe exotically disgusting. I imagine the inside of my mouth resembling something like the interior of an old Anglo-Indian bungalow, messy and mildewed after too many seasons of tropical rain, heat, and dust.
The buffing tool shrieks, Crewcut nods and exits as cool and gritty wintergreen paste flies to my tongue.
#
There’s no snow, but it feels colder than a thermometer would indicate: an Indian winter. The air is heavy with smoke from firewood, charcoal, and kerosene.
I’m a college kid sitting in white homespun pajamas beside Ramu, tabla player extraordinaire and assistant director of the University of Wisconsin’s College Year in India. Ramu’s starched green kurta—a collarless shirt that flows down to the knees—crinkles under his deep-black Kashmiri shawl, wrapped Rajiv Gandhi style over his muscled shoulder and tucked in under his armpit. It’s a sleek ensemble that complements his bushy beard and curly hair—and his outrageously crimson lips.
We’re in Varanasi—along the Ganges in North India. The city is also called by its colonial name, Banaras—residents call themselves “Banarasis.”
“Kincha, Malik!” Ramu says playfully to the driver, who’s pedaling the rickshaw. I recognize the Bhojpuri imperative “pull,” although “punch it” better captures the tenor of the verb. “Malik” literally means “lord” and it’s a proper and popular Indian name. But in the slang of Banaras, it’s a term of endearment with an undertone of gentle mockery as in “the lord” meaning “owner” of a store, rickshaw or whatever. But you’d have to go all the way back to surf slang to capture the tone in context: “dude!” maybe, or “bro!” would work.
The chain grinds and squeals as the rickshaw weaves past the usual obstacles: bullock carts, burly buses, and calmly strolling cows. Our barefooted Lord has a plaid scarf tied around his head and fraying khaki bell-bottoms cinched at the waist, tank-top undershirt tight over his chest and torso. He shifts his weight from pedal to pedal, arms and shoulders trailing wisps of steamy sweat in the wintry air.
The rickshaw hits a pothole and Ramu’s hip slams against mine.
I shout, “My asshole just exploded!”
He roars with laughter.
Me, too, clasping my hands prayerfully towards Ramu—he’s the one who taught me that asshole line, butt imagery being an art form in Bhojpuri.
“Hey, Malik, samajh-la?” he shouts to the driver, asking whether my meaning is making it through my flat American accent.
Our Lord stands on his pedals, turns, and shouts, “The white guy’s a real Banarasi.”
I laugh. Usually I’m called “the red monkey” because I’m the white guy who flushes and flails when frustrated.
The rickshaw lord spits bright red onto the cracked and knotted asphalt and not for the first time I glimpse the corner of a bright green leaf, black-stained teeth.
I double down: “Is your paan blossoming?”
“Hoon, hoon,” the rickshaw lord says, gently shaking his head, “yes.”
I know paan well. It’s betel nut wrapped in betel leaf, usually spiced with lime—the mineral not the fruit—along with a chaser of coarse black tobacco. The red-black stains come not so much from the nut as from “katha” or “catechu,” which is made by boiling down the bark of the acacia tree into an aromatic paste, then treated with lime and spread on the betel leaf, which is then delicately folded around a betel nut, and into the mouth.
The rickshaw glides down a slight incline. I feel the raw breeze, and look up at the light poles with their crackling and wiry headdresses, jerry-built to poach whatever current is flowing from Varanasi’s fickle coal-fired power stations.
Betel nut actually comes from the areca tree, which is different from the piper betel plant that provides the leaf. But for shorthand, betel nut and betel leaf will do—I’ve heard epidemiologists call the combination “betel quid,” but it’s simply “paan” to everyone else in India.
And it was paan to me.
Everyone has a personal paan preference. Some like the standard Jaganathi leaves, which Sanskrit texts—as Ramu has told me—describe as similar to elephant ears or a cobra’s head. Personally, I find the Jaganathi leaf rather tough though I’m sure it’s what our rickshaw Lord chews; he wouldn’t have enough rupees for anything more refined. Others, with both the taste and the means, prefer Sanchi, a dark green leaf, said to heat the humors of the body. But Ramu and I prefer the prized paan of Banaras: Maghai, a leaf cured to be so delicate that it melds into the katha and the lime in the mouth in a way that doesn’t have any real parallels–it’s creamy almost, with a musky taste and slightly astringent undertones that reveal themselves like the bouquet and body of fine wine as the paan is nursed between cheek and gum.
One day, after we’d enjoyed several cups of sugary chai, Ramu got me to try juicing up my paan with flecks of yellow tobacco. After that I was hooked on the buzz— I’ve come to crave the stimulating alkaloids of the betel nut mixing with the soothing nicotine of the tobacco; I savor the burn of lime breaking through the cooling waves of catechu.
“Dude is laid back,” Ramu says—more or less. I know he’s referring to me. Ramu is saying I am “mast,” “very mast.” “Mast,” pronounced “must,” is the adjectival form of the noun “masti,” a word that means something like “happily hanging loose” or “blissfully going with the flow.” Not only does Banaras rise along the banks of the holy Ganges river, it rests on the trident of Lord Shiva, the blue-skinned Hindu god of creation and destruction. Because dying in Banaras brings release from the endless cycle of birth and death, living in Banaras means that every moment is an opportunity for a special kind of carefree joy—for “masti.”
Ramu slips a silver box from his jhola—basically a quilted shopping bag. He balances the box on his lap as our Lord pumps the pedals, slipstreaming behind a three-wheeled auto taxi. Ramu opens the box to reveal triangles of creased betel leaves, neatly stacked and wetted to keep them fresh and green. He gently puts a paan into my mouth and shavings of betel nut into my hand. The slivers feel dry and hard but their appearance—reddish-brown with white streaks—seems almost fleshy, like muscle and tendon.
Ramu and I gently intertwine our fingers, the custom among Indian men and, more and more, my custom, too.
I feel the paan bud and then bloom in my brain.
#
It’s 1985. An early fall day, which in Banaras means the monsoon has yet to let up.
I’m riding my bike and the cascading rain is washing away the salty sweat stains on my Bucky-the-Badger t-shirt. My jeans are soaked through.
It’s several months before I become close friends with Ramu. In addition to tutorials through the Wisconsin Program, I’m also formally studying Hindi at BHU. “BHU” is the acronym for Banaras Hindu University, one of India’s foremost educational institutions, founded by Pandit Madan Mohan Malaviya, the early 20th century anti-caste activist and Indian independence leader.
Today is one of those days—one of those already quite frequent days—when the professor for our BHU Hindi class didn’t show up.
But I’m coming back from the university more happy than frustrated—more time with my homestay family, the Pandeys.
I speed through the Bhadaini neighborhood, fragrance of boiling milk meant for sweets and chai. Vegetable sellers hawk seasonal favorites like bitter gourd and cucumber. I pass my favorite saloon—Indian English for salon—and its Elvis sign, leather-clad, pre-jumpsuit glory. I’m a regular, not so much for the haircuts but for the hair-raising head massages that promise an Elvis-like pompadour to the ordinary man.
Cobble stone side street and my bike rattles to the Pandey home—two compact stories of brick and cement, wood doors painted blue to complement the whitewashed walls. Though it’s not flashy, it is a proper upper middle class home for a proper high-caste Brahmin family.
Mata-ji meets me at the door—she’s wearing a frayed grey-polyester sari, which means I’ve interrupted her housework. She gives me a toothless grin and says, “Mast-Ram!”
“Mast-Ram” is the nickname Mata-ji gave me. “Mast-Ram” could be literally translated as “God of Carefree Joy,” but maybe “Lord of Masti” works best—a hybrid rendering that retains the distinctive, and finally untranslatable, valence of “masti” in Banarasi culture. Mata-ji gave me the name when I was yucking it up with the three brothers—Ajay, Sanjay, and Amit—during my one of my initial visits to see whether I would be a good fit. When Mata-ji dubbed me “Mast-Ram,” I knew I was in.
I smile at Mata-ji as I step through the entrance door of the receiving room and lean to touch her calloused feet. “Mata-ji” I say, “Respected mother.”
Mata-ji offers me a white towel, and then a plaid lungi—a long piece of cloth that’s tied into kind of a cotton skirt. My lungi always comes undone at inopportune moments, violating not only Indian norms but universal standards of personal propriety. I prefer my own clothes, so I make a move my upstairs room through the back door of the receiving room, giving along the way culturally expected nods to large pictures of recently assassinated Indira Gandhi and a bemedaled and bespectacled Subhash Chandra Bose, the leader of the Indian National Army, who allied with Japan and Nazi Germany against the British.
I pass under the atrium—open to the elements, it gives the house airy relief from all the brick and concrete. But as I skirt the downstairs kitchen—where the two daughters, Pinky and Guddy, are peeling vegetables—I am reminded that some rooms aren’t open—to me, at any rate. I’m not allowed in the kitchen or the upstairs shrine. The Pandeys are fairly strict Brahmins—strict enough not to eat meat or drink alcohol; strict enough to consider a non-Hindu a polluting presence in their sacred domestic spaces.
I reach the upstairs—that’s where the living room and television are, where we as a family watch the state news broadcasts and laugh and tear up along with old Hindi films starring the likes of Nutan, Raj Kapur and Guru Dutt. Next to the living room is my room, which has space for a rickety rope bed and not much else. But for me, it’s clean and cozy, and I desperately want the Pandey household to be not just to be my home away from home, but simply my home—no caveats or exceptions.
I pull on grey sweatpants and undershirt then dutifully return to my Mata-ji, careful not to slip on the smooth stone stairs—they’re slick and slimy from the all rain pouring through the atrium.
Mata-ji is sitting on the floor in a side room opposite the receiving room and perpendicular to the kitchen. Bare-chested Pita-ji is towering above her, sitting cross-legged on a rope bed in his white lungi. His grey hair is oiled and combed, and a sacred thread—the sign of Brahmin status—hangs over his left shoulder.
Pita-ji means “respected father” and I most certainly respect Pita-ji—he’s a former district magistrate and fluent in Sanskrit and English in addition to his native Hindi and Bhojpuri. Hridaynath Pandey is his full name—his first name meaning “Lord of the Heart.”
I touch Pita-ji’s feet and move to sit on the floor next to Mata-ji. But Pita-ji motions to me to sit on another rope bed opposite him. The house seems relatively empty. My homestay brothers are out running errands, and while I can hear the rising and falling notes and tones of Guddy and Pinky’s back and forth in the kitchen, I understand not a word.
In his retirement, Pita-ji has turned to reflect more deeply on religious issues. He once took three hours to explain to me the exploits of Lord Rama, the incarnation of the preserver God Vishnu and prince of ancient Ayodhya. Pita-ji’s discourses are usually peppered with political points as well. He believes that India is a Hindu nation at heart and often repeats his prediction that world peace will come through an alliance of spiritually rich India with materially prosperous America—assuming that America abandons Pakistan.
I’m expecting another long conversation, perhaps an expanded exegesis of one of his favorite Hindu stories, like the love affair between Radha and another incarnation of Vishnu, Lord Krishna. Or maybe he’s going to say something provocative, like how Gandhi sold out India to the Muslims.
“Do you know Mohini?,” Pita-ji asks. I feel another religion talk coming.
Remembering my course in Hinduism, I respond in English, “Yes—a female incarnation of Vishnu. She’s queen of illusions.”
“Correct, my son,” Pita-ji continues, “Mohini distributed nectar of immortality to the gods after churning the sea of milk. In the pot where the nectar was gathered, a vine grew.”
“Haan, Haan,’ I say. “Yes, yes.” I’m actually understanding things pretty well. Pita-ji is mixing basic Hindi with more complex expressions in English.
“On that vine was betel leaf,” Pita-ji explains, “Airavata, the white elephant of Indra—the Lord of Rain—ate it and became intoxicated. And then the gods enjoyed it. It brought them pleasure when they ate it.”
“Paan?” I say
Pita-ji corrects me, kindly. “Tambool is the correct word in Sanskrit.”
“Tambool,” I echo.
“Tambool has many uses in Ayurveda—do you know Ayurveda?” he asks.
“Ancient Indian medicine?” Again, the Hinduism class helps me keep up.
“Haan, haan. Boils, gas, constipation, digestion. Tambool is good for all of these. And to honor the gods, we also offer tambool. In each part of the leaf, there is a different god. The goddess of learning, Saraswati, has her place in the middle of the leaf—that is why tambool makes your mind sharp.”
“And betel nut?” I ask.
That is called “supari” and is usually joined with tambool,” Pita-ji says. “In the village where I had my duty, when invitation was given—to a wedding or a meeting—supari would also be given at the same time.”
I haven’t been to an Indian village—Banaras is all I know.
“Here. Look.” Pita-ji motions to Mata-ji.
Mata-ji has a basket with paan and condiments—it’s called a paan-daan, I know that much. I have seen Mata-ji prepare paan for Pita-ji many times, but for some reason I have never asked about it—I guess because it seems too adult, and maybe too much a part of Mata-ji and Pita-ji’s relationship. Sharing paan seems intimate, in a way.
Into my hand, Mata-ji places a betel nut—it’s hard and smooth, round, about half the size of a golf ball. I hold it and feel its weight.
Then Mata-ji gently takes the betel nut from my hand. “Sarota,” she says, referring to what looks like a nut-cracker but one that has a knife-edge instead of grooves. With sarota in hand, she cuts the betel nut into slivers and places them in a betel leaf, which she has prepared by putting on the leaf two kinds of paste—one red and one white.
“Lo,” she says, keeping her Hindi simple: “Take it.”
I put the paan in my mouth. The betel nuts are hard and fibrous—my jaw strains as I chew. The leaf is fibrous too—it clumps against my check, slightly bitter. My mouth burns—probably from the white paste, though I’m not sure. Then I feel a kick—like what I get when I pop energy pills for an all-night study session. I also feel a sense of warmth building—and well-being, a kind of focused relaxation.
“Your first paan from your mother’s hand,” Pita-ji says.
It’s actually the first time I’ve ever received anything from Mata-ji’s hand—anything to eat, at any rate. Because I’m a non-Brahmin, I’ve never shared a meal with the Pandey family—every night I have to go out and find a roadside stall where I can get cheap vegetable curry and some rice and flat bread.
Pita-ji raises his index finger for emphasis, “Remember, my son, your mother will give you nothing harmful. No tobacco.”
Fine by me, I’m thinking. I’m a beer drinker—outside the home, of course.
“Look, at those red lips—vah, vah,” Mata-ji says using a typical Hindi exclamation. “The color with that white skin—very pretty.”
As I get up from the rope bed to check my appearance in the mirror I can see Pita-ji’s reflection, his lips blossoming into a smile.
I turn and give him a red, toothy grin—not the last.