Monday 5 June 2017

Chikkis… by an Arab!

Chikkis by an Arab!

Those were the days, when we as kids, used to gather on our street in Tanzania, Africa.  He should be coming, we would whisper among ourselves, mouth watering incessantly, eyes pointing to the end of the street with great expectations. After all, it will soon be 4pm.

We now hear the distant sounds in a characteristic rhythm - jhum, jhum… jhum jhum. There! The volume, as he nears, increases. The tinkling sounds emanate from the ghoonghroos on his ankles, heavily laden with them; and he walks fast with his body swaying rhythmically from side to side as if in a trance.

He is turbaned, with a typical, printed loin cloth wrapped around his waist up to knees; he has that golden hued, pale brown Aryan face, wrinkled with age and bearded – and yet gentle. As he walks fast, he is pushing a wooden cart full of freshly made goodies for sale.

He is not shouting, no sales pitch, no catch phrases, not a word uttered. But his very personality, the rhythmic gait, and his USP (unique selling proposition) – the sounds of ghoonghroos – has a mesmerizing appeal to our young, craving senses. Soon, we start actually ‘smelling’ the hot, molten jaggery (brown sugar)!

Yes, it is 4pm and time for hot, fresh chikkis!

His til sankli (sesame chunks) was the best-selling item – big, thick chunks of ‘em. The next best of course was the chikki made from huge peanuts – jugu chikki.

The kids, running out of patience by now, would jostle around the two-wheeled cart; there will be a noisy clamour to climb over its metal frame to try to open the wooden lid, if only to have a quick look at the goodies. They would not succeed as the owner politely pushes them off the cart! This day, some with 50 cents would purchase a few chunks and gobble them up; the others would sheepishly look on, fingers in the mouth, in a desperate attempt to stem the flow of saliva!

Today, as I fondly relive this uniquely flavored childhood memory, I can visualize it too – even smell it!  

He was our version of kabuliwalla, not the Pashtun migrant-merchant from Kabul immortalized by Tagore in his short story, but a real skin-and-blood Arab, one who sold chikkis!!

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