Christmas paan fit for a prince

Thurs 12 Dec 2013

Once again, a beaming porter stood at the door to announce hot water was available. Preferring sleep to hot showers, we stayed in bed and indulged in a lovely lie-in.

Needing to reign in the budget, we went to find a cheap eat for brekkie and book coach tickets back to Chennai, all in readiness for our flight to the Andamans. With a few places quoting over the odds and others saying they don't run coaches to Chennai, we decided that we should eat and then properly concentrate efforts on logistics after.

We found a little street-side dosa bar that was crowded with people enjoying a morning snack. The chef was a bit of an artist and took massive pride in the systematic production of dosa cooking. It was obvious that he'd mastered the art as he sped and flipped each one with precision. We ordered one to share, but it was so delicious that Jamie ordered another, giving us one each.

The plan had worked, and the next stop to book tickets worked a treat, and we had two seats confirmed for the eve of the 12th Dec on a semi-sleeper headed to Chennai.

Back at the room, we grabbed a day pack and headed out to Golconda Fort. This 16th-century fortress, built by the Qutb Shahs, was located just outside of the city.

Having approximately nil knowledge of the fort, its age, purpose, or even its name until yesterday, we decided to get a guide. Mohammed, a very smart little man dressed in white trousers and shirt who proudly wore his official tour ID badge outside his shirt, beat the other guides to our business.

He gave us a little intro, free of charge, and obviously knew his stuff, so we agreed to pay him the 600 rupees plus a little extra as a tip.

Mohammed had used henna to colour his hair, but speckles of grey, where his beard should be, protruded out, and his head and tash were slightly different colours, giving him an almost comic appearance. This is something that many people all over India do, men and women alike, in an attempt to make themselves appear more youthful. I don't think they realise that, in fact, it looks like they've been exposed to some horrible toxic chemicals leading to staining of hair follicles.

Mohammed soon forgot our names and opted to call us Queen and Prince. This was both cute and massively patronising, but Mohammed was good, and he knew his shit about this fort, so we didn’t mind.

At various intervals, he stopped us to demonstrate the craftsmanship of the fortress builders and engineers by clapping at echo points. He showed us the secret escape tunnels that wound beneath the grounds of the fortress and out under the city of Hyderabad for 12 km to the Charminar.

At every spot along the way, he knew the best place to get a great snap and summoned Prince Jamie to capture the moment on camera.

He showed us the old prison, armoury, queen’s quarters, stables, high court, and the king’s chambers. Every so often, we’d need to stop and clap or shout out and wait for the sound to bounce back at us.

Halfway round, we were joined by three giggly college students who, much to my amusement, insisted on calling our guide “Uncle.”

We walked into an old dark room where high-pitched noise filled the air. This small room was home to 10,000–15,000 flapping bats. Mohammed asked for a camera with a flash and headed right into the thick of the room to photograph the squeaky little mammals for us.

When the tour was over, we paid the obligatory tip on the side and got a cab to the tombs where the fortress kings had been laid to rest.

The domed square structures were huge and could be seen clearly from the top of Golconda Fort. Here the ancient kings had been buried with their wives and families. The Indo-Islamic style made these eerie buildings ooze beauty. We’d managed to catch them in the perfect early evening light and were lucky enough to see the sunset behind them.

We stopped at Fusion 9 for an overpriced drink and opted for a street food dinner. This started with overly MSG’d sweetcorn masala, a battered chilli, home-mixed rum and cokes, shwarma wraps, and then the choice of sheep foot or tongue soup.

We opted for the sheep, and it wasn’t long until I realised that there was no meat, just spongy black sheep foot (which Jamie had eaten half of). I was shamed into sampling the other trotter, and it wasn’t great. The soup was tasty, though, so we dunked our naans and devoured it.

After dinner, roadside chai followed, and now that we were a little merry, it was time for paan.

Paan is something the locals eat. It’s a little tobacco parcel that you chew and keep under your tongue. It causes the body to produce extra saliva, and the paan turns it red, causing people to spit what looks a lot like blood from their mouth into the street. You see people doing this all day, in every town. Stained teeth are the tell-tale sign of a paan lover, and it is common with the street dwellers.

Jamie came back from the paan stall proudly waving a little packet. This wasn’t just any paan. This was special Christmas paan. It was a rather large (I’d say thumb-sized) cone-shaped leaf, filled with paan, topped with a cherry, silver leaf, and all held in place by a toothpick.

Giggling from the rum, we asked a man what to do. He looked at us and laughed back, explaining that you just chew. DON’T swallow. Oh, and remove the stick.

“Ok, chew, spit, no stick. Good.”

Jamie bravely went first, and I quickly followed. Now the flavour was very nice, but the problem with special Christmas paan is it’s just too big. I nearly choked on the liquid or the cherry (I’m not sure which) several times, before getting the fear of swallowing the lot. I had to expel it all from my mouth in a very unladylike fashion.

Huge bits of paan, or leaf, or foil, or cherry still clung to my teeth, resulting in multiple rinse-and-spits in the street.

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