You cannot get any more Indian. Watch
a desi dip his biscuit in a hot cup of tea. There is a sense of peace that
steals up over his face, a feeling that all is right with the world. I have not
witnessed a greater existential affirmation than moving that soggy bite up to
the face, all the while gazing into the distance with that calm, meditative and
contemplative look. Indians go into a trance with Chai biskut. It is the most
reasonably priced tranquilizer in the world, beating the new fangled mood
elevator hands down.
Indians are patient by nature;
the Chai biskut makes them even more so. It is deep seated, this urge to dunk
the baked product in steaming, milky fluid. You may be the fanciest glitterati
and chatterati but faced with this unpretentious pair up, I wouldn’t put it
past you to steal a quick look around, make a dash of the dip and pop it into
the mouth in one swift upsweep. God help you though if the tea is too hot and
the dipped portion begins to sink to the bottom of the cup. You have to see the
desperate lunge for that steel spoon that follows to fish it out; your reflexes
have to be razor sharp to rescue that sodden sup. A second’s delay and there is
nothing left to scoop out. Many an Indian has suffered that acute sense of loss
when gulping down dregs containing remnants of a lost cause.
It is not that upscale shortbread
cookies, chocolate chip cookies or oatmeal cookies are not manufactured in
Hindustan but really, it is a close call between Glucose Biscuit and Atta
Biskut. There is not a soul on the ancient subcontinent that does not know the difference.
The processed, sugary feel of the former and the airy, full mouthed swallow of
the latter. Options are available, such as Britannia, Parle G or Tiger glucose
biscuits. Within the atta biskut family, there is the less atta and the more
atta. My vote is for the big, coarse, porous and light “baeskut” baked in a
cottage bakery at Moga, secret ingredients being the self-grown wheat and the
home made ghee; both produce of the Sangha Farm on GT Road. In June every year,
during our vacation time, Bebe ji would trundle off on the tractor carrying the
raw material to the bakery and come evening, two huge canisters full of freshly
baked “baeskut” would come trolling back on bumpy wheels to make their triumphant
entry into the gated farm.
What’s more,
known the world over for our thrifty genome as we are, we like to leverage
benefits. So we add value to the daily cup by slurping it in with a gurgling
sound....it increases the enjoyment manifold. Try pouring a quarter into the
saucer and swilling it in. Pure heaven. And just as we have nicknames flowing
out of hearts full of affection for our Tillus, Bablies, Gappus and Pappus, the
biscuit is variously known as biskeet, baskut and biskut.
The full and
total lowdown on the Chai biskut cult can be caught at any Indian Railway
Station. You will find us there, the pinkie extended away from the tea cup,
half way to nirvana. Clumps of ordinary, contented citizens, punctuating the
wholesome gulps with a wipe of the brow....the tropical climate you know.....
What wine is
to France, Sake is to Japan, Vodka is to Russia, well Chai is to India.
We Indians, we dip our biskut in Chai and we are ok. It
keeps us sane. So do put those
tea bags and Green Label aside. Masala Chai anyone?!
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