After a night long slow motion journey in Himachal Express, we stepped out in early morning at the busy station of Una - an industrial town in the Kangra Valley. A chaffeaur from the Judge's Court, a sleepy eyed Punjabi guy who wore full-on beard and pathani kurta, was there to receive us. It seemed diffecult to conclude if he was more disturbed to see us (probably we intervened his nap as he waited since 5 a.m.)or we were more pissed off to see him. We both were feeling cranky. Una was not a station like what we had imagined. The culture and demography was cent-percent Punjabi, and just by law the place appeared a part of Himachal Pradesh. And, this surprised us. Later we realized that this portion was originally a part of Punjab, and was later annexed into HP as per the Punjab Reorganisation Act, 1966.
There was one more reason to feel restless. Post our journey excitement fizzled out, we both were damn hungry. We instantly requested the driver to stop by at a "decent" restaurant for breakfast. He nodded.
The journey from Una to Judge's Court (Pragpur) was longer than we had thought off. The chilly wind of December slapped hard on our cheeks. Only a hot cup of tea could salvage. Some OK type joints faded away, but the dutiful driver did not stop by. Desperately, we reminded him that we cannot wait till we reach hotel.
Finally, the driver slowed down the wheels. But, wait... we could not see anything around except a muddy shack on the slope of a hill. An aged gentleman was there, more busy in his household tasks, than welcoming prospective customers. Never mind, the way the driver moved around there, made it apparent that we needed BREAKFAST!
Without sighting eggs/bread/maggi packs around, we assumed ubiqutous "aloo paranthas" on plates, till Uncle told us that "he had not boiled potatoes yet!" We looked hard at him as if we could almost bake him. Suddenly, he hanged two sleek "reddishes" in his hand. He said that "Hum aapko mooli ke paranthe khila sakte hain." My introvert husband was instantly disparaged. He rarely ate those yucky-smelling, burp-causing, fart-boosting paranthas, even as a last resort. But, this time he kept quite. "Marta kya na Karta, bechaara!"
Soon, the uncle heated up the tawa. Unlike the lengthy procedure of cooking mooli-parantha at home (involves peeling of, washing, and grating, and marinating in salt), uncle was rather quick. He simply grated the two reddishes and mixed salt, loads of lal mirch, and a pinch of Haldi. On asking whether he forgot peeling off them, he replied "abhi to khet see nikali hain. Chilka kya utarana".
And, in no time he passed two round hot steaming paranthas towards us. A dirty bottle of pickle or a katori-full of "at least a day old" dahi seemed like bonus.
We ate them. 1 each. Still looking at uncle...if he had more! He was generous to offer one more to us and the last one to the driver. My husband smiled at me... a usual act when he needs a favor. This time he wanted the second Julie ka parantha.
