Gratitude for Gujjus… and their Theplas

The train screeched to a stop at the border and a few minutes later, there was a sharp rap at the compartment door. The Italian on the lower bunk struggled to open it. The guard entered: blond, young, grim, unsmiling – a phantasm of Rolf from the Sound of Music.

“Ihre Pass bitte!”

Blurry-eyed and befuddled from just having fallen asleep, I groped for my Indian passport and opened it to the Swiss visa page - a visa I had to procure just to get me across from Italy to Germany.

Border-man looked at me in exasperation. “Das hier ist nicht die Schweiz, Fräulein! Wo ist Ihr Visum für Österreich, bitte?”

Austrian Visa? Honey, I’m the one whose sleep-deprived brain is addled by jetlag.

As it turns out, Border-man was a bit aggravated (to put it mildly) and promptly tossed me out, kicking and screaming. Well, not exactly, but definitely pouting and pissed as hell. For one thing it was almost midnight. For another, the Brennero Pass at the Austrian- Italian border is at an elevation of 4500 ft. I was hardly clad for this weather, being dressed in a cotton kurta and kohlapuri chappals. In my defense, it was the hippie era, for another I was a desi.





As the train steamed off into the Austrian distance, I was escorted to the Border Polizei Station. Five other Indians had made the same dumb mistake (yes! we flock together) and also taken the wrong train, and stood there trying to explain the situation in English. They could’ve just as well been speaking Gujarati, for all the men could understand or care.

I pushed forward and told them: Excuuuse me! Step aside. I would handle this, if you don’t mind. I may not have taken the Reading a Train Schedule 101 class, but languages are the one (only?) thing I do well. Schmoozing with them alternately in Italian and German, I managed to get a temporary Austrian transit visa and requested them to do the same for my fellow compatriots.

“Aber natürlich, Fräulein”, I was told, as soon as they provided ample proof that they had enough funds, as I had done. Turning to the group, I explained in our mother-tongue Gujarati, what was needed. Between the five of them, they managed to pull out fifty dollars.

Fifty dollars? Even in the seventies, it was only enough to buy you a Wienerschnitzel and a beer. These days, with the euro being what it is, it would get you a nice smile from a dirndl-clad waitress and a Kürbiskernweckerl. (Gesundheit!)

I offered to stand as their guarantor, but Border-men had already put their Italian and Austrian heads together and Eureka! come up with the fact that we had never set eyes on each other before.

Haltingly, the Gujjus told me that they did have enough money, but what if they informed the Indian government?

Now, a side note about the brilliant FERA policy of the day in India. The Foreign Exchange Regulation Act at the time allowed you to leave the country with the equivalent of about $ 200. This, (in their view) ‘generous’ amount was supposed to hold you over for a vacation – the WHOLE vacation. So, enterprising Indians would find ways of converting their black money on the black market and smuggling it in various nefarious ways out of the country to support their stay abroad.

When I assured them that the Border-men had absolutely no interest in informing the Government of India and their only concern was to be certain that tourists had enough funds, the ladies proceeded to the bathroom. From the recesses of their sari blouses and secret pockets in their underwear came out wads of cash that enabled them to procure the transit visa stamp.

The situation, now having been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction, I thanked the Border-men, deciding not to enlighten them as to where all the money came from. We then proceeded to the waiting room, to await the next train to carry us forth to Germany.

By now I was cold and famished and tried to find a comfortable spot on the plastic seat as best I could. I have no idea whose mold they use when they manufacture these ubiquitous, waiting room, incommodious chairs - the engineers having only one goal in mind: dispense acute discomfort, causing the waitee to spend as little time as possible in it.

I pulled out a grubby, lint-covered lozenge from the bottom of my purse to soothe the borborygmus emanating from a stomach that had not seen food for over seven hours.

The group, noticing I was alone, invited me to sit with them. A bit reluctant, as I was hungry, not lonely, I demurred…until they opened their suitcases.

Now, if you ever happen to meet a Gujarati tourist, and were you to whip open his bags, there is a 90 percent chance that you will find some thepla and atthanu (in my case, that nectar of the gods - chundo). The other ten percent would probably have khakra and methiya masala.


There is something to be said about eating thepla and mango pickle on the Alps at 2 o’clock in the morning. It has never tasted so divine. I advise you to try it sometime.


Glossary:

Gujju: term for a Gujarati from the state of Gujarat, in Western India. I'm a Gujju (and proud of it!).

Gujarati: language spoken by a Gujju

desi: Indian; person of Indian origin

thepla: a spicy, tortilla-ish snack - which can last, unrefrigerated, till the cows come home (sorry, till the holy cows come home).

atthanu: spicy mango pickle

khakra: crisp, flat, paper-thin, taco-like snack, made of wheat flour

chundo: sweet mango pickle (yum!). I ate so much of it as a kid, my father warned that when the doctor pricked my finger for blood work, chundo ras (juice) would flow.

methiya masala: masala made with salt, red chilli powder and fenugreek seeds. My daughter eats so much of it, I warn her that...never mind...not the place for bathroom humor...