Once u-paan a time, in Banaras...

For the first several days after our arrival in Banaras, I was convinced that all the city’s men were dying. I kept my horrifying discovery to myself, hoping I was imagining the hundreds of men I’d seen spitting up thick mouthfuls of crimson blood on the streets. I had to be careful when walking past open windows, for at any given moment, someone might stick his head out and hack up some more bright liquid. No one, it seemed, could control these bursts of bodily malfunction. Rickshaw wallas, while pedaling us down the road, would try to aim their spit on the road, but flecks of red would inevitably hit the base of my churidar pants. What could possibly cause such a widespread epidemic? Was it the custom in this area to inflict a mortal wound on the men upon marriage, so that for the rest of their life they died ever so slowly, spitting up blood all the while?

It came as a relief, then, to have paan explained to me. The men weren’t suffering from some strange ailment, but rather indulging in a popular Banarsi drug*. Kind of like chewing tobacco, paan is full of betel nuts and tobacco. As a result, Benarsi men often have a thick red coating on their teeth – when you can see their teeth at all. Most men, it seems, are always chewing paan, making it incredibly difficult to hold a conversation.

During our time in India, we’ve discovered that Indians have an almost fully functional street sign language. (A single kind of head nod means “yes,” “no,” “maybe,” “why,” “where,” “stop,” “go,” and “what?” Similar questions may be asked through the use of a hand twist. As I said, almost fully functional.) In Banaras, try having a conversation with a paan chewer, and the necessity of a mouth-free language becomes clear.


“Hamlog Godolia ja rahe hain.” We’re going to Godolia. “Kitne?” How much?
The rickshaw walla, lower lip completely stuffed with the red gunk, looks at us. Uh oh. Can’t do this one with his hands. He throws back his head as if he’s about to sneeze – but really, he’s just trying to speak and hold it all in at the same time.

“Puhua!” he attempts. I feel like a dentist’s assistant trying to make conversation with a man while I simultaneously clean his teeth.

“Kya?” What?

“Punhua!” he tries again. He scrapes a little of the stuff to the side of his mouth. “Panra.”

“Oh, pandera!” Fifteen. “Tiik hai.”


Joe said that maybe the reason men here need arranged marriages is that no one would otherwise marry a man with a mouthful of paan. There could well be some truth to that, though I’d hope that on the day of his wedding, no man in his right mind would chew paan. But if it happened anywhere, it would happen in Banaras. Amid a crowd of joyous family members, a happy couple is joined in matrimony. The beautiful bride looks resplendent in her festive capsicum-red sari. The groom tilts his head back to accept his marriage vows, and the onlookers nod approvingly at the way his teeth perfectly match the bride’s outfit – a sure sign of their everlasting compatibility.








*Joe disagrees. Upon hearing this line, he corrected, “Crack is a drug. Paan is a lifestyle.”