25th September 2025
Dadima’s paandan was not just a box; it was a small, elaborately decorated universe of metal, secrets, and tradition. Made of heavy, tarnished brass, it sat on a Mehraab (in traditional Hyderabadi houses, a Mehraab is an architectural feature, it served as elegant showcases built into the wall). The paandan’s surface was etched with intricate floral patterns, worn smooth in places by the touch of a hundred hands. The paandan had a beautiful, weighty feel and a distinctive clinking sound as she would open its various compartments.
It was a world within itself, each small, square chamber holding a different treasure. There was the vibrant green of the betel leaves, the earthy kattha paste, the milky white chunna and the tiny heaps of supari and cardamom. I remember the methodical precision with which she would prepare a paan, her fingers nimble and practiced. The paandan was an extension of her, a symbol of her quiet grace and her role as the keeper of our family’s traditions. The smell of the spices and the earthy scent of the paan filled the air, a fragrance that instantly brings me back to her room, to the comfort of her presence.
But the paandan was more than just a box for making paan. It was the centerpiece of her hospitality. To offer a beautifully prepared paan from the paandan was a gesture of welcome, a sign of respect, and an invitation to conversation. It was around that paandan that my dadi would share her stories of her youth with me… stories of Parbhani, Aurangabad and Hyderabad that lived vividly in her memory; of the turbulent days of the 1948 Police Action, when survival meant impossible choices. She spoke of the children she lost in that chaos, and of the haunting moment when she was told to abandon them and save herself.
As she prepared the paan with care - which came effortlessly to her, her hands intricately working the sarota to crack the betel nut.. she was, in truth, preparing lessons for me. Wrapping them gently in words of wisdom, offering them with the same grace with which she handed us a leaf folded with supari and cardamom. To sit near her while the paandan clicked open was to enter a world of learning and love, where discipline was taught with kindness, and comfort flowed as naturally as conversation. Each time she opened it, she wasn’t simply reaching for spices. She was opening a chapter of her life, unveiling memories tucked away like hidden compartments. With every clink of brass, she revealed a part of her heart… her joys, her struggles, her unwavering faith. The paandan became her language, her symbol, her way of giving us more than paan… she was giving us herself.
Even without realising it, this was the time I cherished most with her.. the moments I eagerly looked forward to. The lessons she folded into those evenings remain with me still, gentle, enduring, and alive. I carry them within me, and I have already begun to pass them down to my children. Of course, not with a paandan, but with the same spirit of love, wisdom, and hospitality that it once represented.
The physical paandan may be gone, but the memories it holds are what truly matter. It's in the small, vivid details that the past lives on.. the feel of the cool brass, the specific scent of the spices, the quiet clink of the compartments as she opened them.
The paandan was a vessel for her presence, a tool for her hospitality and her wisdom. Now, its memory lives in my heart, in the stories I tell and the feelings I carry. It’s a reminder that true heirlooms aren't always objects you can hold, but the love and lessons they represent. They become a part of you, a permanent link to a person who shaped your world.
