Lights! Camera! Action!

Bansilal Mishra, one of the starry-eyed millions who came to make their mark in Mumbai’s film industry, finally gets his day as he stars in a commercial for his famous chain of pani-puri stalls along the Queen’s Necklace on Marine Drive.

The Garrad record player’s shiny aluminium hydraulic arm descended in slow motion to settle gently on a 78 rpm record. The needle slid inward until it reached the starting groove. A warm rich baritone from the Bang and Olufsen speakers filled the air with Pankaj Mullick’s song from the 1940 super hit film, Zindagi.

“Mai kyaa jaanu kyaa jaadu hai…” Bansilal Mishra sang along softly and reverently, blending in his voice with that of his idol, K.L. Saigal’s. Today was a vary auspicious day, one of the happiest days of his life. He had finally got the keys to a store front for his pani-puri and chaat cafe at Kemp’s Corner, less than two kilometers from Chowpatty, where he first started selling pani-puri out of a basket.

Fate had been kind. Who would have thought he would become so famous for his pani-puri and ragda patties. He had come to Bombay to join the film industry, to become an actor, a playback singer. But the days of pencil thin mustaches and well-groomed good looks were long over. Mohammad Rafi ruled the playback air waves along with Mukesh and Manna Dey. Even Kishore Kumar had stopped imitating Saigal. Romantic superstars like Rajesh Khanna were already beginning to make place for angry young men like Vinod Khanna and Amitabh Bachchan.

One day, when he was about to admit defeat and return home after six fruitless months in Bombay, the young, somewhat dispirited Bansilal sat on the Marine Drive footpath, gritted his teeth, and stubbornly resolved to make something out of his life. With his last hundred rupees he started selling pani-puri and ragda patties on the sands of Chowpatty. From Bansilal Mishra, aspiring actor and playback singer, he transformed himself into Bansilal Mishra pani-puri wallah. From an aspiring star he moved to character role. The rest, as they say, is history.

Bansilal looked around the immaculately organized kitchen he had set up in his Bhindi Bazar godown. Glass jars of freshly ground unmarked spices lined the spotlessly clean shelves. Matkas filled with AquaGuard water stood on the counters, ready for the day. Boiled potatoes lay cooling on metal shelves in specially fabricated racks. Kabuli chana sat soaking in large pans of warm water. Onions, garlic, ginger, and a host of other fresh herbs lay cut and neatly piled under damp cloths. Not a speck of dust cast its shadow on the cold, tiled floor. An air conditioner hummed softly in harmony with the fridge.

The exact ingredients and proportions for his famous pani, red and green chutneys, and his choley and pattis were a secret Bansilal shared with no one. His morning began with him personally mixing a fresh batch for each one of his fifteen chaat wallahs who set up their stalls along Marine Drive, from Chowpatty to the Air India building.

“Good morning Mishraji!” boomed a voice behind the startled Bansilal. Masala spilled from the spoon in his hand as he scrambled to cover up all clues of his very secret recipes.

Debashish Mukherji, actor and impersonator of movie actors from Navin Nischol to Rakesh Roshan and many more, stood in the doorway. Beside him stood his business partner, Sunita Chowdhry, stand-in body double and stuntwoman for movie actresses from Rakhee and Rekha to Madhuri Dixit. The two of them ran a feisty ad film production company called ‘62,’ famous for its genre and convention-bending TV commercials and short films.

“Are you ready to make your film debut today, Mishraji?” Sunita asked brightly.

“Why are you dressed up like Hema Malini, madam?” Bansilal asked, “and why are you looking like Kishore Kumar, Debashish? ‘Meri lottery lag jaane wali hai’ was a Binaca Geet Mala hit song with Rajendra Nath and Mala Sinha. We will look like fools if we make such simple mistakes.”

“Mishraji,” Debashish reassured him, “just wait and see, na, we are doing this very artistically. It is a carbon copy of the original with just a few original changes that today’s public will love. You will be very happy. Your ad film will be a super hit. People will forget Rajendra Nath in ‘Holi Ayee Re.’ Nobody will even remember him as Popatlal. Every child in Mumbai will know your name only. Bansilal.”

Bansilal Mishra climbed down the step of the vanity shaking with trepidation. His signature crisp, fresh white kurta-pajama and topi sparkled under the glare of the bright lights. His freshly blackened pencil thin mustache glistened. A pani-puri basket with a tava of warm ragda and patties stood ready, waiting for him. All his life as a child growing up in Bilaspur he had lurked around chai stalls and general stores listening to All India Radio, dreaming of going to Bombay to be part of the film industry. That day had come finally.

Today, he was going to act as the hero in his own real-life story, to make the movie of his lifetime standing at the exact same location where he had one day decided he was not going to give up. Without thinking, he started stirring the pani in the pot, mixing the choley, and flipping the patties to make sure they were warm all over. He picked up a gol-guppa, turned it around expertly in his hand, and poked a neat hole in it at just the right spot. 

From the corner of his eyes Bansilal Mishra could see the convertible Impala with its top down gliding toward his pani-puri stall set up on the Marine Drive footpath. Bright spot lights and reflectors lit up the red car as it approached. Hema Malini was driving the car with her hand resting lightly on the steering wheel. Kishore Kumar was in the passenger side dancing and singing ‘Bansilal-ki-pani puri mil jaane wali hai.’

“Action!” boomed a voice from behind the camera.

Bansilal Mishra started putting together a plate of his famous pani-puri.