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An ice-cream for a drought
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Mewad ice-cream hides behind its coolness a telling tale from the hot sands of Bhilwara.
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EVERY SUMMER, just like water in their parched land, young men too "evaporate" from the face of Bhilwara and other neighbouring districts in Rajasthan. It is unusual, almost surreal, to see women take over the mantle in this otherwise patriarchal society, known for its tales of valiant Rajput warriors and impregnable fortresses. Unable to farm owing to lack of water, hordes of boys, some as young as nine, fan out to numerous parts of the country looking for alternative means to earn money and support their families back home.
And for more than 25 years now, something as innocuous as ice-cream has rescued them from the hardships caused by the recurring drought. Men from the region, that once housed the erstwhile Mewad kingdom, now travel as far as Assam and Tamil Nadu with recipes for the Mewad ice-cream, as it is called, and hopes of making a tidy income.
"You will find a Mewad ice-cream trolley in every corner of the country," remarks Sampat Lal Chaudhary, grooming his well-oiled and luxurious moustache. There is a glint of pride in his eyes as he explains his role in a trade that in terms of spread could easily rival McDonald's on its home turf. This city alone is rumoured to have hundreds of such trolleys.
Chaudhary has been in Bangalore for just a year. But for 18 years now, every year, between January and June, like thousands of others, Chaudhary leaves his family behind in Bhilwara to sell ice-cream across the country. "Farming in summers is impossible back home," says the 30-year-old vendor, whose business has already taken him to places as far as Ahmedabad, and Mysore. "Not being well educated, we are left with little choice." When home, Chaudhary grows wheat, jowar, and bajra.
In Bangalore, he runs his business out of a rented, two-room house on Robertson Road. The damp and dingy rooms are tiny, just enough to bed six people. Pictures of Hindu deities adorn the walls and copies of the Hindi daily, Rajasthan Patrika, are strewn on the floor. Chaudhary has brought with him six boys from Rajasthan, including his brother, to help him run his six trolleys. There is a loft overhead to accommodate more people. In the next room lies Chaudhary's tools of trade — a big steel cauldron, a few ladles, a stove, and a filter-cum-mixer. Every morning, he makes the ice-cream mix that is later poured into containers cooled with ice (bought from depots nearby) in the trolleys.
Making the mix, Chaudhary explains, is an elaborate procedure. "You have to boil the milk till it attains the right thickness," he says. Then add sugar, nuts, custard powder, and cream, and stir the mixture thoroughly. "There are many who use water to make ice-cream. We don't. That is why our ice-cream is special." Chaudhary says he learnt how to make ice-cream from someone in his village.
Fleeing a parched land to eke out a living.
Every morning, Chaudhary's assistants spread out into in the neighbourhood with their trolleys stocked with the cool treats that range from chocolate-flavoured ice-cream to our desi falooda. "If lucky, I sell Rs. 150 worth of ice-cream each day," says Narain Lal Bhairwa, whose parents sent him with Chaudhary. However, the work does not impress this 15-year-old. "I am going back this August to my parents. I miss them," he says, revealing teeth that are stained red from excessive chewing of paan. Bhairwa and his friends earn about Rs. 1,000 every month. But the money does not reach their pockets immediately. One look at Bhairwa's wallet tells the story. There isn't a single currency note in his black imitation leather wallet. Fake five rupee notes are neatly folded and tucked into the pouches of his relatively new wallet, and faces of famous Bollywood stars peer out from behind the plastic covers. It seems like a visual culled straight from Bhairwa's dreams of fame and wealth.
Their "boss", Chaudhary, meticulously holds on to their pay until the end of summer when he and the kids are ready to go back home. "They have to give the money to their parents who have placed their trust in me and sent their sons so far away from home," he says. Besides, there is always the risk of youngsters running away with the money. "But, they always get adequate money if and when the need arises," he maintains.
But coming so far and selling ice-cream has not helped people like Chaudhary much. "After all the expenses, I am left with just about Rs. 2,500. That is not enough to support my parents, my wife, and daughter. But we have to survive on that money." Occasionally, he hits jackpot when an order for a party or a marriage comes his way. That makes him richer by around Rs. 3,000. But the last time that happened was four months ago. "Times are difficult," Chaudhary sighs.
Even the Bangalore Mahanagara Palike has made surviving difficult. Every summer, fearing an outbreak of gastroenteritis, and other diseases, the Palike bans the sale of food on the footpaths. "I don't know why they are after us," wonders Chaudhary. "Unlike the fruit sellers, we always cover our ice-cream. There is no question of leaving it in the open."
There are other challenges faced by the ubiquitous Mewad ice-cream vendors. Well-known brands such as MTR and Kwality sell their ice-creams for as low as Rs. 5. But that does not worry Chaudhary and his troops who sell their ice-creams for as little as Rs. 2. "We have our set of loyal customers," he proudly says. "They will never leave us. Such is the magic of our ice-cream."
DEBARSHI DASGUPTA
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