Breaking bread with conscience

An authentic taste of Maharashtra on a farm near Pune, thanks to the paranjapes.

It would be the season for ponkh "" if you stay in Ahmedabad or around. Meet a Gujarati and chances are you'll find him getting all nostalgic at the mere mention of the word: Expat communities go into raptures at reminiscences of childhood "ponkh parties", IIT/IIM alumni organise these to bond and network, and, at least in the years before Moditva, ponkh iftaars were a way of life for politicians across religious lines.

All this for a mere millet. Ponkh, for those not in the know (and few outsiders are), is young tips of jowar, freshly harvested, freshly roasted in open fires, spiced up and had around the time of the Uttarayana.

Makar Sankranti in northern India "" mid-January, when the sun traditionally begins its ascent into the northern hemisphere. Days lengthen, winter ebbs and everyone across cultures celebrates over bonfires for a month and more.

Sitting in the Paranjapes' lovely home in Pune, a huge tree marking the courtyard, little diyas and marigolds lighting up nooks and corners where the shadows have fallen, I am told that ponkh is not merely a Gujarati phenomenon.

In Maharashtra, young jowar is called hurda "" and hurda parties evoke as much of a cultural resonance in Peshwa-land as in the neighbouring state. Our own evening do is progressing fabulously.

Ferguson College bonds are being renewed, organic jamun wine (attempted by the Paranjapes' agriculturist son Ashwin) has been uncorked, and I, the outsider, am being welcomed into this charmed circle of genteel, old Pune. That's how I also discover the madhas.

Loosely translated, these are vegetable farms (as opposed to kshetras, associated with grain), and the FC crowd remembers going to these, owned by families of classmates, not just for hurda parties but also for fresh, delicious rural meals.

Now, you can get your share of bhakris (rough rotis made from jowar/bajra flour) and thalipeeth (made from rice, wheat, millet flours and spiced up) even in the confines of a Dilli Haat, Delhi's touristy crafts "village", but it is not really the same as a piping hot meal in the middle of a field, is it?

"So, can anyone go to a madha?" I ask. The verdict is mixed. There are farms, of course, practising what has now got branded as rural tourism, wooing everyone from exotica-seeking foreigners to team-building MNCs with "real life" in the villages.

Tourists don't just stay here but also get to do some honest labour. But with sugarcane, "the lazy farmer's crop" that also robs the soil of fertility, taking over much of the agricultural land in the area, the farmers convinced by easy cash and mill muscle, genuine vegetable farms are on the decline.

That's a concern for the senior Paranjapes: Vijay, a well-known environmentalist, and Anjali, his wife, a French teacher, who is an equally involved activist. Together, they have been quietly working in villages outside Pune, building small check dams and the like, promoting sustainable agriculture and environment.

Now Ashwin, their son, and his Spanish wife Judith have decided to set up their own model farm in one of the villages. The idea is to grow organic veggies, rear free-range poultry and yes, live in the village. In the absence of a genuine madha, Ashwin offers to take us to his farm "" it's a rather basic one, far removed from fancy Delhi farmhouses "" for a meal.

So, early the next morning we find ourselves driving down to Nanegaon, 40 km off Pune, for what is going to be a picnic "" with a conscience. We drive out towards the Kolvand Valley, in the direction of Lonavala.

The drive is smooth and we zip past Lavasa, the picturesque "city" for the super rich, where people have just about begun to check in. But that's another world. As the track becomes rougher, finally non-existent, we enter Nanegaon.

A gram sabha is in progress, village elders are solemnly in discussion. In a narrow lane, we are stopped by a group, greetings exchanged, but the real purpose, Ashwin says, has been for the villagers to assuage their curiosity. "So many town people..."

The farm is in a valley. Higher up is a sacred grove; one of the few remaining in the area "" forest land traditionally belonging to the village deity and so sacred that no one dare remove even a twig from there.

But, of course, people find ways to fell wood "" this one's remained surprisingly intact. On another day we'd have trekked up but today the meal is ready. "Jhevan jhala." A young lady on the farm has cooked up huge quantities, three energetic kids notwithstanding.

The bhakris are amazingly soft"" and different from the catered ones in Pune. There's pithle, crumbly chickpea flour, varan, plain arhar dal, and even bhajjiyas, Mumbai-style. A bucket of water is set out for us to wash our hands and there are gleaming stainless steel plates on the floor.

The only aberration is the Pepsi we are carrying in plastic bottles. But as we break the bread, gazing at the Sahyadris in the distance, we realise the meal's just been an excuse.