I remember his call clearly, “Thengai, Maangai Pattani Sundal...”

The young man would stride quickly across the sand and approach you, repeating his sales pitch.

“Saar, thengai, maangai, pattani sundal venuma?”

He had a large wicker basket with steel containers filled with his merchandise. I was always tempted to buy something, for his sundal was always delicious. The pattani (peas) in the sundal was boiled until their  skins were just peeling, the maangai (raw mango) was just turning orange-yellow, indicating its readiness as a snack. Its cockscomb serrations were smeared with generous insertions of chilli powder and salt. My mouth waters even as I write.

The pattani sundal man would whip a piece of newspaper from the side of his basket, twist it quickly into a cone, top it with pattani sundal measured in his small ollock measure and then add a little more.

The price: 50 paise!

Returning to the Elliot’s Beach after many years, I searched for the pattani sundal man. Gone! Like the 50 paise coin!

And replaced by stationary carts selling boiled peanuts, spiced with chopped onions and masala. How times have changed!

Memories of pattani sundal vendors brought back memories of trades and trades people who don’t exist any more on Elliot’s Beach. Like the men who sold murukku. They would appear around 3.30 p.m. dressed in spotless white dhotis and with chandan (sandal paste) besmeared-foreheads, carrying tins filled with murukku.

Like the sundal boys, they too had their simple sales pitch. “Aiya, this is home-made murukku, try some,” they would say sinking to their knees into the sand beside you, and placing their tins before you in a manner that allowed you to peer at the contents through its glass front.

Eating this murukku was forbidden at home (God knows what the man’s fingers had touched, my parents would say), but like all things forbidden, the murukku was delicious. One look through the glass at the fresh, brown murukku and to hell with what they said at home; I would buy two, sometimes even three murukkus.

Where are those men, now? I searched for them, but they too, like the pattani sundal men, were gone.

Then there was the thrill of standing on the shore and watching the fishermen bring their catch (and catamarans) home. The catamaran would approach the shallows and bob in the waters. Some of the fishermen would jump off and stand in a line in the knee- deep waters. They were dressed in knee-length loincloths and wore nothing on top. They tugged and heaved, or waited for a strong wave to push the boat in. More tugs and heaves followed, until the catamaran was safely beached. But that wasn’t the end. They hauled in giant nets, full of fish of every kind and landed them on the shore, where regular bidders stood around in a circle, examining the catch. Serious negotiations followed for the next 15 minutes while youngsters like me just stood around watching a fish do a last dying flip. Then it was all over. Sold – before it even hit the main market.

The fishermen looped their nets into big bundles and left them (and their boats) on the shore where couples came, later in the evening, to coo in their lee. Gone are the catamarans and the bidders, and the big bundles of nets and the cooing couples in their lee! And some of fishermen, I am told, now sell their catch as fried fish in the flap tent restaurants on the beach.

How times have changed!

There is at least one thing, however, that hasn’t changed. Old Pattiammal and Muniam­mal still walk the sands with silver tipped wands in their hands, searching for customers.

They still wear their big, bright, gold nose studs and gold-rimmed glasses and carry handbags woven from plastic wire.

And they still sing the tune of their trade with their sibilant pronunciation of its name. “Sosiyam paarungeh sosiyam... kai rake, sosiyam!’ (roughly: check your fortunes. Have your horoscope read, have your palm seen).