I was never a huge fan of paan. But when I landed in Varanasi, I could not help but try the delicacy immortalised in history, folklore and, of course, Bollywood. Paan also holds a Geographical Indication (GI) tag, and my curiosity—and the internet’s rabbit holes—eventually brought me to GI application number 730. That is the application for Banaras Paan. But the story goes back much further. In a 1961 journal, a one-page piece on the “Paan of Benaras” described it as the city’s “Pride of Place”.
There is, however, a small distinction in that description. The article points out that “Banarasi paan” is something of a misnomer: people in the city use what they call Desi paan, distinguishing it from leaves brought in from Faizabad and Mirapur, as well as from varieties produced elsewhere, such as Jagannathi paan from Odisha and Calcuttai paan from Bengal.
It Starts With A Leaf
There are few things as closely tied to the idea of Banaras as paan. You encounter it almost anywhere in the city: folded into a neat triangle at a paan stall, prepared with a quick flick of the wrist, or tucked into a small box to be carried home. In Banaras, paan is not simply something to chew after a meal. It belongs to the city’s everyday vocabulary of hospitality, celebration and ritual. Hundreds of small stalls can be found across the city, where paanwalas prepare bidas—triangularly folded leaves filled with areca nuts and other ingredients.
But what exactly makes a paan Banarasi? The answer begins not at the paan shop but much earlier, with a leaf. The Hindi word paan itself comes from the Sanskrit parna, meaning leaf, while vida, another old term for the prepared quid, survives in the everyday word beeda.
The leaf has been part of Indian food and social practices for centuries. The GI application traces references to betel chewing in the Charaka and Sushruta Samhitas and other early texts, while Abul Fazl’s Ain-i-Akbari describes several varieties and cultivation practices during Akbar’s reign.
A Leaf With Its Own Character
The leaf itself has a personality – a shade-loving perennial vine that thrives in warm, humid conditions. Its leaves can range from yellowish green to dark green, with a glossy surface, while their aroma and taste can move from sweet to pungent because of their essential oils. It is this combination of appearance, aroma and taste that makes the leaf more than just a wrapper for what goes inside it.
And growing it is hardly a matter of planting a vine and waiting. In Varanasi, the plants are cultivated inside structures known as barejas. Think of them as carefully constructed, thatched conservatories made from bamboo, straw, jute, sticks and grasses. Their purpose is simple but important: the tender vines need protection from the extremes of Varanasi’s weather. The thick thatching blocks much of the summer sunlight; it is reduced during the monsoon, when conditions are more favourable, and increased again as winter approaches.
Inside the bareja, evaporation helps maintain humidity while the shade moderates temperature. The vines are supported on bamboo or sarkanda sticks, watered carefully and regularly tended. The plant is particularly sensitive to stagnant water, while too much irrigation can cause root decay and leaves to fall. Harvesting begins around six months after planting, and mature leaves are picked by hand throughout the year, with more frequent harvesting during the rainy season.
The Journey To Paan Dariba
In Chaitganj, Paan Dariba is the centre of the trade. The market is not merely a place where leaves are bought and sold; it is where an elaborate chain of farmers, traders, warehouses, processors, wholesalers and paan sellers converges. Research on Varanasi’s paan economy found that more than ten types of leaves from different parts of North India were traded there, with production also coming from states including Odisha, West Bengal, Bihar and Madhya Pradesh.
Taste, maturity, appearance and smoothness all influence how leaves are valued. Some leaves undergo another transformation in Varanasi. After being sorted by quality, they are placed in baskets and taken into heating chambers, where they are exposed to temperatures of around 70°C for roughly 20 hours.
The process gives the leaves a lighter appearance, alters their taste and, importantly for the trade, extends their storage life to around six months. Leaves that remain green may be sent through the chamber again. Processed leaves consequently command a higher price than the raw material.
The trade has its own social architecture. Cultivation, processing and selling around Paan Dariba used to be closely associated with the Chaurasia, or Barai, community. The Sri Barai Sabha, Kashi, established in the early 1950s, helped organise the trade around the Paan Dariba building, which was constructed in 1952. So finally, after the leaf has been grown under straw, picked by hand, sorted, transported, sometimes processed and finally selected, it reaches the paanwala.
Before you leave, probably with a paan tucked into your cheek, there is one last detail in that GI application worth knowing. The GI tag is for the paan leaf itself, not the finished paan. It recognises the leaf for the qualities associated with its regional cultivation—its texture, pungency and aroma—rather than the beeda that eventually appears at the paan stall. The gulkand, areca nut, slaked lime and spices come later, when the paanwala puts everything together. So while the GI belongs to the leaf, the paan you eat is the final chapter of a much longer story.
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