In many cases, they also act as a bridge between home bakers who may lack reach and customers in far-flung areas. Given the informal nature of this industry, there have been several attempts to regulate choon paan vans over the years. In 2017, driven partially by irate neighborhood associations, the Sri Lankan government banned tunes played above a certain decibel level. (The regulation was part of a wider attempt to control the large number of three-wheel vehicles operating in the country.)
But four years later, the months-long curfews imposed by the Sri Lankan government to prevent the spread of COVID-19 offered them an unexpected lease of life. While government-sponsored mobile vans delivered other groceries such as grains, fruits, and vegetables, choon paan vans were mobilized to supply bread. As author Rukshani Weerasooriya Wijemanne describes it, this quotidian phenomenon suddenly acquired “a frisson of anticipation during those stifling months.”
“At first, even the choon paan man’s appearance was random and sporadic,” she says. “But it was never unannounced. We’d hear [the van] belt out Beethoven’s Für Elise from blocks away, and be ready with small change, our faces pasted to the inside of our windows until we saw him turn our corner.”
Inspired by the effect that the choon paan van’s arrival had on her young children during COVID-19 lockdowns, Wijemanne wrote Mr Choon Paan — A Sri Lankan Christmas Legend, an illustrated children’s book that celebrates this “unlikely hero.”
“[Children in Sri Lanka] needed something to hold on to, and rely on,” she says. “They needed a constant. And the fact is, they already had one—they just needed to be reminded of it. No matter what went on, the choon paan man magically showed up at their doorstep, and his freshly baked gnanakatha (a crumbly sugar biscuit) and kimbula banis sustained them, and filled their hearts like little else could. The choon paan man unwittingly saw whole communities through.”
In 2022, the country experienced what is being called its worst economic crisis in history, leading to record levels of inflation and a sharp increase in the cost of most essentials, but especially imported ingredients such as flour. Coupled with crippling fuel shortages, the economic crisis has affected every rung of society—including the livelihood of choon paan drivers. “Demand fell during the crisis and we lost customers,” says 31-year-old Chanaka Sampath, a choon paan driver who operates a rented tuk-tuk in suburban Colombo, serving nearly 150 homes daily. It’s a client base that he has built over the last six years. But for clients like Wijemanne’s kids, this feature of everyday life has become suffused with additional meaning. In fact, during COVID-19 it became the highlight of their day.
“The sound of the choon paan man, at the time, signaled life on earth,” says Wijemanne. “It would light them up. It reminded them that all was not lost.”
While the aftershocks from the economic crisis continue to reverberate across Sri Lanka, there is a poignancy attached to the slow return of Beethoven’s Für Elise to the streets. The sight—and smell—of bread exudes an emotive power that is universally appreciated. But in Sri Lanka, a country that has withstood immense upheaval, paan is sustenance—and the choon paan van, an unlikely symbol of surviving against the odds.
