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I am a writer. I began by writing the world's shortest short stories.Each no longer than two lines:one on the cover, one inside.(Birthday cards for pals in school;-). Then I wrote slightly longer stories in the ad agency JWT. These stories lasted 30 whole seconds. After 30 years of having the time of my life, I quit, to write even longer stories. Travel Stories, reviewing eco-friendly hotels for Traveltocare.com. (That's free travel, free stay, free food.) And then I wrote something really really long. An entire Book. It's called "Don't Go Away, We'll Be Right Back: The Oops and Downs of Advertising". And now, another one. "Runaway Writers". It's about a Ghost Tweet Writer, and therefore has about 140 characters in it. (I mean the people, not the length of the book...:-)

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Monday, November 26, 2012

[Firstpost]- South meets North: Chennai weddings turn over a new leaf

If you are good at film trivia, you’ll recall that a certain Shekhar Subramaniam, video game inventor, stirred up emotions when he stirred curds into his noodles. Curds in noodles?? That’s atrocious! At the most some may add a dash of sambar powder while cooking noodles, but this is a wrong and unfair depiction of South Indian food preferences by Bollywood, protested many film goers... And with that SRK’s Ra One box office earnings may have suffered a bit in Chennai.
Yet fusion food, (or should that be confusion food) is drawing the crowds to rave reviews in halls everywhere. I mean wedding halls, not cinema halls. I have just returned from a grand wedding reception myself, and have witnessed a kind of national integration through food. On my large Melamine plate, (but it had a banana leaf pattern on it), Karnataka’s bisi bele bhat mixed readily with Punjab’s paneer makhani; and Andhra’s pesarattu flirted with Maharashtra’s shrikhand; while a colourful Kashmiripulao found compatibility with Kerala’s avial. What’s more, some declared the bakedmacaroni au gratin to be a fine accompaniment for the puris, even as it added a dose of the international…

From the puliodharai to the pachidi to the pooshnikai kozhambu to the pal payasam, this was Tamilian food at its authentic best.
Now before Chennai food purists start throwing idlis at me in protest, let me hasten to add that all was normal and perfect in the morning wedding session when we sat down for a traditional lunch served on banana leaves. Ah! Absolutely nothing like our South Indian wedding food, we declared. From thepuliodharai to the pachidi to the pooshnikai kozhambu to the pal payasam, this was Tamilian food at its authentic best.
Served to us by ‘Mountbatten Mani’ catering service (any avid wedding attender in Chennai would know that this legendary cook earned his nickname by once pleasing Lord Mountbatten himself with a delicious badam halwa…and his family continues the legacy).
But my cousin Balu sitting next to me at the lunch wasn’t as happy as I was. Apparently at his sister’s wedding, they had a far more innovative chef who had served tomato soup rather than rasam, and a gupta curry (I think he meant kofta curry) to go with mini pancakes. Yes, pancakes.
Anyway, coming back to the reception…just as the bride and groom turned up in a glittering ghagra choli and sherwani (Karan Johar’s dramatic influence on wedding reception costumery); the fare too was designed to embrace new trends. But before we gave in to our food cravings, we stopped to admire the food carvings. Displayed at the entrance were carrots sculpted into popular goddesses, rising proudly from pink lotuses that were shaped out of water melons. And holy macaroni. There was even a Ganesha made from a variety of pasta pieces, artistically glued together.
All around the hall colourful canopies served different cuisines. But we were frequently interrupted from reaching them by several men in green pointy hats: these were specially costumed servers who leapt before us every three minutes, compelling us to try an array of finger foods; including mini idlis decorated with carrot gratings.
Then we jostled with a thousand guests, piling on eagerly from stall to canopied stall. Now why didn’t somebody tell us earlier that there was a chaat stall too? We would have held back on the puran polis and gulped gol guppas instead…
Finally smiling hostess ladies with identical blue and gold saris showed us the way to the dinner’s finale; where even the diabetic-prone said, what the heck, and fought sweet tooth and nail in the scramble for desserts.
Next week I am going to a North Indian wedding. I am heading straight to the chaatstall first this time. But I do hope it’s not the North-meets-South kind of surprise …I’m not sure if I am going to like gol guppas with rasam inside, however innovative that may be.

This article was featured on http://www.firstpost.com/blogs/south-meets-north-chennai-weddings-turn-over-a-new-leaf-535866.html
Email: indubee8@yahoo.co.in

Monday, October 29, 2012

[Firstpost] Mustafa Centre: How India dug its feet into Singapore


Last week, I decided I need a break from Chennai.  So I bought some air tickets, got myself a visa, packed a few Indian essentials I can’t do without, and flew for four hours. And landed in Chennai.
Yes la, I did. And you’ve guessed where I am now, la.  InSingapore.  In a humungous shopping mall called Mustafa Centre, in Little India.
I could well be right in the middle of my own city, what with the jabber of Tamil shoppers all around me, Tamil salesgirls discussing the sambar and porial they made last night, and a packet of shundakai in the shelf before me to make a typical Tamilian dish. (Hey, I must remember to take this condiment back; I had trouble finding it in my store in Chennai recently...)
Ok, there’s also the jabber of Hindi and Kannada and Chinese  and Japanese and Telegu and Malayalam and many more ands, but with several shelves carrying Tamil signages, I felt I was in Pondy Bazaar back home.
Mustafa Centre in Singapore. Image courtesy: Indu Balachandran.
There are strong reasons why Mustafa Centre is a must-do tourist stop for many Indians, usually brought here by their eager, helpful relatives living in Singapore. You get just about everything here—all at cheaper rates. I mean even a stethoscope. I swear a friend of mine saw one on sale. And should a visiting doctor feel a need to go bargain hunting at say 3 am, he can set off at once to Mustafa, as this 24 hr shop never ever closes.
Your host relative may also tell you about the remarkable founder of Mustafa, Mustaq Ahmed who came to Singapore in 1957 at age 6, (from Uttar Pradesh, not Tamil Nadu as popularly believed by proud Tamilians). Mustaq, at 7, helped expand his dad’s pushcart business of tea and snacks for Indian locals, by selling handkerchiefs alongside—all bought with his own pocket money.
His remarkable entrepreneurship gradually helped buy  up space after space along adjoining streets in Little India. And that’s how he took a small family business consisting of a cart with four wheels in the 50s, to a textile shop of 500sq ft, to the gigantic mall of 150,000 sq ft that it is today. Selling over 150,000 types of merchandise... it’s enough to make you pause and take a deep breath; something I had to do often as I walked the endless aisles. (Good time to buy that stethoscope).
This was also a good time to feel extremely silly about the Indian condiments I had bought from Murugan Stores in Chennai, for some of my Indian pals in Singapore, thinking they’d be so delighted by my thoughtfulness.
You may also hear this phrase “Mustafa The Leveller” by people in Singapore... as you can spot the humble Indian construction worker from Gumidipundi, shopping here; to even the CEO of a large multinational (perhaps in disguise though) walking along these aisles. Thinking, why spend an extra buck for my monthly provisions, my electronic equipment, my cosmetics... and not forgetting, that kitchen sink?
But for the uninitiated, Mustafa can be quite daunting at first. In a pattern of reckless logic, handbags are placed near detergents. And if you’re buying breakfast items, note that after you pick up bread, eggs are just a mile’s walk away (or so it seemed to me) in the other end of store.
My daughter who lives here, and who seems to have done a post doctoral thesis on Mustafa, knows exactly what’s where; and knows that dal is kept at an intriguing distance from rice; and can also advise committed Tam Brahms like me how to navigate the store to pick up vegetables without passing what seems like a large indoor zoo: only the animals here are all in their underwear, willing to be eaten.
Incidentally here’s my own piece of advice on Mustafa, in case you too are visiting Singapore soon. If you’d like to avoid crowds, try not to come here during peak shopping months, which runs from October to the following October.
This article was featured on http://www.firstpost.com/living/mustafa-centre-how-india-dug-its-feet-into-singapore-506437.html

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

[Firstpost] Now it’s time for Tamil-Shamil, starring Sri Deva…

After the phenomenal success of English-Vinglish, I am thinking of writing a screenplay for a film called 'Tamil-Shamil', starring Sri Deva (my city Chennai’s own dancing wonder). Producers, who may well include Prabhu Deva himself, may please form an orderly queue outside my house, in case they want to sign me up.
I have lived in Chennai from the days we were technically correctly, but politically incorrectly, called Madrasis, and have seen Naarth Indians of every hue (mostly fair) coming to live in our state. And struggling to understand or speak Tamil. I’ve made lots of observations about how they have adapted to, and adopted our city. Enough to make a mother-tongue-in-cheek story about my city’s language today. So here are some thoughts, even as I ponder over what to include in my script…
Many years ago, some Shiv Sena types caused simmering resentment by calling all South Indians ‘yendu-gundu wallas’—though no Southie worth his filter coffee knows what the hell that means. Meanwhile our city developed its Madras Bashai-- you know what bashai means of course, but it’s also an indication of how we bashed around a bit with words from other states; and soon even our Kollywood ‘caamedy pichers’ were full of new words like ‘bejaar!’ and ‘maja!’ and ‘naashta’ and ‘dum’ …(even as anti-Hindi agitators were burning down a bus or two in the streets).
Many years ago, some Shiv Sena types caused simmering resentment by calling all South Indians ‘yendu-gundu wallas’—though no Southie worth his filter coffee knows what the hell that means. AFP
One thing for sure: the script for 'Tamil-Shamil' will definitely depict the amazing way Dilli-wallahs come well prepared for a transfer to Chennai. Many arrive having already learnt their first sentence in Tamil! So essentially for that one most important thing you need to have in life in India: a maid. So on Day 1 in Chennai, they are ready to interview prospects with this Tamil sentence: “English Teri Ma?” No, that doesn’t have anything to do with a maid’s British parentage, but is an easy handle for the Hindi speaker to remember how to say “do you know English?” (I know of an enterprising maid, Nagamma, who landed a job at once by answering,”Little little malum, Madam”.)
Alas! For many pals of mine, the attempt to master Tamil has ended with that one sentence. Till something like a ‘Why this kolaveri, di?” hits our entire country. “What a funny song! Even our Bunty sang it for the Delhi Public School kindergarten entrance exam. But can you find out ki uska matlab kya hai?” So have asked curious relatives of the Northerners settled in our city. I have tried to explain to them: ‘kola means murderous, and veri means rage’. But I bet these curious people have forgotten this already, just as we have no idea what on earth 'Gangnam style' means…who cares anyway? Just sing it, and dance it, brether.
My script will have a starring role for Lucknowis like my pal Vibha who has a simple way of turning English into Tamil—with just one letter, ‘a’. If the driver arrives late, for work she asks. “Why late-a?” If she gives him instructions to her beauty parlour, she says,”Go straight-a”. It immediately sounds so Tamil to her, she says. Correct-a.
And I must remember to put in some posh characters who speak Tamil with a fake Westernised accent…it’s a warning to such people that they may be secretly nicknamed a Peter or Peter-u, or a Mary, as in, who-do-they-think-they-are, England-born rascals-a?
I will also put in my script, characters like my pal Manoj Berry, who came on a transfer from our Chandigarh office to Chennai. We had asked him to land up for a welcome drink at Connemara (from the auto man he smartly learnt to say ‘kanni-mera ‘otel’ for future use). Sitting at the bar, it took a long time for Manoj’s order to arrive, so he said to a passing waiter, “Drink! Seekram seekram!” Which we all knew meant “Quick! Hurry up my drink!”. Wow, we marveled, Manoj has picked up Tamil already! What a rare Punjabi! Till we realised that Manoj was merely reminding the waiter of his drink order, Seagram whisky.
And now I hear a Bengali girl acting as a Maharashtrian babe in a Hindi film is also trying out her Tamil in a new film. Aiyyaa, with the wildest Tamil word innovation since the British named our appalam, poppadom. The hit song is called Dreamum Wakeuppam Critical Conditionum.
Aiyyaiyo! But then our Prabhu Deva will easily beat that one with a gaana-paatu and a dhool number along with a new gilfans heroine with a semma figureu, machi. To figure that one out, do see Tamil-Shamil some day.
This article was featured on http://www.firstpost.com/blogs/now-its-time-for-tamil-shamil-starring-sri-deva-492170.html

Friday, October 5, 2012

[Firstpost] In Chennai, we have our gold and eat it too

In September, Chennai’s gold prices touched an alarming new high at Rs 3265 per gram. While that news may have been hard to swallow, many Chennaiites seemed prepared to swallow the metal itself— in the form of a Gold Aappam, a fancy food innovation launched by Nalas Aappakadai in our city.
Yes, there’s real 24 carat gold in them thar rice-flour hoppers. And if you are willing to pay Rs 499 a plate, your Gold Aappam will arrive with 100 mg of pure gold flakes sprinkled all over, giving your dish a sparkling luxurious sheen.

Picture courtesy Nalas Aappakadai
Intrigued by an ad in the papers, I set off to this popular food stop in T’Nagar’s ever-crowded Pondy Bazaar. As I waited to see the incredible edible golden wonder, I chatted with Mr Ramesh the restaurant’s MD. And I hear that it’s not just for the wealthy, but for the healthy too. Of course one has heard of the curative effects of gold in Siddha and Ayurvedic medicines, and its age-old use as a detoxifier and rejuvenator. So, swallowing gold with this aappam was going to do no harm, in fact perhaps some good too. But I am told not to over-indulge myself (!) and to allow at least a week’s gap between eating one gold aappam and the next.
I am shown a tiny plastic box with pretty little bright yellow flecks: 100 mg of pure edible gold: the exact amount that will get into a single aappam. This itself costs the owners about Rs 450; so on second thoughts, aappam + 3 side dishes + dessert at Rs 499 a pop suddenly seemed like a reckless indulgence by the restaurateurs, not the curious diner!
My gold aappam arrives. Diners in the next table peer to catch a glimpse of it. Well it certainly looks sensational. Tiny sparkles all over the most perfectly made aappam I have ever seen. The generous accompaniments –vegetable stew, ulli theeyal, kadalai curry (mutton curry, fish/chicken fry curry, if you are a non-vegetarian), plus a complimentary juice and fruit salad thrown in— make this a full meal in itself.
“We had 20 orders on the very first day, and on an average now, we sell about 10 plates every day,” says Ramesh, the shop’s MD.
I take my first gilded mouthful. Hmmm. The gold adds a feeling rather than a flavour. It’s delicious anyway, so I smile and nod…(mainly for the benefit of the family in the next table staring at me for a reaction).
After that unusual meal, I step outside to find that I’m only a gemstone’s throw away from Chennai’s bustling gold haven –Usman Road—where thousands flock everyday, fuelled by a gold obsession that’s hardwired in our DNA. There are 64 listed shops you can buy gold jewellery from in this street alone! Gold is in the air here… and, apparently on the pavements too.
I recall an interesting picture essay on Chennai in National Geographic recently, where an American photo-journalist Randy Olson writes about a bunch of women sweepers who turn up well before dawn to ‘pan’ for gold flakes amidst garbage every day— outside every leading gold ornament shop on Usman Road! They do this in stealth before the garbage collectors arrive—and lucky ones end up getting a gram of gold a week, sifting minute particles from trash in the streets.
No worries that any such ‘wastage’ flakes ever gets back to the consumer: in this case, the aappam consumer. What I had was gold in a pure edible form, not the type that makes ornaments.
Walking back to my car, I hoped the gold I swallowed would do its health-enhancing bit… It had many choices: it could improve my complexion or make my heart function better or make my brain sharper or guard me against a lung disorder. Or increase my longevity: a useful immunity to have as I nearly get run over by the manic evening traffic on the road…
Meanwhile, I hear there’s a dosa innovation in Bangalore whose ‘masala’ is real gold too, and priced at Rs 1100 a plate. National Geographic is right, we are indeed gold-hungry Indians.

This article also appeared on http://www.firstpost.com/living/in-chennai-we-have-our-gold-and-eat-it-too-480503.html

Thursday, September 20, 2012

[Firstpost] Talking the walk in Chennai

Early this morning on Boat Club Road in Chennai, I had a dangerous head-on collision…with a walker. Luckily for him, there was no cop around or I’d have had him booked for rash and negligent walking.
I blame it all on The Madras Week held in August that encouraged a lot of us Chennaiites to join the Madras Heritage Walks conducted all over town— from the Fort St George walkabout where the Brits first empired us, to the Old Theatres of Madras tour, where Kollywood first mesmerised us.
Well, a consequence of this Walks exercise was: many citizens discovered that getting up early for a pre-breakfast perambulation is a fine way to gain knowledge, while losing weight— and that’s why there’s such a traffic jam of feet early in the morning these days.
Image courtesy Indu Balachandran
My own motivations for walking began when I moved close to the most expensive real estate area in Chennai: Boat Club Road, with its lush, tree-lined avenues. I live on the road leading up to these hallowed grounds, in Pasumpon Muthuramalinga Thevar Street (though no posh Boat Club type will ever call it that, preferring its old colonial name, Chamiers Road). So one fine morning, I decided to check out this walker’s paradise.
Oh wow. I was constantly slowing down to gaze at the mansions I was walking past…this is where the truly well-heeled of the city live. But the flat-sneakered feet of the hoi polloi were the ones happily walking in droves in this premium neighbourhood; lowering cholesterol counts or increasing their metabolic rates here—all for free. Alas for the Privileged of Boat Club Road! They now had to walk their daily mile on fancy tread-mills in their own private gyms installed within their mansions, “as the roads outside our house…oh god, they’re getting so crowded with all sorts of riff-raff walking about these days…”
Well I quickly became a regular riff or a raff myself, not so much for the walk itself, but for the talk. Ah the joys of eavesdropping! Quite like the running commentary of the Heritage Walks, I was getting a free audio guide to the houses of Chennai’s rich and powerful and famous. “The Brothers live here,” I learnt from a gossipy gent, who pointed to a massive fortress of a residence, to his visiting relatives. Lucky Brothers, he went on… they escaped the fate of their half-cousin, the poet-lady who languished inTihar jail for months… It was easy guessing that he was referring to the 2G Spectrum-scandal-tainted brothers, and the nationally televised CBI raid on this very house a year ago.
With growing awe, I passed the splendid homes of head honchos of Chennai’s best-known industrial families. So this is where the scions of the Murugappa group return each evening. Chettinad pillared porches, old-world Tamil Nadu grandeur…as I could glimpse from the open gate. Further on I discovered the bungalow of TVS Motors’ 2- wheeler magnate—though I’m sure it’s a plush 4-wheeler that drives this CEO back home every day: could it be one of the Rolls Royces or Lamborighinis I sometimes see cruising about the locality? Or perhaps those wheels belong to another famous local entrepreneur living here: the CMD of MRF Tyres.
Walking on, I saw where the big drivers of our trucking industry live, the opulent Ashok Leyland villas. If you can judge a home by its wall, that is.
Well, the next big-wig dwelling I discovered was certainly built with India Cements…as I learnt that a certain nationally recognized, high profile Chennai personality retires (unhurt) here each night, after settling multi-crore business deals. The business of Cricket, of course…
But hey, what about the new Social Celebs, who have somehow managed to obtain an address here too amongst the old-wealth bungalows of Boat Club Road, in one of the few swish high-rises here? Well, that’s another storey…
Now all this has given me a great idea for moonlighting—or should that be sun rising… If anybody wants to go on a gossip-enhanced early morning Celebrity Street Tour while in Chennai, just walk along with me.


This article was featured on http://www.firstpost.com/blogs/talking-the-walk-in-chennai-462200.html

Sunday, September 9, 2012

Taxing times! In Sunday Hindu...


TDS… and other tedious matters

INDU BALACHANDRAN
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Intaxification, detaxification and other middle-class miseries of August… INDU BALACHANDRAN
Now that two thirds of the year is over, it’s time to see if that highly original and brilliantly-worded sms that hundreds of caring people sent you on January 1— “Wishing you a prosperous NEW YEAR!” — is working or not.
And for those prosperous ones who stretched filing their tax returns to that last frantic hour of August (“Now where did I keep that TDS statement? And my LIC receipt?”), you are now also probably thinking twice about craving for more income, considering the outcome.
Not a good start
I decided to do a short survey with some of my friends and check the after-effects of painful annual rituals like filing taxes. “Hey Jaggu! Shall we chat over a bite at Pizza Hut today?” I asked.
“Sure,” said Jaggu. “I can easily afford a bite there, as I have 25 bucks in my wallet. But you’ll have to eat and pay for the remaining four bites of that sandwich.”
Well. I didn’t know Jaggu was having it this bad. So then I tried my pal Parvati who I often bump into walking on Boat Club Road. “Hey! Just wanted to chat a bit. I’m generally finding out about money and filing taxes and stuff …”
Not funny
“Wait. Is this for one of your heartless articles making fun of our middle-class miseries?”
“Er…not exactly, but even if I do, I swear I’ll change your name,” I reassured her. “Well, you can change my name from Parvati to Poverty if you like… my auditor found new ways to show I owe the Government several more thousands than last year.” She stormed away at a faster trot. But then that’s good for her leg muscles I thought, in case she felt like kicking her auditor.
I walked on, and met a more cheerful friend. “Hi Jana! Filed your returns? Just gathering some thoughts for an article…” I said. “Well I’ve paid my usual lakhs and lakhs, but looks like many others haven’t. Just see the state of this road after one big downpour; our poor Government has no money left to maintain them, after maintaining only the roads leading up to their own mansions…” Jana viciously kicked a stone into a pothole; maybe I’d spoilt his nice mood here.
Market pulse
Someone suggested I check out a swish shopping mall to see what the atmosphere was like out there. What with newspapers announcing a million August Sales, shoppers must be so happy that with less money in their wallets, they would save precious money on each purchase. Well a Shopping Maul is what I saw. They were out in hundreds, raiding the shops for bargains. Many delirious people were buying five-for-the-price-of-three, when all they set out to buy that day was, say, just one new pair of discounted sun-glasses.
Well, despite no discounts whatsoever at the food courts, it was jam packed with people. The same ones who’d yell at the vegetable- wallah for raising the price of a kilo of onions from Rs. 10 to 12, were so readily paying Rs. 75 for an onion dosa . I suddenly spotted my ex-colleague Niloy sitting at a table, who waved to me to join him. “So what human trauma have you come to observe here and make fun of…” asked Niloy.
“Well, it’s the post-August mood of people, especially after filing their tax returns”, I confessed.
Niloy broke into a huge grin. “Well I have no complaints! Right now I actually love the IT people!” he said, biting into a large burger. “They recently sent me a refund for Rs. 7870!! Just like that! Sit down, I’ll treat you to a pizza.”
At last! A person who actually smiled at the mention of the words Income Tax. But then my good friend was merely enjoying that temporary feeling of euphoria called “intaxification”. That exhilarating high when we get unexpected money… Till we realise it was ours anyway, in the first place.
E-mail: indubee8@yahoo.co.in

It all began in Chennai vonly...(on firstpost.com)


Sridevi’s English-vinglish can thank Chennai

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Sridevi, one of Chennai’s famous residents, will shortly be regaling us with her English-Vinglish on the big screen. This is also a proud reminder that we Chennaiites, or rather Madrasis, got a headstart in learning the King’s language before the rest of India.
At our recently concluded Madras Week celebrations, we recalled that it was here in Madras, 373 years ago, that the British got serious about their empiring in India—setting up the East India Company in Fort St George near the shore. And just as the Viceroy’s men stole some local delicacies and made it theirs — like rasam or milagu thani which they fancily rechristened as ‘mullagtawny soup’— it was only fair that the Madrasis stole and popularised English foods in India.
Image courtesy: Paul Fernandes
Like “Bred-Butter-Armlet” (said as one word, mind it), that is still displayed at many a roadside shack, catering to the continental preferences of our auto-drivers.
But when it comes to our unabashed bashing of English phonetics, we Chennaiites really have our mothers to blame. Well, our mother tongue actually. Because when baby Tamilians learn the Tamil alphabet from their ammas, they find that one particular letter pronounced ‘pa’, could well be ‘pa’ or ‘ba’ or even ‘fa’. So if a jolly waiter in a Chennai hotel asks if you’d like some Jabadhi, (as written on their menu) do say a hasty ‘No’ and stick to dosas. That mysterious dish is actually the humble chapatti, pronounced and spelt the Tamil way…with our knack for liberally adding wherever possible, the letter ‘h’ (pronouncedyech, of course). In fact for our Southern purists, Hindi never quite sounds like Hindi, unless you spell it as Hindhi.
For further evidence that the true-blue Tamil speaker readily substitutes a pa phonetic for a fa –there’s this intriguing item I used to see in the Today’s Special board outside a Naarth Indian restaurant : Malai Gupta. (But just for the benefit of doubt, maybe it was a kofta dish whose secret recipe was handed down from the Gupta dynasty…)
Some time ago my cousin Raju from the US (who is –what else?– a brainy techy Tamilian working for Google) came on a visit to Chennai. Tired of American supersized hamburgers, Raju felt like gorging on Indian fast food for a change. So we set off in my car, and crawled through the by-lanes of Mylapore looking for a good place serving quick ready-meals. “Oh my god, and what’s that!” exclaimed Raju suddenly. I looked up at the signboard he was pointing to: “Kailash Restorant. Hot Mutton Pups daily”.
Image: Paul Fernandes
Now animal rights activists may well be alarmed wondering if this is how Chennai’s corporation deals with the stray dog menace. Not to worry: the hotel owner was merely advertising “Mutton Puffs”—pronounced and written the Tamil way. (Neither was Mutton Pups a smaller portion of the desi Hot Dog…).
And while on the subject of dogs, we also fervently hoped that “Paw Bhaji” on the menu had nothing to do with a poor doggy’s feet.
By the time we’d finished, Raju had had quite a bellyful –of chuckles as well as idli-vadai-sambar. So walking a few streets away to the car was welcome. Those narrow eating streets had room only for pedestrians and cyclists, and even had this firm notice at the beginning, for the hungry truck driver:
‘No entry for Larry.’
And just as my cousin Raju was wondering if that tiny belly-ache setting in was from overeating or laughing, we saw this painted notice that completely over-turned my explanation that a true-blue Tamilian cannot say F words: CAR NO FARKING.