[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

[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

[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