I should consider renaming the previous post “A Madrasman in the suburbs of Mumbai”. The suburbs are hot, crowded, filthy, dusty and full of flyovers. South Bombay is more cooler and hospitable because it is close to the sea, and also because only the filthy rich can afford to stay here. People who talk about the culture and life of Mumbai, generally talk of this area.

The place is colourful and has all the great eateries. Uber-posh hotels like the Taj Mahal Palace rub shoulders with cheap roadside eateries such as Bagdadi and Olympia Coffee house. One has access to a variety of cuisine – Gomantak, Parsi, Kerala, Mughal and what not. The Noor Mohammadi hotel under the J.J Flyover is the meat eater’s paradise. The kebabs and gravies at throwaway prices here are enough to make you keep visiting the place again and again.
The city also has places like the Blue Frog – a posh restobar which is well known for its patronage of music lovers. Also, they let you in for free and don’t mind if you politely refuse their menu which is a 100s multiplication table in disguise. I managed to spend about three hours here without spending a rupee. The city is clearly for all classes of people.

Since eating is our chief pastime, we haven’t done much else and as a result, I’ve run out of things to say. I guess the cheap food makes up for the outrageously priced movie tickets here compared to what it is back home.
Cheers!

The festivities usually begin the previous evening with everybody invited for some socializing. While the Punjabis socialize with liquor and Tandoori chicken, we sit around and make people uncomfortable by asking them to sing and dance on stage. After much reluctance, the selected performers, then proceed to make the listeners uncomfortable by rendering bhajans which share chords with coconut grating. Konkanis haven’t heard of bachelor parties. The groom generally crashes early mentally preparing himself for what awaits the next day.

On the day of the grand finale, everybody has to wake up early for what is called the ‘Urada Muhurt‘ which I think involves mucking around with Urad dal. This was when games used to start when I was a kid, and of late, I generally miss this ceremony because it is too early and make an appearance only for lunch.

The groom draws the short straw at weddings since he has to sit with the smoke in his eyes the whole day while the bride can make a detour to the beauty parlour in between her thirty-two saree changes. I’m no expert on what really goes on, but I do know that on one of the occasions when the bride briefly visits the mantap, the priest takes off his dhoti and holds it in between the bride and groom so that they can’t see each other. At least, that is what I used to think when I was a kid. Apparently, he uses a spare.

The father of the bride has a rather busy day, and walks around with a bag of cash under his arm. The only time he keeps this down is when he has to lift his daughter from one plantain leaf to another. The mother just tags along with her husband doing whatever the priest tells her to do. The best seat at the wedding is that of the ollo, a chap of about five, who is assigned the duty of sitting with the groom to provide him company. While this takes away the boy’s running-around privileges, he gets to earn a bit of money by way of dakshina and also stuff his face with sweets. Asking the ollo how much he has made is how other members of the audience pass time while waiting for lunch.

Lunch is eagerly awaited. It is usually served on a plantain leaf and has a variety of Konkani delicacies like valval, ghassi and whatnot. The reputation of the wedding depends on lunch, mainly because people have been made to wait so long for it. The only people who don’t get to enjoy lunch all that much are the bride and the groom who are busy prostrating in front of 200 odd relatives who have already had their fill. This is usually the time when the couple curse their grandparents for having too many children. Festivities cease after this and the bride is whisked way by the photographer to pose for the album. After a few family pictures, everybody disperses.

The bride is further subjected to various rituals once she gets to the groom’s house, but that is another story. Or not one at all, since my usual post-wedding-lunch plans mainly revolve around a siesta.

Cheers!

Mumbai has only flyovers. Chembur, Sion, Bandra, Andheri are all names of flyovers. Either side of the flyover is rather unimaginatively named East and West. Also, transit time from East to West via Frankfurt is quickest according to several friends I met there. The only spaces which aren’t flyovers are railway stations. Yes, Mumbai has a metro train system. Unlike MRTS, it runs on the ground, because all the space in the sky is taken up by the flyovers. Every train has a quota system. Only 10% of the entire populace of the city is allowed on one train. This means every metro train coach makes a can of sardines look like a presidential suite.

While these people aren’t travelling by train, they’re squeezing into the tiny gaps between the flyovers. This makes Mumbai look like Ranganathan street on steroids.I saw a queue outside CST which I mistook to be one for people waiting for their rations. Turned out they were waiting to take taxis. Also, these taxis have a weird contraption called a meter. Apparently you need to pay only whatever it displays at the end of the ride. I suppose the taxi drivers find haggling a bit tedious. They return change even if it is only a rupee or two. Also, these people have a habit of painting any random car on the road black and yellow and calling it a taxi. I saw Ecco taxis, Santro taxis, WagonR taxis. If I’d hung around a bit longer I’m sure I’d have spotted a donkey painted black and yellow.

Mumbai has this overgrown Napier bridge which they call the Sea link. Looks pretty at night, but it is basically Kamarajar Salai on stilts (remember their passion for structures in the sky). Also, you don’t have to pay Rs.50 to visit Marina Beach. I managed to visit Leopold Cafe where they charge Rs.30 for a pair of boiled eggs. Mr.Leopold should have visited Burma Bazaar to have Athouk.

I was only in Mumbai for a couple of days most of which I spent at my friend’s place. The only thing different about his house compared to a house in Madras was this weird contraption on the commode which was a hands free version of the jet. Also, since all the houses look the same in Mumbai, people’s addresses include “A green bicycle parked near the staircase”. These people have never heard of cross streets and main roads.

All said and done, a visit to Mumbai is like a trip to the zoo. Good for a visit, but you can’t live there. You don’t fancy living on a flyover do you?

Cheers!

A Madrasman is puzzled by the lack of public transport in Goa. While it is only second nature for Madrasman to hop onto a 29C to visit Nungambakkam, in Goa, he has to first locate a bus-stand which is likely to be in a radius of 5 miles from wherever he is. Once a the bus-stand, he has to make sense out of the cryptic logic on the bus boards which surprisingly are the same whether they are going to or returning from a destination. And the fact that the bus-stand is halfway from starting point & terminus doesn’t help things either. Madrasman was dumbfounded when he saw bike taxis which are called ‘pilots’. Madrasman wants to travel in a Share Auto again.

Goa is the land of cheap booze, which is why most Madrasmen come here, but this particular Madrasman came to study. However, he finds that booze is available in every other petti-kadai. There is no hustle in front of a grille, no thrusting of money in the vendor’s face and no thirsty chap opening the bottle just outside the wine shop. Also, wine shops in Goa have an average of 20,000 bottles in all shapes and sizes. Madrasman cannot get over looking at rows and rows of MGM Vodka in TASMAC shops.

Goa wakes up at 10 AM. Madrasman cannot find a shop open before this hour. But that is alright since Madrasman also wakes up around this time. But by the time he reaches a shop, they’ve closed for lunch followed by a break for a siesta. Madrasman has to make purchases in the narrow window from 4PM – 6PM. Madrasman can only think about vegetable shops opening at 6AM in Madras. Not that he bought many vegetables.

While Madrasman gorged on Thalapakattu biryani on a daily basis in Madras, here, he has to hunt for ages to find a decent biryani. Goans apparently like their biryani sweet. In fact, he has found only one decent biryani so far in Goa – in Palolem. The fact that Palolem is 80 Km from where he is, doesn’t make him very happy. Thalapakattu was just within bicycle range from Madrasman’s house in Madras. Royal Biryani too.

Beaches are Goa’s greatest attraction for tourists. However, Madrasman has been seeing beaches all his life and they don’t appeal to him all that much, especially when they are 30 Km away. Madrasman misses the beach near Thiruvanmayur RTO which was within bicycle range too. While beaches in Goa have fun things like jet-skis and para-gliding, Madrasman doesn’t like shelling out Rs.500 each time he goes to a beach. He would rather shell out Rs.10 for the tastiest buttermilk available in Madras.

Madrasman misses his bicycle too. Unlike Madrasman in Banglore, he is stuck here for two years. However, since Madrasman has found time to blog after such a long time, he’d rather use that time for something else.

Cheers!

Konkanis are crazy about this leaf because they use it in a preparation called the Pathorvodo or Pathrodo depending on whether they hail from Kerala or from Karnataka. This dish mainly consists of these leaves steamed along with rice batter. This dish has a cult following in our family and it is prepared on all special occasions. Special occasions take place whenever somebody gets these leaves home. While the original Pathorvodo is just steamed, we smart Konkanis have extrapolated the usage of these leaves to include a variation of the idli, a variation of the pakoda and a ghassi (gravy).

I am convinced that this dish was invented by a granny who ran out of idli batter, poked her head out of the house, saw these leaves growing by the gutter, picked them up, rolled them up and steamed them. This was apparently received well by the children of the house, and thence started this manic craze.

This leaf usually grows in wet or humid places like the Konkan coast. I was travelling with family through Kerala yesterday, and the journey was punctuated by excited yelps of joy from Mom whenever this leaf was spotted. Our car was stopped several times on the way for a little leaf-napping. The owners of at least three households on NH 47 will be grateful to us for clearing their front yards free of charge. The only problem with this leaf is that its sap makes you itch. We spent a lot of time hunting for a knife or blade so that we could cut the leaves and take them home. Once we managed to get one, excitement levels in the car increased. After the harvest was safely stored in the boot, the rest of the journey was spent gloating on the success and making plans for the most efficient way to polish off the pathorvodo.

If you’ve never had your throat itch before (yes I mean itch, not khich-khich. Like a mosquito just bit your throat) , you should have Pathorvodo. Luckily, we smart Konkanis have a secret ingredient to keep this itch away, but I’m not going to tell that to you. My mom and her classmates had lots of fun giving out the recipe to college mates while conveniently forgetting to mention this secret ingredient.

The utility of Pathorvodo doesn’t diminish with time. While it is primarily had steamed the first day,the next day finds it fried or roasted. Lunch-buddies at work often mistake this fried version to be fish fry when this culinary masterpiece is foisted upon their unsuspecting selves. I personally prefer this fried version to the steamed version. One another benefit to this dish is that it has a very high return-on-investment. Post-meal mornings are wholly satisfying.

I’ve just had a ton of pathorvodo fry. This ought to last me a couple of months (psychologically, not physically). If you ever see a bunch of people foraging for these huge leaves, follow them home, and demand some pathorvodo. They are sure to be Konkanis. Say hi to them for me. And if they have any daughters of marriageable age, do let me know.

Cheers!

If you want the recipe, read this.

1. Having Chicken Biryani at any of the Thalapakattus all over Madras
2. Cycling from Adyar to Kottivakkam at 11 PM at breakneck speed
3. Ice-Mor (Chilled Buttermilk) from the vendor who comes after 10 PM to the Thiruvanmayur beach. (He puts in sliced cucumber)
4. Attending performances at the Music Academy
5. Having huge-ice creams at Cool Cats, Besant Nagar
6. Swimming in the pool near the Marina Beach
7. Browsing through books & toys at Landmark without buying anything
8. Masala squid from the vendors on Besant Nagar beach
9. Playing in the sea
10. Morning jog along Palavakkam beach
11. The best fried rice in Madras from Royal Biryani , Thiruvanmayur RTO
12. Checking out prices on foreign produce at Five Star Classic supermarket
13. Buying stuff at Spencer’s daily
14. Asking Auto-wallahs the fare to Central just to say I’m not interested
15. Travelling by MRTS from Thiruvanmayur to Lighthouse

While there have been many more cherished memories at Madras, I have run out of time. Most of the others are food related and have been already chronicled earlier in this blog. Honourable mentions for Chicken 65 at Buharis, Rava Dosa & Sambar at Ratna Cafe, Ice cream at Amrutha Ice cream parlour near Adyar depot, Madhuri Chaat and Japan Cake at McRennets.

Hopefully, I will be able to relive these experiences.

Cheers!

Hence, every now and then, when the fancy seizes us, or we run out of soap, we enroll for the Green Beret guerrilla course and take a trip down to Sanquelim. To make the two kilometer trip downhill, we must face hordes of wild beasts, a treacherous terrain and sciatica-troubling slopes. Well, not really, but some of it anyway. And it never stops raining. There are times when Goa can give Cherrapunji an inferiority complex.

Our enterprising bunch, not happy with the way the road was paved, chose to take the path less traveled. There weren’t any lovely, dark or deep woods, but there were a pair of buffaloes who took offense to our marching. We reached a much more civilized location, meaning there were a couple of houses and the road was tarred. We were destined for Harvalem.

We came across a couple of caves cut out of rock on the way. As with all caves in India, these also claimed to be constructed by the Pandavas, who along with Lord Rama, are responsible for 99% of the temples/caves/old trees in India. They seemed to have a lot of free time during their 14 years, and decided to put up random temples all over India, where nobody would usually have bothered looking.

A way ahead was the waterfall, which kicked up a spray which drenched us before we even saw it. Thanks to the rains, the waterfall was out in force. After finding a place unaffected by the spray, we all proceeded to pose for our Facebook profile pictures. We then paid a visit to the Rudreshwara temple nearby.

We started our trek back, and as it is in Goa, darkness falls precisely at 7.15 PM. One can be leisurely reading his newspaper on his porch at 7.14 PM, but one minute later, the whole state is plunged into darkness. We stopped at JK’s for dinner. Ordinarily, JK’s is a hotel nobody would give a second glance. However, since we are pleading extenuating circumstances, JK’s is the Ritz for all we care. Since the only other alternative is the usual swill, we’d rather have Chicken Manchurian in a dingy place.

After the meal, which we hope will placate our taste buds for the next one week, we trudged up halfway up our hill before being rescued by a mini-lorry which deposited us within our campus.

Tomorrow, I’ll be a Green Beret again. I have to get a haircut.

Cheers!

I will miss our house which we have never been fortunate enough to stay in for long. I managed two years. I’ve had happy memories there of sleeping on a king size bed, trying out new recipes in the kitchen and staying with Mahesh.

The chap doling out biryani at Thalapakattu will miss me and Royal Biryani, which makes the finest Chicken Fried rice in Madras, will have to find somebody else to spend Rs.140 for the Fried Rice and half a Tandoori Chicken. Spencer’s Daily will have to find somebody else to supply them with Sodexo coupons.

Thiruvanmayur Beach will have to miss my periodic morning/evening run (Once in two months is also periodic). My first two wheeler, bought with my hard earned money, will miss being pedaled furiously past Kalakshetra to Adyar and Besant Nagar. Its crossbar will miss the moonlit rides to the beach with Neenu on it. I have had to give it away to my nephew.

I will miss the fine transport system in Madras – MTC & MRTS. I doubt I’ll ever see a booze shop with a metal grille anywhere else. Rava Masala Dosa at Ratna Cafe for breakfast will have to go down somebody else’s mouth. Somebody else will make the monthly trip down to TNSC bank, Shastri Nagar and will hence have the opportunity to drink Watermelon juice at Kovai Pazhamudir Nilayam. I will miss visiting several restaurants all over Madras with Bhavika. The buffets at Mainstreet and Mainland China will not be drastically depleted by my visits.

The Auto Drivers will miss not having me as their customer and the Share autos will have to find other Rs.7 fares to Thiruvanmayur. Music Academy will stage performances & shows which I cannot attend. Much will happen in Madras without me. Hopefully I will get a chance to be part of all this again. Till then, So Long, Farewell, Adieu Adieu Adieu.

Edit: Raghu visited Madras twice.

Finishing your business in a toilet on an Indian train is hell. The progressive levels of comfort provided by the 3AC, 2AC and 1AC compartments do not apply to the toilets. In essence, they are the same, right from the unreserved compartments to 1AC, with a few fancy fittings thrown in. One such fancy fitting is an electric fan in the AC coaches. The fan is strategically placed so that a person of average Indian height can crack his head repeatedly on it, while emptying his bladder, while the train tears along at 100 Kmph. The fan is also strategically placed to not provide any sort of comfort while the person is taking care of other business in the toilet.

The Indian Railway train toilet is essentially a hole on the floor of the train. Some coaches boast of ‘European’ toilets, but these are on the verge of being classified chemical weapons considering the colonies of bacteria residing on them. The regular toilet (hole-in-the-ground) has a water tap placed near it. Unfortunately, this tap is not situated at the ‘business’ end. As a result, a hygienic person has to perform the equivalent of Pilates to turn around and wash. The Railways,no doubt very conscious about saving water, has very helpfully fitted a tap which lets out water only with manual intervention. This makes your ‘wash’ very dicey, considering how you need one hand to hold on to the very helpful handle provided to prevent you from falling headlong into yesterday’s dinner when the train is rattling along. Its easier when the train is stationary, but the board politely requests you to ‘avoid using the toilets in stations’ doesn’t it? Some new coaches have a mug on a chain which exactly 2 inches short of bull’s eye to help you. Taking off and putting on your pants without getting them wet in a train toilet is an exercise which has been included recently for MARCO training.

The hole-in-the-ground provides entertainment in case somebody is bored or constipated. Though only a blur is visible when the train is moving, you can be surprised if the train is stationary as my cousin found out. When he was very young, he decided to use the toilet when the train had stopped. Looking down, he found a porcine being looking up hopefully, expecting breakfast. He was shocked, and all business forgotten, ran out.

Of course, there is the stench which reaches the first three bays of reserved compartments and the whole coach of the unreserved ones. However, resilient as ever, we Indians have mastered the art of complaining about this stench for 2 minutes on boarding and then shoveling down biryani.

All said and done, credit must be given to the Railways for transporting millions all over our huge country. There is only so much they can do to cope with the tonnes of sewage being generated. They figured it was easier to return it to nature in installments.

There is some news of chemical & bio-toilets doing the rounds. We have to wait and see when it will be implemented. Till then, flex those muscles (all of them). A daily train-toilet regime is sure to beat any gym-routine.

Cheers!

Four years passed thus. I got a job and came to Chennai. My hometown. The place where I belong. Sadly, along with that came the realization that a meal costs a minimum of Rs.50. And slowly I began to yearn for Quilon. Quilon, where I could eat 6 parottas and half a plate of Chilli chicken for Rs.29. (I don’t know what metric system they use, but their half plate was as big as any ‘full’ plate you get in Chennai). Beef fry for just Rs.15. ‘Mango’ (juice) for Rs.3. Sharjah shake for Rs.10 (as opposed to Rs.80 in Chennai), Shawarma for Rs.20 (Rs.60 in Chennai). Would those days come back? We used to fight tooth and nail to throw a ‘Sharjah’ Treat on our birthday bringing up corny excuses such as just having paid our Mess bills. But now, a Sharjah from those days cost just as much as a ticket on A1 from Tiruvanmayur to Central.

Quilon had a system of ST (Student Concessions) which allowed us to travel great distances for 50p. We used to abuse this system by carrying notebooks with us to cinema halls just to avail this low fare. Now, paying Rs.7 on a share auto is commonplace. Times have changed. Could I go back to those times?

I got a chance.Recently. I needed to pick up some certificates from my college and University. This translates to getting a nosebleed. But I grit my teeth and managed to book tickets after an early morning battle to book tatkal tickets. And soon I was on my way to Quilon.

This trip was an eye-opener. First there was the feeling of nostalgia inculcated by a friend’s posts on Facebook. I met some of my professors in college. I stayed at a friend’s place. He took me to a Aboobakar Ikka who sold the best bajjis in Quilon. For the first time in my life, I had Kallumakaya (Mussel) & Kaada Mutta (Quail Egg) bajjis. On Quilon beach. An uplifting experience. The next day, I had the privilege of visiting Thirumullavaram beach, a soul stirring place. A place I’d never heard of during the four years I’d spent there.

Thirumullavaram Beach

The next day, my roommate who hails from Quilon, invited me to his place. A visit to his place, and to another friend’s place nearby, led to a visit to paradise on earth. The stuff that makes Kerala God’s own country. Mukkam Beach. A pristine shore separated from the mainland by a backwater. We paddled to the beach on a Vallom (boat) and had a whale of a time there.

Mukkam Beach

After a couple of delicious lunches (both friends forced us) which had Kerala style chicken fry on the menu, we set out for Pulichira Church. A church in a tranquil setting with a backwater in the background. We then headed over to Thangassery where the lighthouse is open to public from 3PM to 5PM. Surprisingly, we are allowed to climb to the top. The view was breathtaking, and after a few mandatory shots, we climbed down and spent some time on the splendid breakwater at the foot of the lighthouse.

Thangassery Breakwater

The Arabian Sea

Thangassery Lighthouse

We parted ways shortly after that. I left for Cochin. But the trip had opened my eyes to Quilon. There is a saying in Malayalam. ‘Kollam kandavana illam venda‘ (A person who has seen Quilon,will not go home). A saying we had ridiculed for four years.

Perhaps there is some truth in that.

Cheers!

Edit: A lot of college friends are reading this post. All you people, you will also appreciate this post.