I was terribly amused by the extra ‘tadka’ that this restaurant adds to its language alongside its food! It probably was very rude to laugh, when I read the top line which read ‘Motter Panir’. Then true to Mumbaiker form, perpetually seeking improvement, the manager instructed the ‘board-writer’ to correct it.
When I passed that way again, here’s what I found.
Walk into any restaurant in Tamil Nadu – a top-notch local cuisine spread or a roadside ‘rest-o-ruant’. Underneath the socio-economic differences, a little voice pipes up “We’re all the same! Tamizh vazhuga” (Long live Tamizh for the uninitiated..ummmm..un-Tamizhized). Don’t believe me? Run a quick finger down the menu….getting closer…closer…ah, ah there…oops, no missed it! Didn’t see it?
Drinks
Tea
Coffee
Nescoffee
Horlicks
Bournvita
Ganga Jamuna mocktail
Mozambi joos
Maramari
Fresh Lime soda
Soda
There! There! There! You can consume two of the major rivers in one keg-shaped glass with a slippery handle. You can experience a Bollywood masala movie through the not-so-sweet communion of orange and pineapple. I think you can do this in most places in the country (or at least everywhere you can feel the influence of that tiny indomitable speck on the India food map that still holds out to the Punjification threat…a spot called Udupi).
But coming back…the great state of idlis, kanjeevarams and eligible US-based software professionals…is the only place you’ll find that rare delicacy, that manna of every Tamizh mother’s kitchen…Horlicks paal (scalding hot milk with Horlicks and a shovelful of sugar)! A few mommas prefer the potion that ensures strength of body, strenth of mind…Bone-veee-taah. My family was rather partial to the horror-lix brand, however.
So not kidding. Really, try the above experiment and see. Me? I’m fed to the stomach with Horlicks paal…I was brought up to be a nalla Tamizh ponnu after all. Of course mommas everywhere try to stuff their darling terrors with vitamins, essential minerals and all sorts of gunk to ensure the reign of terror is complete. But only a Tamizhian carries this trend ahead into force-feeding adults with this delightful concoction as well. Witness then, the visit of Mr.Arumugam and family to friendly, neighborhood amma’s place.
Mr.A:
Namaskaram, amma. Yenna, yepudi? (What, how?…aka…Wossup?) It is so good to see you looking good.
Amma:
Welcome, welcome! What will you have? Tea? Coffee? Horlicks?
Mr.A:
No, we had lunch before coming!
Amma:
Parawallai (no matter). Have some Horlicks.
Ms.A (in panicky anticipation of future tortures):
No, we just had coffee this morning. So nothing, thank you.
Amma:
Addu yepudi mudiyum? (That how be possible?) Horlicks then. It is very good for health, especially for growing children.
Ms.A at the tender age of twenty-two feels disinclined to protest. Enter a steaming hot tumbler of Horlicks paal for the esteemed guests.
Every summer vacation, as befitted the dutiful family from far-away (in Mumbai), we visited our relatives scattered all over idli-land. Time was precious and the loving family, numerous so multiple visits were packed into a single day. Every stopover would bring on a fresh wave of gushing (“Look how big she is!”) and a piping hot tumbler of Horlicks paal. Come sun, come sunnier sun, come eyeball-melting-hot sun, come I’m-nothing-more-than-a-puddle-of-sweat sun, the tumbler of Horlicks paal was always present at the welcome. Scalding hot (presumably to sweeten/sharpen tongue and produce future Horlicks-feeding Tamizh amma), sweetened to maximum with dregs of undissolved sugar lying at the bottom of the tumbler. Oh and always filled to the brim. The typical tumbler is designed for maximum discomfort, engineered for most optimal wobbliness and guaranteed to cause pain through spillage, scalding by transfer of heat to finger and cut lips with sharp rim. One tumbler full of Horlicks paal.
On one such visit, having dutifully consumed a sufficient number of cups of Horlicks paal and feeling duly brilliant (enough to pass my exams of the next 4 years with flying colours), I rebelled. Naturally nice Tamizh aunty wasn’t swayed by my squeaky protests..couldn’t be helped, my tongue was still smarting from the scalding it got from the previous cups of Horlicks.
My cousin however, having acquired a requisite set of survival skills from a childhood in Chennai winked to me to accept the tumbler without further ado. Then with a clear, innocent voice that could only sound that sweet from too much Horlicks paal, she announced that she’d like to show her Bombay cousin the garden ’since poor child doesn’t get to see trees in Bombay’. Nonplussed I followed…I didn’t remember having any botanical cravings back then.
As we trotted around, me carefully balancing the tumbler and taking tentative sips from the tumbler to get the level down. At the corner, sweet cousin neatly poured her Horlicks paal under a plant stem. Eyes goggle-eyed with admiration, I started to her when she stopped me with
Wait! Not this one, then they’ll notice. Even plants get enough of Horlicks. We must find another tree!
Duly sympathetic to my botanical fellow sufferer, I trotted around dutifully and spotted another one. With a gleeful whoop I descended on the spot splashing the Horlicks paal out instead of the graceful streaming my cousin had accomplished. Oh horror-lix of horrors, some of it landed on my dress! And what’s worse….nice Tamizh aunty and my parents turned the corner just then (aunty having decided that the ‘poor’ Bombay adults needed a tree-sighting as well).
You can’t imagine what came next. No, I didn’t get the firing of my life for disrespecting food, drink, the benevolence of the ma-cow that produced the milk and the martyred calves that gave their food away to me, the kindness of my elders, the hospitality of my dear great-aunt, the love my parents had shown in bringing me back to my roots…(do you know there are children who don’t get enough to eat! And here you are throwing away Horlicks paal!)
Instead, my lovely Tamizh aunt (obviously well-fed on a staple diet of Horlicks herself) gaped, recovered in a fraction of a second to say,
Oh poor thing. She really likes trees and in the excitement she spilt the milk. Don’t cry over it. I’ll make you another one!
Hmm…if revenge is sweet, the second tumbler of Horlicks paal was sweeter. I gave up my battle against the Horror-lix that day.
I still wonder though, if children everywhere else are subjected to the same delights each day. Someone should undertake a study to see if Tamizh kids really are better at maths, at running races and giving smart answers in class. Some of us certainly grow a strange sense of humour. Like my uncle who famously claimed that no Tamizhian ever need learn Kannada. Apparantly substituting ‘pa’ for ‘ha’ and vice versa in every word in Tamizh would convert it to Kannada. Hallelujah! Apparantly my dear Kannadiga friends suffer from an onslaught of Porlicks hallu then! I better stop before they notice that along with my blood pressure level, haemoglobin count, my Horlicks paal intake has reduced as well. Tree up ahead!
As regards the lust for life, emotion is the biggest aphrodisiac.
On the other hand, even nymphets must stop sometime.
(Click to see full comic on seperate page)
But do take note of this lesser known fact.
Oh yes, everybody, we love the Island City. Not for its glittery Page 3 crowd, not for Bollywood, not for the stock markets and business hubs. We love it because it is a city of survivors, it is the city with a never-say-die attitude. Well, why not? That’s the only way to survive the mayhem of Mumbai.
But on a suicidal occasion that one wants to remember the ways that Yamraj plays peek-a-boo with us here, one comes up against some rather bizarre options:
1. Love over sanskriti:
No, we aren’t cynics. We do believe that love conquers all and that celebration is joyous and should be shared. On the other hand, we’d think twice about setting up a gift shop for Valentine’s day outside a Shiv Sena shakha.
2.The grand outdoors:
The heat in this city is killing and we do love our seaside. Then again sleeping outdoors mayn’t be a good idea. Much less trying to experience the great outdoors on the Bandra boulevard. Even if you don’t have the money to go elsewhere. For who knows which filmstar or rich kid may choose to go drunken drag-racing just then?
3.Brick by brick we were built:
We believe in progress. We like to beautify our spaces. And yeah, we like money just like the next city…we’re the financial capital after all!!! Which may be why we let the shop on the ground floor get a face-lift. Even if it ignores all building safety norms.
4. Train travails:
Not to say that Mumbai isn’t a city for adventure. Feeling particularly suicidal tonight? Get into a Virar local. If you manage to make it intact, do whisper (rather loudly) to a friend in the opposite side of the compartment that you’re getting off at Bandra. Yes, the locals are very friendly and they’ll show you the way right upto heaven.
5.Money, money, money, must be funny in a rich man’s world:
Oh yeah, let it never be said that Mumbai
is a city of angels blessing progress. Let us never be accused of the heinous crime of honest trading. Nor the depressing thought of ‘happy and successful’. The richer we are, the more we pay. Taxes, hafta and protection. We succeed, we make music, we make money and then it’s time to face the music.
6. The net of networking:
We’re right up the information superhighway though we have our share of dark alleys. Setting up a cybercafé is great but we mayn’t want to advertise our business on ‘orkut’ unless we were looking for some extra-bloody action. Alternately we could always promote international harmony by parading through Dadar carrying a certain green coloured flag. Guaranteed success if done the day India loses a cricket match to a certain neighbor.
7. Water woes:
Finally if all else fails we return to water. Wait for the monsoon and pray for a repeat of July 26th. Or just take a plunge off Aksa beach and stay there.
Just in case, I still do need to clarify this, most of this post has been in jest. I mean no disrespect for the dead and nor do I make light of the very real perils of life here. As a Mumbaiker, I’ve lived through two earthquakes, one gigantic flood, numberous bomb blasts, gang shootouts and communal riots. I’m extra cautious on December 6th as on February 14th and major religious/patriotic celebration dates. I’m also susceptible to being a casualty of bomb blasts, train mishaps, building collapses, road accidents and general street crime. But I travel the length of this city every day, realizing fully well that death and danger to life could happen in the most unanticipated, most mundane ways possible. Each day, like in the jungle, is a fight for survival. Like everyone else, I swallow that thought and go on or make a joke of it. It’s just too much to bear otherwise.
Keep smiling, keep walking, Mumbai.
Note: This is a part of the Mumbai 7 series on Mumbai Metroblogging.
Please leave your comments to this post here.
Independence day celebration in office. Everyone asked to wear the tricolours in their apparel. And the office is full of excited, squealing kids running around all over the place.
Oh, alright, fresh-out-of-college, barely out of their teens newbies who’re all gung-ho about the fact that office-goers have ‘fun’ too. *Grumble grumble* While I normally cherish the joys of childhood (my own and other people’s), conversations like the ones I’m having this morning make me think being 22 should be out-lawed!!!!
Young dude in orange kurta (YDOK): Morning!
Me: Hi….is that part of the traditional day thing today?
YDOK: Yes. Orange instead of saffron. And see I’m carrying a Sprite bottle for the green.
Me: …… (I mean, what do I say? No one wants to appear like sourpuss-wet blanket-auntie)
SNC: You’re like the funky flag, man!
Later in the washroom, I bump into yet another one of the young un’s preening in front of the mirror in her chilli-green tee and skirt.
Child: How do I look?
Me: Naice. You look good. I forgot about wearing the colours today. Turned up in a dress today of all days!
Child: Doesn’t matter. You can represent the cruel British and the rest of us, the oppressed Indians.
Me: *Exiting in a hurry*
SNC: Let’s start the ‘Idea go back’ movement!
And I thought today was going to be a good day…
Ever wanted to tell someone to go #$% off and couldn’t? Yeah, baby I know what that feels like. The words are stuck in my throat.
FFFFFFFFF…………………. uuuuurrrrrrgggggghhh……… gaaaah gaak gaak…. sputter sputter sputter… *COUGH*
Oh deyaam, whatever is the matter with moi? And to think all those years back I trained myself to get over the sheer indignity of unfamiliar words.
Do you remember the first time you swore? Actually I don’t. But I can put a rough guess. From Ms.Goody Two shoes in the small, cosy (and bitchy) confines of school, I found myself catapulted into the big, bad world of college. Junior college it was as we call it in Mumbai but still we were rubbing shoulders with ‘those big people’….the stalwarts of adolescent admiration - the almost graduates. Of course everyone goes slightly mad in their teenage years. My madness was rather…umm…shall we say…delayed? I stood bewildered at the madness around me, it was like being carried along in a New Orleans Mardi Gras parade (or at least what I imagine that would be like). Seemingly safe acquaintances morphed into strange monstrosities, wearing weird clothes, spouting thick accents…and oh the language!
I tried the F-word tentatively..it sounded odd. Felt like alcohol on a teetotler’s tongue. You know like the whole world’s watching and waiting for you to either pass out or be wholly appreciative and all you can think is…that’s all?
I coped. I learnt. I found my own brand of insanity. In time I imbibed the cooler variations of the words
Fuggit!
Ferkorrff!
Foh-kkkkk!
Never quite developed a taste for it though. So I grew sarcasm and wise cracking instead. Trouble with being Smart Alexis is that half the time people don’t get your jokes. It’s rather annoying when the object of your disdain doesn’t get that he’s being insulted. Then I learnt to enjoy it. I do it a lot now. Insult people without them realising it. Ah, the joys of sweet venom!
I wonder if I can learn to smirk. No, I think not. One of my pet peeves…no, actually it is a blessing…is that I think I don’t quite look my part. It would be grand to have a deep, booming voice and look all terrifying and intimidating. On the other hand, I think my orthodontically-enhanced pearls cue GRIN more than SMIRK. Then again, it’s quite tickling to see people’s faces when they expect nice, friendly girl who comes up instead with an evil line. Sometimes I feel sorry for people though…..I do have a heart after all…even if it appears only briefly.
I’m thinking of this time in college and a ‘dude’ I was having a brief flirtation with. He ran with the ‘beautiful people’…you know the models, aspiring actors, dancers sort…toned bodies squeezed into body-fit lycra wear. As expected there wasn’t much ‘up there’. On the other hand, what was down there….umm, I mean….what a body! So Dude and I played along on this strange attraction of opposites. One day, he leaned over and in a practised, deep voice droned,
Idea, do you like bikes?
I looked at him, wide-eyed and with a dramatic pause said…
No, I prefer the guys on them.
He took a moment to digest this. Then,
Sorry? I didn’t hear that.
Patient but peeved, I re-iterated. Once again, moment of blankness, not as I hoped, followed by look of comprehension.
I’m afraid I don’t understand.
With a huge mental sigh, I patted his arm (which caused him to beam) and said,
Oh, nothing, I was just saying some random stuff. I like bikes. Yours too.
Suffice to say, I never got to sit on the aforementioned bike. What a pity though…and what a body! Okay, I’ll stop drooling now.
Lesson well learnt. Models are pretty things, to be looked at, not spoken to. Sad but true. And yet I bash on regardless, for the cause of the Beautiful Brain. In another college episode, I was on stage, in a personality contest thingy. Oh shut up laughing, thou intellectual snobs…these things are fairly entertaining once you realise how brainless they are.
Compere: Ms.Idea, it takes 7 muscles to smile but 52 to frown. Would you say that frowning is better exercise then?
Me: Sure. But by the same token, I’d also say it’s fun to be be fat!
*Long silence*
Model-judge: *In long stretched out words* Could you repeat that please?
Me: Well…sure frowning’s more exercise but isn’t it more fun to be fat then?
Model-judge: Errr….*blank look*
Compere: Ms.Idea, could you…
Me: Never mind. Thank you very much.
Suffice to say that I did not make it to the next round. Personality does not include making incomprehensible jokes or looking at judge like they are from another species. The devil can be too smart for her own good sometimes.
GO AWAY!
I'm hungry, unwell, missing my best friend, overwhelmed, stressed, over-worked, sleep-deprived and in A BAD MOOD.
Leave me alone.
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