Idli

Hullo lads,

I ate breakfast in Murugan Idli Kadai a couple of days back. For 200 bucks.

I ate 17 idlis today.

Jughead days are back again.

The Future of Tamil Cinema

Hullo lads,

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=kEukJ-rk9TE

How do YOU feel now?

Mor Kali

Hullo lads!

This post was brought about by this post by KK.

The first time I had Mor Kali was in KK’s place. It tasted like nothing I’d had before and was unusually filling. This was during those days gone by in Central Avenue Road. Anyways, what I have to relate has less to do with Mor Kali and more to do with moms. We had loads of Mor Kali and there comes this point when your tummy is substantially full and there is a glowing warmth spreading through the body. You are in a state of perfect contentment. Let us call this state ‘Shanthi’. This state, however, should not be confused with the saturation point. My saturation point, in particular, requires a separate post. As we attained our individual states of 'Shanthi' we started refusing the food. Now the moment KK said ‘I’m done’, he is done. But those rules do not apply to yours truly. The generous hostess coursing through the blood of generations of Indian moms rises up in all its glory.

YT: “Venam aunty”.

KK’s mom: “Potuko pa”.

YT: “Venam aunty”.

KK’s mom: “Potuko pa”.

YT: “Illa aunty, fulla irrukku”.

KK’s mom: “Potuko pa”.

The third ‘potuko pa’ was delivered at a higher intensity. Simultaneously, the concave ladle was forcefully thrusted at a point approximately over my plate. As a result, a sizeable chunk of Mor Kali landed on my chest with a dull thud. The rest, thankfully, fell on the plate. What followed, was an awkward silence that usually turns up in these situations. I washed off the Mor Kali, and ate the rest, but the ‘Shanthi’ was gone. What I probably needed to do was eat more Mor Kali, but I felt too awkward to ask. This was ages ago (9^th or 10^th) and I wasn’t the shameless glutton I am now. I mean, I was a glutton back then too, but I wasn’t shameless. I’ve come across this ‘generous hostess syndrome’ in just about every household I’ve been to. The kid of the house will mutter a rude ‘venam po’ and that is that, but all the politeness in the world won’t save you. And it’s the little things like these that I love about the Indian way of life.

Chinna-Pedamma and Me

Hullo lads!

My chinna-pedamma came to town today.
Pedamma is periyamma and chinna is small.

Conversation translated.

Chinna-pedamma: "Are you your mom’s elder daughter?"
(For those chaps who don’t know me, I have long hair)

Yours truly glares back vehemently, which, sadly, is mistaken for an IQ of twenty.

CP: "Puriyallaiya?"

YT continues to stare.

CP: "It’s your hair."

YT: "Ah."

CP: "How long will you grow your hair?"

YT: "Forever."

CP: "Even when you get married?"

YT: "I won’t get married."

CP: "Are you going to be a Sanyasi or what?"

YT: "I don’t believe in gawd."

End of conversation.

I don’t think I managed to capture the correct tone though. My china-pedamma was chuckling throughout. She is quite a lady. And she made awesome acchu-murukku when I stayed in her place. Don’t know what that is called in English or Tamil. It tastes sweet and is an amalgamation of hexagons (I think). Now I have the feeling that it maybe called acchu-murukku in Tamil and it’s called something else in Telugu. It tastes awesome and that’s all I care about.