Jack for all trades

“Ah! You’ve inherited my Number One”, said granny when we moved into our new home in her backyard. What she alluding to was yellow, strong smelling and exactly what you were thinking of: A small innocuous variety of Jackfruit that she’d planted in the corner of her garden, now the driveway to our home.

In the twelve years that we’ve been here, Number One has faithfully yielded smallish yet absolutely delicious crops of crisp, non-fibrous fruit- the best I’ve ever tasted. This year however, it’s gone crazy. Over 30 huge fruit dangle obscenely from various parts of its long spindly trunk. We think the extraordinary yield is because it’s finally managed to pierce through the crown of the heavy mango tree that had been shading it all these years.

The produce from Number two, a much heavier yielding though marginally less crisp variety in our backyard, has always been reserved for friends, visitors and colleagues. This year, the thought of dealing with the bumper crop from both the trees is enough to make us all ignore them steadfastly, rather than deal with the sticky mess of cutting them down and processing them.

At work, this time of year has always been eagerly anticipated. All my chakka*-starved mallu colleagues at work would wait eagerly for the season, so I could bring and dump some yellow goodness on them. “In my nayteew, we used to get like this oLLy. My andy used to make jaam with jayckfruit, yinnow, chakkavaratti?” They’d say. “Blurgh yes. Notte quiteh my favouriteh”, I’d think.

The Tam gumbal would pipe up from random corners of the office “Bunrotti palaa* you have eatena? Supera irukkum”, they’d say. “What on earth possessed anyone to name a village Bun-rotti?” I’d think.

“Aiyo maraya namma oorinalli idral yenth-enthadhella maadthaare gotha? Happala, huli, pallya, chipsu.. Ohh halasina hannu* illadhe jeevanave nadiyuvudilla” (I use it as a facial scrub daily. It's great for my skin), my Mangalorean friends would go. “Slurrp, ngn”, I’d go.

“In Vizianagaram, jeshtu oui are getting beshtu panasa* andi”, the Telugu bunchu would remarku. “Yes, commaan, let us vizit-the-nagaram”, I’d thinku.

“Kamaal hai yaar”, my northie frands would add. “Yahaan pe averybody is eating ripe? Hamare yahaan kathal* ki subzee banti hai.” (In Norththth na, we use iskin of jeckfruit in geography class as relief map of himalayas yaar.) “What next? Bhindi ka halwa?” I’d think. Wouldn’t put it past my Madras paati though.

“Plaa-mushu* na yenna nu theriyumo?” She’d begin sagely. “Yen maamiyaar aathulai adhukku nanna kadugu thaalichu thoenga, gueenga ellaam pottu masichu shaapuduvaa. Bhaama maamiyaar aathulai athai rendu eeda vadhakki….” (Lost me at plaa-mushu) At which point I’d go “Mushu mushu haashi deo malai lai.”

Last year, an oldish gentleman walked in from the road and helped himself to a fruit off Number One. He was making slow progress down the road thanks to the weight and prickliness of the fruit. “But, aunty gave it to me”, he said with a practiced expression of goggle-eyed innocence when we caught up with him. Aunty (my mother), who under normal circumstances would have paid him to get the fruit off her hands, quickly snatched it back from him. She did not take kindly to people her age calling her aunty.

As for this year, I don’t think we can pull off ignoring the bumper crop any more. The trees are groaning with the weight and the squirrels are making rude noises at us while they tunnel through the ripening fruit. We’ve already commenced negotiations with Numbers One and Two in an attempt to convince them not to ripen too quickly (or ever). I’m also making a Tibetan-style endless-loop CD with the words “Must deal with jackfruit”, set to a tinkly contemplative tune to play while the family sleeps.

If all the above doesn’t work, we’ll need some help. Any volunteers? Be fair warned that you will have to deal with the cutting and scooping yourself. We’re too posh for all that soht of thing dahling.

*****

Glossary:

Chakka, panasa, pala, kathal, halasina hannu = Jackfruit

Pala mushu = baby jackfruit (cooked as a vegetable, looks suspiciously like mutton!)

Peer Sahib for lunch

“Ootakke Peer Sahib untu.”  (We’re having Peer Sahib for lunch), squeaked the timid Sumangala, my grandmother’s long suffering cook from Udupi, as I walked into the kitchen.  “Wha..?” I asked.  She took in a deep breath, closed her eyes and looked like she was about to pass out.  This of course, was no cause for concern as it was her normal way of starting a new paragraph.

“Peer Sahib”, she said mournfully.  “Chapatiya mele tamta, seeju, ella haaki bishi-bishi maadi koduvudhu, gottillavo?”  (Tomato and cheese on a chapatti). 

Ah.  That. “Yes, please!”  I told her.  My super cool grandmother had been talking about making pizza for a couple of days and yay!  She’d finally gotten around to doing it!  Hers was the best recipe in the whole world.  All the quirky things she did to her ingredients made the pizza even better.  She’d grind up tomatoes and onions in the mixie and stir them about in a buttered wok with a bucket of cream and lots of love and affection.  She’d then hand mushrooms, capsicum,  carrots, cauliflower and anything else she could find to the waiting Sumangala who’d sigh and dip them in bisneeru (hot water) for exactly a minute.  “It’s called blawn-ching dahling”, she told me once when I asked her if she was crazy.  “Gets the raw taste out of them da raja.”  Mhaha. 

A generous smear of the sauce went on the pizza base (bought fresh from Vijaya Bakery), three tons of veggies went on top, and finally the piece de resistance:  Good old fashioned Nilgiri’s cheddar.  About three cows’ worth. 

On the verge of collapse, two such pizza towers would be placed gingerly in granny’s aluminium dabba oven that Sumangala would sighingly dust out and place on top of the gas stove.  My brother and I would stake claims on the pizzas we wanted.  The top one would get all melty and yum, while the bottom one would turn black at the bottom and go crrrunchh when you bit into it.  We wanted both, so granny dearest would dispatch us off to the dining table, where we sat twiddling our thumbs impatiently until the pizza arrived. Through granny’s good offices, we’d each receive one half of both pizzas: two quarters burnt at the bottom and two quarters melty on the top.  We’d shriek with joy and tuck in. 

When granny wasn’t making pizza, we’d drag her off to the best pizza place in town then – Casa Picola.  Just the sight of the menu with all those names: Tia, Maria, Julia, The God Mother…, would drive us insane. Uff. The twitchy-nosed French proprietrix would pause by each table to make sure things were okay, while my brother and I steadfastly ignored everything else but the pizzas in front of us. 

But this was in Bangalore on our summer holidays.  Back in Malluland nobody had ever heard of pizza.  “Nge?”  (Eh?), said the shopkeeper when my mother asked for pizza base.  “Illa.” (Well m’dear lady, we’ve run out of stock, but let me place an order with Harrods London, with whom I have a running account with and procure some for you.  It might arrive next month by container ship fresh from London), he said, when we described it. 

Crestfallen, Mommie dearest decided to make do with what Trivandrum could offer then.  She marched into Milma Dairy and asked for cheddar cheese.  “Cheese illa butter unde”, (Ah cheese.  Cheese, you say?  That lovely thing that was invented in a Bactrian camel’s intestine?  Hmmm… Chweeeeezzze.  Käse.  Fromage.   Somebody stop me), said the man at the counter.  We got the message and left.  We finally found some at Jayaram bakery.  Good old best-in-the-world Amul.  

Back home, Amma followed granny’s recipe to the tee.  Err, except for the blanching, the cream, the tomatoes, the asparagus, mushrooms and cheddar cheese that is.  She’d learnt from Mrs. Krishnamurthy next door that a pressure cooker with sand in it does the same thing as a dabba oven on a stove.  “Yaaay”, we said, and ran to the Guptas’ garden next door, where a pile of sand had been freshly delivered to construct a toilet for Anandavalli, their maid.  We rushed back home, sand in hand, to find that Amma had managed to make a white naan like thing out of maida and was piling it up with tomato puree and oooh…! onions.  She then grated the Amul on the top and after a quick prayer to Melkote Selvanarayana, put a layer of sand at the bottom of the pressure cooker, placed the pizza gingerly on top of it on a plate, and closed the lid. 

Amma had to throw away the pressure cooker after that.  “Aiyo, yenk irkra problems onna renda?” (Wo to be in Ingilaand, drrrrinnnking Ingiliss beerr), she asked Melkote Selvanarayana, as she scraped the melted bakelite handles of the cooker off the stove top and retrieved the incinerated pizza from inside. 

We bought a Bajaj round oven after that.  It would heat everything up nicely to about 40 degrees, but do nothing about melting the cheese on top.  “It’s the cheese, not the oven da kanna”, she’d say as pizza after lukewarm pizza emerged out of the oven with intact layers of grated Amul on the top.  We even tried paneer, which, aside from refusing to melt, also tasted like imported pencil erasers without the pineapple flavour. 

Granny’s dabba oven retired in the early 90s, as did our Bajaj round, after a decade of absolute uselessness.  We now a have fancy microwave-cum-convection-oven-cum-dishwasher-cum-three-piece-orchestra-cum-massage-lady that sadly does nothing for me or the pizza.  And as for Pidsa Hut- Gidsa Hut with all their cheese-filled crusts, oregano-girigano, jalapeno-gilapeno and what not, I have only this to say:  

Fbbthbbp. Give me my melty- crunchy, granny-made Peer Sahib any day. 

And the sordid saga continues..

Ah hello hello Im still alive. Err and still sufferring from writer's cramp. So in the meantime, please to have

Bengaluru Blahnteru - Part Sthree:

Over by two coffee at the Byadara Bomma Instt of Technology canteen:

Recorded for posterity at 42/C, 20th Cross, 15th Main, Malleswaram

Benglur Talkies Part Thoo.

Ah yayes, by popular demand,

Bengaluru Blanhteru Part Bleuh

Heard at CTR, Malleswaram.

Heard at a leading Koramangala hospital...

Benglur Talkies

Hello hello peeps, sorry for the sepulchral silaans. This time, at the insistence of this mad person, I am going to torture you with my first talking blogpost. Gaaaaahahahaha. So kindly have it, Part 1 of:

Bengalooru Blahnteru

(Secretly taped snappy snippets of day to day Benglur talku)

PS: If you have a dodgy internet connection like I do, you might want to hit the pause button and let them buffer a bit before listening...

1. Heard outside the Basavanagudi NRI association..

2. Secretly captured on cellular phone at Lounge de la didah.

3. At Lunchtime in Electronics city, Phase II

The Mane Man

“Chumma irikkadei!” (Shut up, you!) he growled, as he dragged a blunt razor across the back of my neck. I was six and petrified. Nicknamed “Kandan The Barbarian” by all who knew him, this guy was known to draw blood at the slightest provocation. “Aaaan. Mindaathe iri.” (Not a word!) He said ominously, and went away to sharpen the razor on a rubber tube he’d tied to the window for the purpose.

I whimpered and looked at my brother, trussed up similarly in a white sheet next to me, and prayed for our mother to appear miraculously and save us. A few more snips and scrapes later, his work was done. I tried my best not wince as the blunt blade sliced into the side of my neck, but he wasn’t impressed. “Poda!” (Get out!) he roared, as we paid up and ran for our lives. For if anyone took the old adage: “Fashion is pain” seriously, it was this man: Manikandan, our not-so-friendly neighbourhood barber.

After several tear-filled entreaties to our parents to spare us the torture of Manikandan’s rusty blade, our parents finally agreed to take us to a slightly more upmarket barbershop a few km away. My brother discovered the joys of the 80s bouffant there. It swayed like the fronds of a coconut tree as he towered a good foot and a half over his classmates. I, however, decided to stick with my Beatles-Goes-To-Pulayanarkotta hairstyle all through my childhood.

And thus I remained right until college, when a rather nasty bump into a lamp post made me realize that hair flopped over the eyes wasn’t a great idea in the era of electicity. I was all set to get a rad new 90s Bangalore cut that would give me the Hollywood edge that I’d always dreamt of. However, the 8 rupees that I paid Jagganath Reddy of Up To Date Hair Style, Vyalikaval, didn’t quite seem to do the trick. He’d grab a clump of my head, shake his head and say “Yenri, hing ide nim koodhlu?” (You sure that's hair?) He’d then call his assorted baavas, maavagarus and thammudus sitting around to come have a look at it. I’d close my eyes tight and pretend to die.

At one point, I’d had enough. I sent Jagannath Reddy an I Hate You card one September, and grew my mop out until it threatened to engulf the Sankey Tank. When my strangulated family pleaded for mercy, I took it to the best salon in town at the time – Spratt on Magrath Road. The proprietrix looked down her nose at it and said “Relaxer, maximum strength. Now.” to her waiting assistant. Four hours later, after much grunting and groaning, as assistant after exhausted assistant relaxed and flat ironed my hair, I emerged looking like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz. The Spratt lady took one look and burst out laughing. In my face. “I’m sorry, but it looks hilarious. Hahahahahaha. That will be one thousand five hundred, thanks and do come back.” I covered my face with a towel and ran to La Bamba to buy myself a very large hat.

I did everything to my hair to get it to look like Zulfi Syed and anyone else who had long hair those days, but could never get it to look the way I wanted it to. The sweet Srilankan girls at Squeeze on Lavelle Road had a go at it a couple of times, and would send me home looking like professor Snape from Harry Potter. The bearded, bejewelled stylist at Bounce told me to wash it with yoghurt. Couldn't bring myself to do it. I even had an Australian woman cut it when I was in Melbourne. “You’ve got quite a thatch up there mite”, she mumbled, grunting as her tiny little scissors tried in vain to snip through it.

Two years and a depleted bank balance later, I gave up. It was back to the barber shop for me. I now share a special relationship with Muniraju of Royal Men’s Beauty, Bhashyam Circle. When he grabs a clump of my hair and says “Yenri idhu?” I smile benevolently. When he says, “Ayyo sariyag maintrence maadbekri koodhalge. Shamf-geemf ella hachi condeesn nal itkobeku.” (Ever heard of product?), I gurgle. And finally when he says, “Shaarta, frighta?” (Short or spiked?) I say “Nimge gothallaa..” (You know it best, dude) and lie back and enjoy.

The daaeth of European drama

So I finally did it. The 4000 mile schlep across the seven seas to the haven of Bangalore theatre. Not just once but twice over.My motivation? Free tickets kindly supplied by a cousin to watch her play: An adaptation of Anton Chekhov's Cherry Orchard, called "City of Gardens". Well it was fun alright. The seating was on mattresses arranged amphitheatre-style, close to the stage. The acting was great and so was the Bangalorification of the play, though I think deeper character sketches might have made them a tad more convincing

The second play was - yawn - a done-to-death adaptation of Woyzeck: one of those dreary European plays where everyone dies. The acting was stodgy and faw-faw, and the original storyline, bleh as it was, was drawn out over 2 agonizing hours. Every so often, the hero would tumble dramatically off a cardboard box and play dead, much to the relief of the audience, only to spring back to life moments later and set off on another mind numbing monologue. My life hit rock bottom when one of the side actors (in a Vishnuvardhan style moustache and beret) climbed up on a box and talked about "daaeth". The background music was an unnervingly Indian sounding hodge-podge of various European classical composers, painstakingly named in the playbill. A vaguely admirable part of the play, however, was the set: a bizarrely painted backdrop with lots of doors and windows, that was reused as a rowhouse, a tavern and a wall for the hero to pee on.

All in all - fbbthbbp. I don't know what they were aiming at. If it was meant to be tongue-in-cheek, it worked somewhat. But if not, did they really expect to be taken seriously when the gloriously tanned hero was accused of looking "white as a sheet", or when they played chutneyed Dvorak at a tavern in small-town Germany??!! Tsk.

All said and done though, I think the overall Rangashankara experience was worth the monster schlep across town. For one, it was amazing to see so many identically dressed people in there. The collection of terra-cota jewellery, mat chappals and handloom prints in the audience could make Fab India look like Laxmi blouse-piece junction in comparison. The kid at the door gave me a "you don't deserve a playbill" look as I walked in. Luckily the sabudana vadas and the coffee at the cafe had put me in a good mood by then, so he barely escaped being strangled with his own jhola bag.

So yeah, I'll go again, But togged in my artsy-fartsy best this time, so I can look all intense and theatre-circuity. I'll atleast be guaranteed a playbill that way.

Honourable mentions: J for going gaaahahahaha during the most serious parts of the play, and A for being official shusher of the group: they'd better pay you for doing that the next time :)

Cartoon: "Go and adjust yourself at the back, girlie." - Line from Premaloka (kannada) starring Ravichandran Vishnuvardhan and Juhi Chawla.