Missy M and the potter

Missy Morkozhambu, by the way, is the best baker in the world. And I don't say this lightly. There's sponge cake, and there's Missy M's sponge cake. There's chocolate torte and then there's hers. Worlds apart. And whoa, those cheesecakes! Slurp city downtown!

When Benson Town was under seige and all the shops had closed down, she stepped into her garden, plucked a papaya off her tree, mixed it with godhi hittu (aata) and baked a glorious papaya gateau. Another day she made a kothambri soppu (corriander), avocado and strawberry bread which was, well, interesting.

While she says the secret to her phenomenal baking is gobs of amul butter, I haven't given up searching her pantry for that little vial of magic potion that's actually responsible for it. The most wonderful part, however, is that I am her self-appointed food taster. With her success rate of 100%, I am only too happy to stuff myself to bursting capacity with all her goodies, while giving her my extremely satiated two-paisa opinions on them.

Missy M made a green almond sponge cake the other day, which she had layered with chocolate and pistachios. She'd also made an unpronounceable Italian dessert with bansi rava (semolina), and called wondering if I wanted to drop by and try them out. Didn't I just! In about 43 seconds, I was squeezing through her front door, trying to prevent Coco and Buster from squeezing in with me. Dogs out of the way, I addressed myself conscientiously to my assigned task of stuffing myself silly. No eggs, she announced, since it was Deepavali after all.

The almond sponge with pistachio and chocolate icing was wonderful, as expected. Or as Appa would say "Mundiriparuppu, pista, vennai, sakkarai ellaam potta kasakkumaa?" (Cashew, pista, butter, sugar, all put means bitter it will be aa?). As always though, there was Missy M's unmistakeable touch, that made it a superlative almond sponge with pistachio and chocolate icing.

A quick kodbaLe break later, I was onto my next arduous task: sampling the unpronounceable Italian dessert. It was a cake-like kesari bhath, with the consistency of a very very fluffy Mysore pak. I blinked appreciatively at the legendary baker, unable to move any more muscles in acknowledgement of her fantastic culinary creations.

"Alright", she announced, "I figure you could use a walk. Care for a stroll down Williams Town? I need to buy some clay lamps." "Glurgh", I replied, indicating that I needed to be rolled off the Benson Hill first. So off we went: one goggle-eyed cake-taster and one diligent baker-deepavalist.

Williams Town, though adjacent to Benson Town, is in stark contrast to it. It struck me as nice and quaint, though not particularly affluent or spectacularly beautiful. Neat rowhouses abutted a sweet looking park, in the old world Bangalore style. The vaulted mangalore-tiled roofs of the rowhouses stuck out at the back, while their modernized frontages lined the clean streets. A few 1950s-style biscuit boxes with rounded verandahs stood in pristine splendour in their little gardens. A bunch of boys, a gaggle of girls and an assembly of aunties stood around in groups discussing the happennings of the day. We saw kids bursting crackers and lighting lamps, old men readying themselves for the evening namaaz, and several young people at the shrine of the virgin, lighting candles and singing softly. I was amazed at the diversity, and charmed by the old-wordliness. Missy M snorted a pretty snort and strode on smugly, reminding me that we were in the Cantonment after all.

A few well-swept streets later, we found ourselves at the central square of Pottery Town. "Wow. There's a potter's square in Bangalore?", I said, looking around in amazement. "Um, yes", said Missy M, "but it's been here forever, and we've never thought of it as one." I gaped open-mouthed at the quaint potters' shops around the square. Huge terracota planters, lamps, urns and basins lay around everywhere. Shopkeepers looked up at us lazily and went back to doing nothing. I meandered off into one of the shops, fascinated by some large urlis that seemed perfect for my irritatingly non-blooming water lilies.

"Focus", said Missy M gently, as she dragged me into a shop where she spied the diyas that she wanted. The sweet toothless adukulajji (betelnut grandmother) at the shop took an instant liking to us and made us come into her house and see all her wares. Pots, that is. We bought about 75 lamps for 100 bucks or so, and walked back through Williams Town, stopping to admire a collection of unsold clay ganeshas that escaped this year's mass-drowning. I chattered incessantly about the quaintness of it all, until Missy M suggested cooingly that I shut the hell up, as she was getting a migraine. I muttered my remaining remarks to my sandals and followed her back home, where she fed me home-made pizza and sent me away.

So if you're into quaint small-town 1950s enclaves and aren't afraid of jumping across a nullah or two to buy some pottery real cheap, go check out Williams Town and Pottery Town. And if there's enough of you coming that way, I'll ask Missy M to set up a bake-shop shop next to adukulajji.

You hate me, but I love you!

So this new donut place opened up the other day near work. Being the full-on Thames nan maga that I am, I ran off instantly to sample their wares. I was not disappointed. The donuts were the yummiest I'd ever eaten and sold for like 20 bucks a go. There were all manner of killer combos involving medium to large scale sugar overloads, with caffeine fixes to boot.

The shop assistants, imported as always from a different planet, nodded and shook their heads for everything. Several sweet delights later, I waddled back to work and realized my wallet was gone. "Aiyo!" I screamed, and huff-puffed back to the donut shop. "Did you see my wallet?" Nod, shake. "Wallet, purse. Left here. Anybody saw?" Nod shake. "No?" Nod shake. "Yes?" Nod shake. I gave up, wrote my name and number on a paper and told them to call me if it turned up. Nod shake.

The wallet contained credit cards (easily replaced, whew), cash (as good as gone) and.. gasp! My Driver's License!

I quailed at the thought of getting a duplicate. The prospect of coaxing, cajolling, pleading and... shudder.. bribing my way through the RTO, had me wondering if I should bother getting one at all. But knowing my penchant for getting goosed by the traffic pulliss wherever I go, I figured I pretty much had to.

I made a few calls to friends who'd been in similar situations before, and figured out approximately what to do:

(1)Lodge an FIR with the police, get it attested (Bribe opportunity 1),
(2)Go to the RTO, pay Rs 235 duplicate license fee
(3)Submit several papers to the assistant RTO for approval (Bribe op 2)
(4)Collect my license 3 days later (Bribe op 3)

Four years in a Gowda college taught me to suspend my dignity for long periods of time to get my work done, but the art of bribery had, for some reason, always evaded me.

"Bunnrrrreee, koothkoLi, tea-gee kudeetheera?" (Come in sir, sit down, tea and scones perhaps?) said a pleasant SI as I walked in to the police station and told him my story. He read my FIR, written in the best Governmentese I could muster at short notice. It was a jewel of colonial composition. Every sentence had at least three of the following words : kindly, respected, faithfully, the same, therein and purse. Susy miss would have given me 10/10 for following the "Official letter format" down to the last tee.

Bunnree plodded through the letter and asked me how I could prove my wallet was stolen. "Err umm, it wasnt there when I looked for it?" I said. Dry sarcastic laughter ricocheted off the walls of the police station. He tossed my literary gem nonchalantly in the dustbin and glared at me. "Take down", he commanded. I almost fainted. Strip torture?? Oh no! What did I let myself in for!!In a few seconds however, I realized that his intentions were considerably less evil, and I faithfully took down the following letter:

"Bariri (write)" :

Two: Yes Eye, Sadasivnagra Polittashionu

Saar,

I walking roadu, coming aaffice to hotelu.
Aaan date-u, timu ella bariri (Aaan date time write ri)
When I going backu, purse miss-seddu. Pursu containing faalowing eyetams:
Aan bariri yenen itthu antha (Aan write what all was there).
Yif yanybody returannu, please caantactu my numberu.
Number gimber addressu giddressu ella bariyappa (Number gimber address giddress write father).
Saaaaaar, kindly request give that ackka-naalijmentu this FIR faar duplicate licensu.
Regardsu, gigardsu hesaru-gisaru bardhu sign haaki. (Regards, gigards, name, geeme, sign put)

I nervously handed my hen tracks back to the SI, who gave it a once-over, regarded me with a beady eye and sealed and signed the letter.

Whoa! That was easy- and they were actually sweet(u) !!

Off I went to the RTO, quailing again, thinking of the number of touts Id have to avoid and the corrupt officers I'd have to deal with. There wasn't a soul about, save one non-scowly man sitting by himself at a desk on the second floor. I touched the center of my chest(Bangalore version of Namaskara), and he nodded back.

"Banni, banni heLi." (Come, come, tell me). Wow, polite, but my jaded soul suspected that the politeness came with a price. This one's gonna fleece me dry, I thought, as I told him my story.

Luckily I'd gone online to the RTO website earlier and managed to get all the documents for the duplicate license ready. He looked at them and told me to go back to the police station and get an FIR acknowledgement challan. "Saaar", I said, scratched my head and tried to look harrassed and helpless. I asked him if the stamped FIR copy that I already had wasn't enough. He cleared his throat, flung my papers back at me, and looked ahead grimly.

Back I went to the police station, and haltingly told the SI I needed a challan. "Challan close aagide" (out of challans), he said. "Uh oh!" said a little voice in my head. Money time.

Suddenly a dulcet voice from heaven came wafting through the sultry air of the police station.
"Yaaeh, compter nal idiyalla saar faarmyattu. Sumne print haaki sign haak kotbiddi papa avarige. Math-mathe yaak barak heltheera" (Yaaeh, just print the damn thing out and sign it I say, why make this poor dude come again and again"). I turned around and saw a tough looking ladiss police with woollen scarf around head (winter, you faallow?). I beamed at her gratefully and was rewarded with a scowl.

I grabbed the attested print out, almost fell at everyone's feet and looked around waiting for someone to say "Saaaaaar.. hehehehehe scratch scratch" which is how I've always pictured people asking for a bribe. Noone moved. I left!

Back at the RTO the next day, the helpdesk people (Wait there's a manned helpdesk?) guided me up to a series of neat queues (Whoa!) near the cash counter where I paid the prescribed duplicate fee and had the receipt flung in my face. Took a deep breath, collected the receipt and went back to non-scowler. He muttered something about pinning the papers in the wrong order, scribbled all over my application, and sent me off to get my picture taken.

At the picture office, an efficient young lady looked up my old license number and, wonder of wonders, brought my old license up on her screen. "Allright, you may go", she said, and directed me to another guy who looked like Lt. O'hara from Duckburg. He scribbled furiously in a ledger, and wordlessly handed me a slip of paper with the collection date written on it. I waited briefly for Lt. O'hara to scratch his head or object to my existence, but left after he glowered for 5 more minutes at his ledger.

What? No bribe?

Arrived bright and early on the collection date and went straight to Lt. O'hara. He rolled his eyes sideways indicating that I go meet Gladstone Gander at the next table. Gladstone eyed me meanly through his half moon glasses and continued working. After a practiced 5 minute pause, he looked up and said: "God has given you eye. Father has given you spectacle. Take ten minute, sit down and kindly read distribution time." Uh oh, I thought, bribe time. Read the distribution time: one hour later. Whew.

An hour later, Gladstone had assumed an even more evil expression than before. He rummaged about and fished out a smart looking duplicate license card. Flinging it at my face, he slapped a piece of paper down on the desk. "Sir?" I asked in my smallest, scaredest voice. Gladstone flashed me a look of utter contempt. "Haiyyyyo.." he said, slapped his forehead, rolled his eyes, looked at O'hara and gave me another vile glare. "Ree swami! Sign haakri, Receewadu antha." (Swami (sarcastic), sign I say, received like that).

Signed. Waited. Gladstone started barking at someone else. And I left!!

What? No bribe?

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!

Moral: They scowl, frown, treat you like dirt and all that, but a little obsequiousness and a total suspension of dignity can get you very far indeed in government offices.

Seriously though, hats off to the Yeshwantpur RTO! Sure they don't have the best bedside manner, but they do their job!

And thank you, thank you, my dear scarf wearing, scowling godess!

Aa Yent-ne Craaass banniiii!

I wandered into Veena stores this weekend and was surprised to see that they have become all streamlined and modern. Instead of screeching over peoples heads for idly, you now pay up over people's heads and get a coupon which you then give over people's heads to get the idly.

The idly however remains just the same. As does the hot-and-cold staff who, on a good day will reward you with radiant toothsome smiles, and completely ignore you the next time around. There are several strange things about the store though, which I shall compile into a compendium of coschans below:

Why is it a shop and not a hotel? What sort of shop sells idly anyway? How can pasty idly taste this gorgeous? How on EARTH do they get those vadas like that? Why do BTS buses have a special wail when they brake to a halt at the bottom of the slope in front of the store? Why does the same idli taste silly when parcelled and taken home? What on earth is Brahmi juice and who is going to drink it when they can have wonderful filter coffee?

To all these I have only one answer: Mwah.
Veena stores, 15th cross, Margosa Rd, Malleswaram.

Needless to say, the idly vada only whetted my appetite, so I waddled over to TRFACTR (The Restaurant Formerly Known as CTR), who are planning on changing their name officially to a heiroglyph of a benne masale stuffed with a goli bajji. Another slew of questions hit me instantly:

Why bother changing the name of a restaurant when nobody cares? How in the name of all things heavenly do they get their benne masale like that? Why don't they hand out xeroxes of the coffee maker's foot for daily worship? Has anyone benefitted from the poster of wise sayings installed on the wall in 1753? Has anyone cleaned this poster since 1753? Can I please sit in the family room? Hello table-sharer, which cross and main are you from?

And to all these questions is another simple answer: Silence.

Just eat your dosa, do not talk. Central Tiffin Rooms (aka Shree Sagar, 6th Cross, Margosa Rd)

Terribly satisfied and strangely unable to move, I decided to roll down the rest of Margosa Road, crash into the flyover-in-progress and worm my way over the debris to Bhagyalakshmi Butter Gulkand store.

Established in the latter half of the jurassic period, they have successfully evolved their menu to support 4 items: (a) Butter (b) Gulkand (c) Butter Gulkand (d) Special Butter Gulkand.
Apparently there are 7 people in Malleswaram who actually buy items (a) and (b). As for me and several other people who like the feeling of being gobsmacked with an industrial strength sugarbuzz, (d) is the perfect choice. To make it, take a plastic sheet, slather on a years supply of homemade butter, add three spoons of gulkand (rose petal preserves) , top up with tutti frooti and sweetened banana.

I ate four spoons of the good stuff, whirled around 5th cross screaming "Sugarbuzz.. sugarbuzz.." and miraculously found myself at 8th cross. Walked into Janatha Hotel, once famed for its sweet sambhar and monster-sized vadas. Still lovely, but considerably less crowded. I think it's because people can't spot it after the strange Palm-Like Dracaena tree in its mini courtyard got walled in.

The vada in my stomach assisted greatly in rolling me down to Asha Sweet centre (8th Cross, Sampige Rd). After loading up on basundi and badami haalu, yodelling Bantu reethi kolu 28 times, whirling around 8th cross and collapsing in a dead faint, I decided to document the remaining Malleswaram restaurants, food shops and wannabes of note below. Kindly do the needful and oblige.

(y) Rajanna's chaat, 8th cross, 5th main. Easily identified by a stertorous "Kotte shiva, kotte!" emanating from a buzz of humanity surrounding a chaat trolley.

(e) Villa Pottipatti, opp Rajanna. Beautifully restored Malleswaram Bungalow, now a Neemrana hotel. They have a french restaurant that you have to call ahead to reserve. Whatever!

(n)New Krishna Bhavan, 3rd Cross, Sampige Rd. Nice, but fairly average always-been-there joint. South Indian Naarth Indian Mini meals type place with an ok-ish speciality restaurant called Gopika.

(r) The Basil, 3rd cross, Sampige Rd. Hmm. Sorry you cant be called that in Malleswaram.

(i) Cafe Coffee day, 13th cross Sampige Rd and 18th Cross 8th main. Eh, you know the deal.

(s)Om shakthi Mess 2nd Cross, Sampige Rd. Palakkad aakum. Their rice servings come on a side plate covered with a layer of rice exactly one grain thick. Fantastic. Oda-oda resaththa vittu aathula panna chorum koottaanum kuduppaalaakkum. Enna, manassilaacho dee?

(w) Shenoy Stores: 8th Cross Margosa Rd. Chakli, nippat, thindi.. y'know... Not my favourite to be honest.

(a) Sri krishna Sweets: A recent entrant into Malleswaram from Tamil Nadu, they haven't bothered changing the spelling of their speciality sweet from its Tamilized version : "Mysurpa". A bit overrated, though their freebies are fun.

(m) Iyengar bakery, Vyalikaval main rd. Lovely benne biscuit, baked nippat and sponge cake. Good stuff. Try maadi nodi.

(i)Butter sponge: An offshoot of the Basavangudi version. Not really great, though their speciality sponge cake: Butter Sponge, is rather nice in an eggless, chavukku-chavukku sort of way.

(a) Amrit Nice Creams 11th Cross, 7th main. Uyyo what a lovely. Run by nice Melkote Iyengar mama and husky voiced mami. Home made vanilla, pyoor saffran and manoranjani ice creams served vith or vithout vooden spoons. Warning: Since the ice creams are made with milk without mixing in lard, they have a distinct paal vaasne (milky smell).

(r) Love Luck stores: 12th cross, Sampige Rd. Well if they can survive with a name like that in the 2000s they've got to be old as the hills. Chutney pudis, pickles, condiments and the like. Good stuff.

(a) HaLLi mane: 4th Cross, Sampige Rd. A faux village restaurant. This newish entrant has gained insane popularity among the locals, and blends right into the food scene in conservative Malleswaram. Skip the North Indian Thali and try out the local specialities: Ragi and akki rotti, ragi mudde, cocum saaru etc. Quite nice.

(ma) Sri Rama Coffee Works: 9th Cross, Sampige Rd. Good old fashioned coffee powder shop. They also sell something called Mammary tea, which I havent had the courage to ask them about. Mumsy has developed a unique communication system with the shop lady. She'll pull up silently by the kerb and pretend to ignore her. The shopkeeper will scoop our weekly quota of filter coffee powder straight from the grinder into a packet and hand it over to her silently with a 10 rupee note. Mother will make blank calls to random people to pretend she is busy and wordlessly hand over Rs 100 and drive off. Strangely though, you can't tear them apart when they meet each other in different circumstances, such as in the 12th cross market or at an oxygen bar.

Acknowledgements: Veena store and CTR pics from the lovely blog of Bellurramki.

Maine aaj tak tumse kuch nahin MAANGA.

Its almost the end of the Mango season and this has definitely been a bumper year. The trees in the garden are groaning with the weight of the enormous fruit they have produced this year. Squirrels and monkeys wear perpetually satiated looks on their faces. My mother, after patiently distributing fruit to all the neighbours for a month, now hurls them at the vacuum cleaner salesman. My brother spent a week talking lovingly to the first batch of ripening Raspuris in his bedroom. When 200 new ones joined them a week later, the love was quickly replaced by panic. He now threatens them daily with early decapitation if they all ripen on him at the same time.

They always say mangoes taste best when the summer has been infernally hot, and sure enough, this year has produced the best mangoes in a long long time. If the west savours wine and cheese, India definitely savours its mangoes. Sensitive, seasoned palates can make out the subtlest of nuances in mango flavours. Old timers can give long detailed discourses on the delicate differences between the same variety of mango grown in different regions in India. I'm getting to be somewhat of an oldtimer myself over the years, so here is a treatise on some of my favourite mango varieties from around Bangalore:

Totapuri: Big and parrot-beak shaped, this mango is best enjoyed unripe with salt and chilli powder. Always reminiscent of summer holidays and fun times in the sun.

Sendura: The first mango to appear in the mango season. Bright red, fibrous and turpentiney, this mango deserves mention only because of the joy it brings to people's hearts at the thought of the oncoming mango season.

Raspuri: My personal favourite. Also an early bird in the season, these round, slightly hook-nosed mangoes are the most popular variety in Karnataka. The fruit is pulpy, sometimes tart and slightly fibrous, though their most endearing feature is their divine floral aroma.

Badami: very closely related to the alfonso, this is a mid-season mango. The perfectly shaped fruit is perhaps the most sought after mango in the south. Dark orange and smooth as silk indside , these supersweet mangoes are the most expensive in Bangalore's markets. Tipu Sultan's famous mango graft- the Srirangapatna Badami - is definitely the best among the badami varieties

Mulgoa: These sweet yellow-fleshed mangoes appear very soon after the badamis. Their amazing sweetness more than amply comensates for their slightly gamey odour and itchy sap.

Ratnagiri: A gracious long mango. Reveals a shockingly red inside when cut. Native to maharashtra, these are quite a delight especially if you want to dress up your dinenr table with some alarming colour.

Mallika: A recent introduction to the Indian market, this is the only hybrid that I will admit into my favourites list. I am definitely partial to floral fragrances in mangoes, and a good strain of Mallika can rival the best raspuri with its slightly orange-pineapple-champa scent.

Banganapalli: Native to andhra, this is a favourite of many, often called the most harmless mango. Banganapallis can be heavenly sweet at their best, and a bit flat at their worst. The skin of the banganapalli is sweet and thin and can be eaten with the mango as long as you remember to wash the itchy sap off thoroughtly.

Sakkarepatna: These tiny little bundles of joy appear on market shelves towards the close of the season. This is a mango that you cannot slice, because it is no bigger than a lemon. The trick is to press it all over and squeeze the juice straight into your mouth (and clothes and feet) :)

Rasalu: Another Andhra variety, this is the big brother of the sakkarepatna. The enormous coconut like mangoes need to be held under a tap while being pressed all over, so that the skin gets a little wet and the sap washes off. You then bite a hole at the bottom slightly towards the right of the seed, and out gushes a whole litre of delicious mango juice. Best enjoyed when sitting in a tub!

Rumani: A sour, turpentiney mango, desired only because of its perfectly spherical shape. More common in Tamil Nadu, this mango is more pretty than tasty.

Neelam: Neelams end the mango season with a flourish. These ochre yellow mangoes pile onto shelves in the market in June. The best neelams are sweet, pleasant- and invarably have a bug in the centre. My honest advice to true mango lovers is to turn a blind eye to the bugs and eat the rest of the fruit, as mango bugs choose only the best neelam flowers to lay their eggs in.

Out and About

In days of old
When knights were bold
And curfews weren’t invented
We’d stay out all night
And come home, a sight
All tired and cigarette scented.

The days of old ended in 2005 when a mean cop commissioner slapped down an 11pm curfew on all things nightly in Bangalore. The number of late night muggings and drunk driving incidents that the curfew was supposed to reduce, remains exactly the same. People who never really went out clubbing late in Bangalore (such as my mother who’s rejoicing as she reads this), seem to be happy about the city being nice and quiet at midnight. I am not. While the whole curfew deal doesn't cut me up as much as it does many of my friends, I certainly don't relish being hustled out every weekend by a nervous management before my chariot has a chance to turn into a pumpkin. Bratty sons of celebrities have been arrested on account of it, and the insufferable who’s who of Bangalore can’t stop talking about how their lives have been ruined forever.

The one good thing that has come out of an aborted nightlife in Bangalore though, is the fact that the old Bangalore party-at-home scene has made a quiet comeback. There’s now conversation, games, laughter and fun times at house parties in lieu of staying out clubbing all night. It’s a viable and infinitely more economical alternative for sure, but I’m greedy and want them both. There are rumors of the old days of hassle free clubbing coming back fairly soon. Being the true patriotic bengalooru hudugaru that my friends and I are, we certainly make sure all our favourite places stay in business until then.

The kids I used to go out with a couple of years ago were certainly the most tireless clubbers I’ve ever met. We called ourselves the fearsome foursome. Always the first to break the ice on a dance floor, and usually the last to leave. We each had our own style of shaking our booty on the floor: One had a lifestyles-of-the-rich-and-famous wave that would make waiters collide with each other and form a small heap at her feet, another would study his toes and cross and uncross his arms in front of him. The third would dance with abandon, eyes firmly shut and elbows half bent to pre-empt unwelcome amorous advances. I of course had perfected the Bombay Local - a complicated step that involved swaying from side to side holding an imaginary overhead bar. With our combined grace and technique, we brought the overall dance quotient of any club we visited, err... down.

Each of us had our favourite places to go to, and most of the weekend would be spent deciding where to go and plotting an optimum path between various destinations. I-bar was definitely my favourite. Many happy memories there, of my sweet Dalhi friend and I sipping Mojitos with the Princess of Persia, and showing ‘em how it’s done on the floor. Miss Morkozhambu and I, diehard twenty-something wannabes, would hip hop determinedly all evening with the kids at Spinn and Taika. We finally managed a half-Odissi, half-rapper bounce that fooled nobody.

180-proof (now 1912), I-bar and F-Bar were reserved for days when we felt rich enough to pay a million bucks for “six spoonsful of herbed goat’s cheese” and hang out with the well-heeled who’s who crowd. Urban Edge, Sparks, Ego’s, The Club, Zapp, Zero-G, Spinn and the like would be for days when we wanted to be amongst nice, down-to-earth urban people, all out for a good time and lots of dancing.

When we didn’t feel like shaking a leg, there was Cosmo Village, still the nicest lounge bar in town, the lovely Thirteenth Floor, and pubs like Geoffrey’s, Pecos and Tavern, where the NKBH (Namma Kaaladha Bengaluru Hudugaru – Bangalore Youth of Our Time) would gather in large numbers for a night of moojik, wining and dining. When we wanted a pleasant evening with nice house music, there was always The Night Watchman, The Underground, Downtown and Guzzlers. Pub World and The Bunker, erstwhile rocker havens, have now developed unique characters of their own, quite different from what was intended for them back in the 90s when they opened. Crowds mill in like never before. Strange impromptu dance-offs take place in the middle of the floor between the clueless and the clued in. Everyone is happy and huggy-huggy. Quite a lot of fun to go there once in a while.

Purple Haze (my favouritest pub in the world ever), Styx, Legends of Rock, Pecos and Le Rock are where it's at, for all us die hard rockers. I always have an out of body experience 15 minutes into my Purple Haze evenings, when I realize I’m at a pub on a plateau in South India headbanging to Papa Roach and Linkin Park!

I’ll go away quietly now, and leave you with a list of my favourite places to go to in Bangalore today:

To Dance (socially) : Fuga,Taika, Athena I Bar, F Bar
To Dance (junta) : Spinn,Fabulous, Zapp, Zero-G, The Bunker
For the Music (Rock) : Purple haze, Tavern, Le Rock, Legends of Rock, Pecos, Styx
For the Music (Retro/House) : Opus,Windsor Pub,Pecos,Sherlock Holmes, Night Watchman
Lounges : Taika, Cosmo Village, Elements, Pebbles,
Restobars : Thirteenth Floor, Maya, The Beach, Olive Beach, Hint

I Cantt. help it I say.

My earliest memories of Bangalore are of arriving at the Bangalore Cantonment station at 4 in the morning, and spotting my grandparents waiting for us in the morning mist. They’d scoop my brother and me up in their arms and whisk us off home in a pink ambassador. Their interesting taste in car colours, and the years they spent in weight training in order to scoop fat grandsons off station floors made them strange, but strong people.

I must grudgingly admit to being a sucker for colonial hangovers. I love the little self-contained towns of the cantonment, I love its chilled out people, its charming old worldliness and its beautiful old churches. I love the Catholic Club, complete with old biddies sailing somberly across the dance floor. And I love its street names, that get curiouser and curiouser as one goes easter and easter. Moore road, Ware road, O’Shaugnessey road, Broadway street, Seppings road, Primrose road. Uff, what loverliness and mystery I say! A friend once called me a cantonment wannabe. She’s right, but she’s a Malleshwaram and morkozhambu wannabe herself, so there.

The street names of the cantonment can only be matched in coolness by the names of the cantonment towns. Frazer Town, a case in point, is about the busiest part of the cantonment. Here is where I spend most of my time lurking around friends’ homes waiting for Christmas to happen, so I can sing carols for my supper (or kalkals, cake and home made wine as the case may be). And if that doesnt work, there's always Thom’s at the end of Promenade road, a nice bakery close to the beautiful St John’s church. Thom's is the ideal spot to check out crotchety old ladies in polka dotted dresses accompanied by equally ancient handmaidens called Anthonyamma. But if thats not your thing to do, you could walk down to Sherlock Holmes, a nice 80s pub on Cole’s road. Or check out Taipan, an 80s restaurant that has a hoary tradition of serving near-chinese food in near-darkness, lest you catch sight of what lurks beneath the sofas.

Benson town is a little more ghettoed, though it still has some very pretty bungalows such as the beautiful cottage that belongs to my mudslinging morkozhambu loving friend. Dewar’s Inn, a crazy crumbling joint near the cantt station, is the oldest pub in Bangalore. It has large rattan chairs and grumpy waiters who serve you drinks from out of a godrej almirah. Love it, love it.

Jayamahal, next to Benson Town, is named after the Jayamahal Palace. Once the summer residence of the peshwa of god knows where, it is now a deliciously run down hotel that looks straight from out of a horror movie. The old courtyard used to be open to the sky until the management ran out of silver bullets on full moon nights. It now has a noisy aluminium roof that I’m hoping will blow away this monsoon, so I can howl at the moon from atop my table in peace again. Elements, a safer but essentially avoidable lounge bar on Nandidurg road closeby, seems to draw a fair share of the yuppie crowd. But its not the average Jayamahal Palace goer's cup of blood for sure.

Cooke Town is arguably the prettiest part of the Cantonment, with the lovely Richard’s park, old cottages lining the streets, cute little squares with Goan names, and the often bypassed Bangalore East Railway Station.

Other places in the cantonment that the intrepid (and terribly jobless) traveler might want to check out, are the posh but dusty Langford Town, the once charming Richmond Town, the ungraceful Grace town, the oddly named Cox town, and the Tam stronghold of Austin town where the infant Jesus lives in bathroom tiled splendor.

Honestly though, Id give Baby JC a skip any day, to walk around the cantonment’s two most famous streets: South Parade (MG Road) and Brigade Road. They are the pride, joy and dearest treasure of every Bangalorean. To mud(Mg road Up & Down) and to bud (Brigade road Up & Down) are the two most productive pastimes in Bangalore. Those that haven't yet understood the benefits of these supremely pleasurable activities must come see me immediately.

Jersey Potko

If you’ve experienced the erratic rain of Bangalore then you know how easy it is to use it as an excuse for everything:
“Why are you late?”
“Stuck in the rain.”
“But its 34 degrees in the shade and my cactus is asking for majjige!”
“Im from Malleswaram.”
Pregnant pause.
“Oh ok.”

As an old-timer was wont to say: "Wherever else it rains or doesn’t, it always rains in Malleswaram. And Seattle, where my second son, my neighbour’s daughter, her cousins, all her classmates and their yuppie families live."
Truer words were ne'er spoken. The steep slopes of brain drain central are almost always negotiated through a hazy drizzle, while avoiding slowly liquefying cow pat and fallen sampige flowers. As the years roll on though, less and less of the gentle rain from heaven falls upon the upturned face of Malleswaram’s youth. For the simple reason that dere ain't no youth no more. But perhaps this is also why nobody has meddled much with malleswaram, and much of its old world charm is still intact. Well, except for the flyover and Pizza hut.

THEN AND NOW: My mother remembers Malleswaram as a dark cold hilltop suburb, where people wore nine yards sarees and rattled around big houses with big brooding gardens. Modern day Malleswaram isn’t radically different. Except that it's now in the middle of the city and people wear nine yards sarees and rattle around flats that they exchanged their big bungalows with brooding gardens for. The youth of Malleswaram gathered in temples and libraries, and built up resistance to infection by swimming in the infamous "swimming pool", a natural rock pond, now replaced by the larger albeit less charming Sadashivanagar swimming pool a few hundred yards away. The 7 men and 4 women under thirty five that still inhabit Malleswaram take yogercise lessons and look for discounted airfares online for their parents to visit their siblings abroad with.

THE WEATHER: Whenever the family car turned into Malleshwaram, my great grandmother would say “Jersey potko, jersey potko” (Put on your sweaters) to all the kids in the car, for fear of the legendary icy-cold Malleswaram draft giving them the legendary Malleswaram sniffles. I think my mother had a troubled youth, the poor dear. She still mutters jersey potko, jersey potko to herself whenever she feels a little chilly. It still rains more in Malleswaram than anywhere else though, and the old Jersey Potko draft still blows through it every evening. I love it, though my dad, a Madras man, has a less charitable view towards it. He would freeze solid at the door when he returned home every evening. My mother would have to swathe him in shawls, feed him piping hot coffee and tell him embarrassing stories before he thawed out. Well, perhaps its good old Jersey P thats responsible for preserving Malleswaram so well for so long.

THE FOOD: There are six things you can do in Malleswaram besides geting a good soaking:
(1) sleep all day under a razai
(2) visit the temple
(3) go to 8th cross and
(4-6) eat, eat, eat.
Strolling on 8th cross, talking to the toothless spinach lady and looking at the underwear shops on Sampige road can work up quite an appetite. Which is a good thing, because you need it to do justice to the air-like idly at Veena stores, a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop on 15th Cross, that provides a steady supply of heaven to all who might care to sample it.

But you can’t live on air alone, the same old-timer was also wont to say: “Honey, you aint no Malleswaramite unless y’all say ha’ to Krish at the temple and eat vada at Janatha hotel on 8th cross.” He was just back from helping his daughter reproduce in Texas.

The vadas at Janatha are definitely unique, and the old-world Malleswaramites have a unique way of eating them. An enormous vada is served to you on a tiny plate with a small bowl of sweet (yes) sambar. Dunk the sambar all over the vada and smash it to bits with your spoon until the resultant mixture resembles a gloppy upma. Err, in my humble youthful non-texan opinion, I think the best justice to the truly magnificent janatha vada and the delightful sambar can be done only by savouring them separately.

Top it off with a concert at the temple and a benne masale dose and filter coffee at CTR (with a new fancy name that nobody remembers), and all's well with the world again. Or if you’re one of those “modern sorts”, go get a home-made ice cream cone from the deep voiced goddess-like lady at Amrith Nice Creams on 11th cross.

An evening in heaven for Rs 20. Texas, I have only two words to say to you: Jersey Potko.

Ugh, weddings

I love Dhanur maasa (Dec-Jan). It’s the best season in the south. Its cool, Chennai is bursting its seams with Carnatic concerts, and my happy budday to you is right in the middle of it. Most importantly, it’s one whole month of inauspicious days - weddingless bliss! But now that families are gearing up to get their progeny hitched again, its time for me to go into hiding. Bye bye blissful Dhanur Maasa. Hello relative-avoiding 100kmph dashes in and out of Malleshwaram.

Weddings on my mother’s side are bizarre, though the scenes are always the same. Diamond-eared, silk saree clad women talking to each other in convent school accents about how they are related, and trying to set their children up with each other. Men wearing hang dog expressions, calling each other sir and discussing the current socio-economic situation. NRI kids moping about in their brand new "Indian" clothes, complaining incessantly about the heat and the food in terribly incongruous american accents.

A small foray into the language dynamic of my mom’s side of the family: English is unfortunately the preferred language of communication, though the odd sentence will sometimes be translated into Kannadized Tamil to drive a point home. Oddly though men will only talk to women in Kan-Tam (and vice versa) and switch back to English to talk to each other.

Yeah they’re nuts. But then I love to show them off!

********

Random scenes from a random family wedding


Scene 1: At the entrance of the dining room

Large matronly Aunt (LMA) to Amma: Ooo Gita! How lovvly to see you mah. Eppo vandhey? (when did you come?)

Amma (half hugging aunt with one hand and hitching up her saree with the other) : Just this morning mah. Epdi irkey? (How are you?)

LMA: Just the usual mah. Ive not at allllll been well for six months now. Yoooooooozhul aches and pains. None of us is getting any younger, no? Muhuhuhahaha

Amma : (trademark social giggle) Youve met my son? (points to zoned out son squinting towards the kitchen)

LMA: Oooooooooooooo. Yevlo perivon aipotikkaan. Odhra, gyaapkon ikkardha? Unde paati aanon naane. (Oooo, how big he's become. Do you remember me child? Im your grandmother (doubtless through some torturously complicated relationship)

Me: (shaken out of torpor and trying best not to let on that I wasnt listening) Yeah the traffic was quite heavy on the way.

LMA (confused, but trying her best not to let on that she’s worried about going slightly senile): Aama ma, reaaalllly. ‘Ts become suchaaaaa chore to get out and about these days, no? Its realllly tough. Rombaa kashtmaardhe. (silvery laugh)

LMA (to amma) Yenna mah, paathkundikya ivnke? (Are you looking for him (ie a for a bride)?)

Me: (Stern glower at mother)

Amma (nervouser giggle): Err, you know these kids mah, they have minds of their own..

LMA (Trying to be mod) : Aaama, aaama. Kekve vaanaan (don’t ask) (Turning to me) So? Have you stashed away someone we don’t know about? Someone you go to all those “disco-theques” with every weekend? Oh come on. (nudges) You can tell your grandmother. Don’t worry pah, I wont tell your amma. Nee kekadhe dee (you don’t listen dee) (pushes amma away, the pushee still giggling nervously)

Me: Well there’s only one way to find out aunty. Come to the “discotheque” with me this Saturday.

LMA: Ooooooooo ketya deeee? (Did you hear that di?) (Laughs in a flattered sort of way) Whaaaat’ll an old fuddy duddy like me do rattling around in a discotheque I say.

(to Amma): Adhe maaa, andh Srirangu de pethi ikkaaLe, ingye Benglurle ikka. Rombaa nal pann avluh (You know, Srirangu’s granddaughter, she’s in Bangalore. A really nice girl ) (Looks conspiratorially at me)

Her voice, interspersed with nervous giggles from the maternal, fades away as I zone out again over buckets of chathamdh (rasam) gleaming seductively at me from the kitchen.

**********

Scene 2: Post lunch, pre departure

Appa: Hellooooooo ho-ho (shakes hands with someone I bet he doesn’t remember from Adam.)

The other guy (TOG), coincidentally the husband of LMA: Hello sir, long time. You were outaaf station?

Appa: Not particularly. So? Whats happening?

TOG: Jaasthi yenilla saar (not much sir). Neeve hel beku. (You have to tell me) Howwaar you saar?

Appa: Getting along, getting along.
(calmly thinking of neutral sounding conversation to make with a person he probably wont be able to place all evening)

TOG: I vaas reeding about recent laanch aaf INSAT from SHAR. So? Congratulations.

Appa: Oh ha ha. Thank you thank you. It’s quite a milestone actually.

TOG: But whyyyyy they are wasting time building aaaal these raakets here I say. Whyyyy they cant buy fraam US and laanch I don’t know.

Appa: Well if we develop the competency ourselves, it might be to our advant…

TOG: No but whyyyyyyyyy unnnnnecessarily buildaand aaal that. Simmmmply aaaaal our fellows aaar sitting here and reeeeebuilding yevvverything thatttis aalready available. Whaaaaaaaaat is the use I say.

Appa: (giving up) That’s true.

TOG: So? How are other things?

Appa: Fine, fine. All fine. Huh huh huh.

TOG: Sir you know my wife? (To wife LMA)

Appa: Err yes I think we've met.

LMA (to husband): Oh nanna therime. Geethande yejmaanar mah. (Of course I know him. he's Gita's husband).

TOG: Andh Geethaa? (Which Gita?)

LMA: Adhe mah, Vedvallide akkande de rendavdh naatpanninde thange Srirangnayki gyaapkon ikardha? (You know, Vedavalli's elder sister's 2rd daughter in law's younger sister Sriranganayaki?)

TOG: Oho. Mysore paak vaalaa? (Oh you mean the Mysore paak family?) (All families are crowned with an identifier. This one apparently seems to have a reputation of making good Mysore Paak)

LMA: Anne maa. Mysore paak vaa de haathk pakkathva. (No mah, these are the neighbours of the Mysore Paak family)

TOG: Aareh...? Pakkthaathle Kall-uppu va indha. Avaalk anna aanon? (Who...? I remember the rock salt family used to live there. How is she related to them?)

LMA: Hoon maa, kall-uppva le. Adhe, Srirangnayki irkaale? Avlde pethide naai yeppovon bogulkyunde irkme. Konch na minne pakkth-haath panne kadchoot patpoche - gyaapkon ikkardha? Andh panninde akkonde rendavdh haidhi thaan ivluh - Gita.

(Yes mah, the rock salt family. You know Sriranganayaki of that family, dont you. Remember her granddaughter's dog that would bark all the time, and once bit the neighbour girl and ran away? (presumably in the early 50s!) Well Gita is that girl's elder sister's second daughter.)

TOG: Ohhho, arthon aache. Kere pakkathva aanm anna? (Oh I get it. Don't you mean the lake dwellers?)

LMA: Hoon maa. Romba kitte aanon ava (Yes mah, theyre quite close)

TOG (to Appa) : So vee arr verry closely related aa?

Appa : Yes, apparently. (smiling to himself)

LMA (to Appa): Namskaaron. Romba ketikken ungle pathi. Yeppodhaana engde haathk vaaron. Geethak shollkyunde ikke.
(Namaste. Ive heard so much about you. You must come home sometime. Ive been asking Gita for a long time)

LMA (To Amma): Gita? You musssssst come home some time mah. It’ll be so lovely meeting all of you. Yepo vare ant chollu. Tell me when you’re coming.

LMA (to me) : So? When are you taking me to the disco-theque. Yeppo alchkund pore disco-thequ-ke?

Me: (cringing in fear, and pulling foot out of mouth momentarily to kick myself) Annnnytime aunty. (borrowing mother’s nervous giggle and vanishing quietly)

*******
My only interest in weddings this year is the food. I think Ill send a tiffin box with Amma to represent me. Oth’wise I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it mah. I’ll be very bored. Romba bore aarna.