Janatha hotel sambar recipe

"I have cooked for the chief minister Bangarappa. I was also a chef at the Janatha hotel," bragged Shri Gururaj as he rolled up the dosa from the hot gridle. Gururaj was no ordinary cook. We considered ourselves very lucky to have been able to engage his services during our visit to Bangalore in 2002. The mention of the Janatha Hotel caught my attention like a lump of jaggery's  to an ant.

"How do they make sambar at the Janatha Hotel? " I asked eagerly.

"Do you want another dosa?" replied Gururaj.

"Sure," I said readying my plate and transferring my thoughts on the crispy red dosa. It was not until I finished my plate  that I realized he had overlooked my question.

"You didn't tell me how they make sambar at the Janatha Hotel," I asked him again.

"Do you want some chatni?" replied Gururaj. Was he hard of hearing or was he simply eluding my question?

"ree Gururaj, " I said raising my voice, "You must tell me how they make sambar at the Janatha Hotel."

"Are you ready for coffee?" replied Gururaj dodging me again.

I was not going to give up. I was only a split short of shaking Shri Gururaj by his collar.

"You are not leaving without telling me the secret of the Janatha Hotel."

"solpa gasgase haaki sar," was all that Shri Gururaj said to my nagging request.

I could  never learn the actual recipe but Gururaj had given me a valuable clue. I have been trying for years and  my sambar still doesn't taste like Janatha.  What follows next is by best attempt.

Ingredients:

• tur dal 3/4 cup
• tamarind 1 fistful (or to taste) - soak in water for 30 mins minimum
• MTR or any sambar powder 3 tbs
• chili powder 1 tbs
• poppy seeds (ಗಸಗಸೆ /  खस खस)  3tbs
• coriander seeds 2 tbs
• tomato 8 med size - cut each into 2-3 slices
• onion 2 - chopped (not quite finely)
• coconut grating 1/2 cup
• haldi 1 tbs 
• salt to taste
• curry leaves
• jaggary - 1 or 2 cubes.

Preparation:

1.  cook tur dal in pressure cooker
2.  boil  tomatoes with a little water for about 20 minutes , add haldi 
3.  shallow fry onions
4.  shallow fry poppy seeds + coriander seeds for a couple of minutes (taking care not to over burn) and then finely grind using a hand stone grinder with a dash of water  or dry grind in a coffee grinder 
5. wet grind with into a thick paste the mix of: 
• the above powder from 4
• half of  cooked tur dal from 1 
• half of boiled tomatoes  from 2 
• half of shallow fried onions from 3  
• coconut grating 
• sambar powder and chili powder. 
• add a cup or two of water to aid grinding. 
6. In a large pan start boiling everything together, adding the remaining tur dal, shallow fried onions, cooked tomatoes, tamarind paste and curry leaves
7. add  jaggary and salt to taste (how much jaggary? sorry it is hard to quantify).
8. add just enough water so as to bring the samabar to the right consistency
9. let it boil for a good 20-30 minutes in low heat
10. garnish with vaggarne

 

A Desi party and the reluctant host

-A very short story

(Printed in Deccan Herald: February 11, 2007)

J T Galagali (jgalagali@yahoo.com)

It was one of those merry desi parties in America, where a dozen or so families had gathered at a mutual friend’s. It might have been a birthday or a house warming or a pot luck or baby shower or some or the other such party. The occasion is irrelevant here; suffice to know, it was simply one of those merry desi parties, where a dozen or so families had gathered at a mutual friend’s.

Ladies sat in the family room and slashed conceited opinions about the schools their children studied and the expensive jewelry their anxious husbands gifted. One’s depression collided empathetically with another’s of an identical shape and size , and the third, whose children were in college, felt her depression was even deeper than the Grand Canyon. Someone’s decision about going back to India for good the year next was met with someone else’s ridicule.

A friend nudged at another and whispered spice, feeling compelled to point at the moral defects in an Indian artist, whose local fame had been reigning supreme in that easily excitable community. A mom spoke passionately about what children must do to make it to the Ivy Leagues; and another mom who knew all about it and more, remained silent considering it unwise to share her knowledge lest others took advantage; and a vast majority of them unequivocally agreed, there ought to have been strict laws that dealt categorically with all mothers-in-law.

Little girls played noisily in the backyard and chit chatted about Barbie dolls. Bigger girls debated with heat on Tom Cruise and Hrithik Roshan. Boys screamed for their turn at the video gadgets; older boys being older boys exchanged notes on Kobe Bryant’s misadventures; and the teenagers talked about driving licenses, cool web sites, hot crushes, and shared mutual gripes about the nuisance of having to accompany parents on their socializing trips.


Men, having earlier switched TV channels and browsed free copies of Economist and Times at the book shop or internet or perhaps while waiting at the barber's , spoke with authority on matters such as Bush, Iraq, economy and outsourcing. The knowledge they exhibited seemed profound. The insider information about corporate America they exchanged seemed red hot off the press. Their insights on the economic future seemed as crystal and clear as the images from the Hubble telescope. So much so that, Greenspan, had he been eavesdropping behind a window, would have scribbled notes on his cigarette case and called his broker to place rush orders on his privately held stocks. A couple of recent home owners listened apprehensively to their renter friends lecturing on the imminent explosion of the housing market and the old timers dismissed the bubble theory with supreme confidence.

The desi party, in other words, was progressing with a text book like perfection.


II

Our courteous hostess, Tulaza Gowpande (“Tula” to friends and “Tulazabai” to her mother-in-law and to the IRS), ballooned with satisfaction not only at the puris she bulged from the frying pan but also upon the reflection that, before the cycle of obligation fell once again upon her to owe the next party, she could look forward to many more owed by others where she would just be a nonchalant guest.


However, our hero, Tukaram Gowpande loathed all such gatherings and was cursing himself at the painful necessity of playing the amicable host. He loved reading thrillers and would rather have stretched his legs upon the teapoy, treating himself to a cup of tea and Dan Brown’s latest. Instead, he lent his wife a helping hand, or rather two helping hands, for he was a conscientious husband who understood what was good for him. Casting a tolerant smile like a male Mona Lisa masking his sorrows, he went about his errand, refilling the empty glasses with the cheap wine of which he had gotten an abundant supply from the Trader Joe's.


At the prospect of striking a conversation in the nature of even an idle chat, such as remarks about weather, Gowpande’s reluctance resembled the engine of an overloaded bus. He, instead, found it less cumbersome to put on the act of a good listener. He had learnt to alleviate the awkwardness of a pause just at the point where it would have become uncomfortable by interposing an innocent remark or a harmless question. He would then fix his eyes upon the person who wished to hold the floor, shake his head in just the agreeable direction, raise his eyebrows by the correct inches, shrug his shoulders to the precise width or merely say, “really?" in a manner so as to indicate complete harmony with the speaker’s opinion – only Sherlock Holmes with professional help from detective Karamchand, after exhausting their respective stocks of tobacco and carrots could have detected in Gowpande’s manner, a poised attention one hundred percent fake.

Gowpande wondered dreamily when would he see the moment, when that moment would be his own moment. Wouldn’t the day ever dawn when he could indulge himself in so much as simple pleasures of life? Wouldn’t he ever be able to bring himself to reading the unfinished pages of The Da Vinci Code?

Wouldn’t he? He pondered. Why couldn’t he? Or rather, why shouldn’t he?

What, thought Gowpande, if he disappeared now to a quiet spot where he was unlikely to be found and engage himself with some of his favorite things that he wanted to do, but never quite got to? Would anyone notice? Would anyone come looking for Tukaram Gowpande?

Probably not, he reflected. He was already done with his errands for the party. Earlier in the afternoon he had helped his wife with the cooking, vacuumed the house, and had laid out the dinner buffet, complete with paper cups, cutleries and trash bags.

Gowpande was alive to the realization that his was not a compelling personality that caused guests to long for his society. They seldom payed attention to him, unless they wanted to ask their way to the toilet or needed a spoon, which he knew to be an unlikely contingency, as none of the guests were strangers in his house. He knew his society attracted as much social attention as a paper weight. A professor of psychology would have summed up Gowpande as, “a subject, neither whose presence can be felt, nor whose absence.”

He looked at his watch. It was only half past seven. Experience told him that the party would not be over any time soon. The propensity of the guests to linger around for indefinite periods was well known. During this time he could have sneaked out to watch a movie, or play solitude, or visit a book store, or simply curl up and read a thriller.

Thriller! It was at this point while contemplating the possibilities that he remembered the unfinished Da Vinci Code.

Strange, how people, while brooding intensely over questions of extreme complexity react when they see the answers suddenly in a flash.

Einstein, one day, while eating turkey with his relatives, is reported to have risen abruptly and said, “excuse me, I shall be back in a moment. I just discovered the theory of relativity.” He then is said to have sprinted to his study, and just in time before it eloped his memory, wrote down “E=MC2” on the back of an envelope that contained a sharp reminder from one of his creditors. Some centuries earlier, Archimidis, under the influence of a sudden flash on a different topic, is chronicled to have flung out of his bathroom and ran all over Syracuse in an underwear, shouting, “Eureka!”

Gowpande hesitated no longer. He headed towards the chest in his bed room, picked up his copy of Da Vinci Code, and, unlike Archimidis, who had chosen to run away from the bathroom, walked into it with purposeful steps and closeted himself inside. And there in the bathroom he sat, happily catching up with the trail of detective Langdon- the book's hero.

Outside, children continued to make merry; ladies, compared this, contrasted that, playing on each other's emotional strings; and men, humdrum-ing their views on raising interest rates and other current affairs, made themselves comfortable sinking their trouser seats deeper into the sofas - none had the foggiest inkling that their host was not among those present.

To put everything in a nutshell, God was in his heaven blessing the world; the host was inside the bathroom absorbed in the thriller; and, outside, all was splendid and just right with the desi party.


END

One day in Hawaii: Close encounters with the American kind

(Printed in Deccan Herald: 2006 April 16,23,30) jgalagali@yahoo.com Dec. 2005


“Got your tickets?” asked the tour guide who had fetched up in front of the hotel lobby in the minivan that displayed the banner: Hawaii Mountain Bike Cruisers. I handed him the slip of paper. After murmuring to himself, “ family of four,” he checked our names on what looked like a trip sheet provided by his company. Extending a friendly hand, he introduced himself as Joe, and told us to hop in.

We were looking forward to this popular Hawaiian attraction. About a dozen people were already inside the van and we were all headed to the summit of Mt. Haleakla. From its peak, which is about 10,000 feet, we would be riding downhill on bicycles, all the way to the sea level.

The morning was young and fresh, and the sun, which had woken up without much fuss was shining with its customary brilliance. We wore Hawaiian attires and the air inside was fragrant from an assortment of perfumes and aftershaves. Having earlier satisfactorily completed our morning ablutions, and made the best of the unlimited breakfast, we were feeling pepped to no little extent. Conditions being such, an atmosphere of “Aloha!” and a mood of relaxed jocundity prevailed inside the van.

“Hi! I am Barbara,” greeted an impressive woman who was seated conspicuously in the middle seat of the van. Well stricken in years, she was a classic sample from the millions of erstwhile babies that had boomed in America when the dust from the world wars had settled. Her cheerful smile dimpled a couple of neat holes cutting through the primary, secondary, and upper coatings of her makeup. In her full bloom of youth, her looks could possibly have halted John F Kennedy’s car on his way to Marilyn Monroe's home.

“My husband Charlie,” continued Barbara, pointing at the hale gentleman seated next to her, who presumably had attained senior citizenship some years before Barbara had. The gentleman, hitherto engrossed in viewing the blue Pacific from his window seat, turned reluctantly, materialized a hasty smile, said “howdy!”, and switched off the smile with equal haste as he turned back to resume watching the scenery.

“Paula and Peter from Pennsylvania,” continued Barbara showcasing a couple of other baby boomers who were seated behind her. “Scott and Beatrice from Virginia, and Somerset, Oscar and young Elton from California.”

From the ease with which she conducted the introductions, I could sense she had nominated herself as some sort of the Master of Ceremonies for the group inside the van. I could not help but marvel at her knack of remembering names of complete strangers.

Paula and Peter raised their hands and smiled generously, and seemed delighted to have us in their midst. We reciprocated with similar gestures indicating it was all right with us too.

The chaps, Oscar and Somerset were seated in the rear; Elton was the latter’s teenage son and was immersed in his world bounded by earphones coming out of an i-pod – the trio had boarded the van from a hotel before ours. I was wondering why the wives had not accompanied them on this trip. Must have gone shopping, I fancied.

Scott extended a broad hand and shook mine loosely. I had known not to trust people whose hand shake was not firm and hence lost no time in cultivating a dislike for him. Squarely jawed and broadly shouldered, he had the disposition of one who had grudgingly settled to be the villain’s third sidekick – the roles of the hero, the villain, and the latter’s first two sidekicks being taken up by more eligible candidates. He had a prominent pout that lent him a contemptuous manner. We were later to understand that he came from a lineage that once thrived in Jamestown, trading African citizens.

Scott’s wife Beatrice was of the blonde and the beautiful type. Unlike her husband who could be counted on to give his ninety eight cents worth of valuable opinion on all matters ranging from the moon to rotten tomatoes, Beatrice sat quietly, as if musing on a secret agony inflicted by her peer at work.

“And, you are?” asked Barbara concluding the introductions and regarding me and my family with a look of honest curiosity.

“I am Joe. Aloha everybody!” announced the tour guide from the front seat, just as I was about to mention my name for the privilege of staying etched in Barbara’s incredible memory. “And this is my son Jupiter; he recently turned eighteen and got his license,” continued Joe patting the teenager who in fact was driving the van. A sprightly young lad with a face interspersed with whiskers of teenage foliage turned around and greeted, “Aloha!”

Joe went on, “On our way down the mountain, I will be biking at the front and you will follow me in single file, with Jupiter in the van covering us from behind.” He proceeded to explain the rules and had us sign legal disclaimers to the effect that his company was not going to be liable in the event of any of us loosing a life or a limb or two.


The journey up the mountain lasted about three hours. There was no dearth of variety and vigor in the conversation. Barbara spoke with relish about the business tours she had undertaken to China during her heydays. Scott was curious to know if the Chinese celebrated Thanksgiving, and said he was at a complete loss to understand why their new year came in February. Paula said, kittens were more fun than kids, and between her and Peter, they raised six of them - all born to cats of course. The tour guide Joe talked fondly about his son Jupiter, his wife, and how much he valued spending quality time with them. Paula was curious why Joe had stopped at just one child. Joe laughed her remarks away with a philosophical, “you have, what you have.” Peter said he was a Vietnam war veteran, and was brimming with exaggerated anecdotes of his combats.

The conversation later dwelt on the Silicon Valley. It was then my turn to supply them the grapevine. I narrated anecdotes about start-ups, acquisitions, expensive homes and billionaires from Atherton, stuff that I had mostly heard from my acquaintances; and I told them without acknowledging the sources and with such abandon that even Scott was impressed. I could sense they were beginning to wonder if it was not my established routine to hobnob frequently with the likes of Larry Page and Sergey Brin.

“Year 2000 was even more eventful,” I said, marshaling my thoughts and warming up to talk more.

“The journey’s end,” announced the tour guide Joe cutting short my speech. We had reached the peak of Mt. Haleakala. “Stretch yourselves, relax, enjoy the sights, take photographs, and get ready to ride your bicycles down.”

II



“Wow! Just like the moon’s surface,” said Barbara admiring the scenery of the much hyped lunar like surface atop the passive volcanic mountain.

“Rubbish,” said Scott. “It is nothing like that!”

“You talk as though you have bicycled on moon too,” said Barbara indignantly.

“So says Neil who has seen both places,” said Scott.

“Neil who?” enquired Barbara.

“Neil Armstrong. I had heard him in Ohio many years back when I was a kid. He was the guest speaker at a boy scout event,” told Scott.

The rest of us drifted away to a quieter place leaving Barbara and Scott to thrash the issue, and took “happy family” pictures against the backdrop of the moonscape.

It was some two hours later when we reached a church at the base of the mountain near by a beach. It felt incredible to think we had actually biked down from 10,000 feet. Child’s play of course, we just had to hold the balance and use the breaks while we coasted down the hair pin bends. What with the cool air breezing over the temples and the panoramic views of the Pacific soothing the eyes, the descent downhill seemed more like an effortless flight.

The tour guide Joe’s son Jupiter played ukulele singing Hawaiian songs while we had a spot of picnic lunch. Nobody paid attention to him except at times when he reached higher octaves – he would then sound like one suffering from intense stabs of abdominal pain – we had to pause to make sure if it wasn’t his appendicitis.

Joe went around with an open hat, soliciting tips. From the corner of my eyes, I could see Barbara tipping handsomely, some of us grudgingly parted with a few dollars and Scott, as only to be expected, waved an apologetic hand. Joe said “Mahalo!,” and later departed in a car parked nearby, leaving the party in charge of son Jupiter to ride us back to our hotels.


III



We were a little tired although not exhausted as we took our seats inside the van. The warmth of the afternoon sun had melted a considerable portion of the morning freshness. In addition to that, it had melted away the primary, secondary, and upper coatings of Barbara’s make-up leaving behind a vast square feet of corrugated skin.

“Phew! that was some trip,” began Barbara looking at fellow senior citizen Paula.

“Yes. It was gorgeous. Do you come to this island often?” asked Paula.

“Yes, I and Charlie come here every year. We have a condo that Charlie got to keep from his previous wife. I had also been here a few times before with my first husband."

"Is Charlie your second husband?" asked Paula.

"No, he is the third. My marriage with my first husband didn’t work very well and we had to break up. My second husband died as he was already 89 when I married him. Bless his soul, he left me a good pot of money. Around the same time Charlie had had a divorce from his second wife. I met Charlie at my second husband's funeral and we were a runaway hit!” said Barbara, caressing Charlie’s wrinkled neck which had turned red like a tomato. He patted her back and continued to look outside of the window.

“How many kids do you have?” asked Paula

“Two sons from my ex-husband and a step daughter from Charlie. When I married Charlie twelve years back, we worked towards having a kid of our own... Oh well, I guess you have to accept you can’t get everything you want.. And you?” asked Barbara.

“Oh! that is a long story,” said Paula. “My ex-husband had an affair with the janitor and ran away with her to Mexico. I decided never to marry again and took to nursing. I met Peter seventeen years back at the intensive care unit where his wife was lying in a state of coma. Poor Peter. He had to make a tough choice .”

“About what?” enquired Barbara.

“Whether or not to let his wife die. Her condition was going down day by day without any hope of recovery. He was on what they call, horns of dilemma, and finally it was I who removed his wife’s life support system.”

“How sad,” said Barbara managing to roll a tear, one half from each eye.

“It was very sad indeed. Peter, my precious rabbit, felt devastated and cried like a baby,” said Paula. It was interesting to learn that rabbits cried like babies. “He needed all love and care he could get, I couldn’t help bringing myself to staying closely with him, and have never quite parted,” said Paula rubbing her eyes which turned moist due to friction. “And I went on to live with Peter. For seventeen years he has been my boy friend and we finally married earlier this year.” It was a touching tale that appealed to the womanly sentiments. All eyes panned over to Peter, only to find him deep asleep and snoring.

“And bless us, we thought of going on a honeymoon and here we are!” said Paula.

“We too are on a honeymoon,” said Scott.

“Is this a first marriage for both of you?” asked Barbara.

“Yes,” answered Scott.

I was pleased to hear this. I mean to say, a regular young couple at last, without a record of ex- wife’s or ex-husbands.

“Since how long have you known Beatrice?” asked Barbara.

“Less than a year perhaps. We first met at a mutual friend’s and fell for each other like a couple of Humpty Dumptys,” said Scott trying to become comical. “We got married soon after. But then..”

“Stop it!” cried his wife Beatrice.

“It is all right, no harm in letting our new pals know how we stand,” continued Scott. “We simply could not see eye to eye on many things that we ought to have as husband and wife, and we thought, hey, why bother being husband and wife? Last night we decided to file for a divorce. We will complete the paperwork after we head back home.”

“Good for you both,” said Barbara who was two thumbs up for divorces and remarriages.

“Jupiter, are you a Polynesian?” asked Barbara switching her attention.

“Yes,” replied the teenage son of our tour guide.

“But your dad doesn’t look like a Polynesian,” remarked Barbara.

“Because he is my step-dad,” explained Jupiter. “And I was four when he married my mom,” he added hastily, erasing scope for further imagination on this topic.

“He seemed very fond of you,” said Barbara.

“Yes. He is very fond of me indeed,” said Jupiter reverently.

“The way I love my son Elton,” said Somerset. This was the first time Somerset ever said anything. Thickset and middle aged, and seated quietly in the rear with Oscar and son Elton, he seemed a private individual who preferred to be left alone. If you were in the mood for an idle chat with an random stranger, and if the stranger turned out to be Somerset, you would tell your mood to go for a hike.

Barbara asked the very question that was on top of several minds, “Where is Elton’s mom?”

"Well..," Somerset weighed the question. After struggling for a few seconds he decided to come unstuck. Such was Barbara’s spell. “Don’t know. All I can say is, she was the scum of the species. We didn’t do well together. She left me a few years back,” said Somerset. “I had had enough of women and was lucky to meet Oscar at a bar in Castro, San Francisco. Like me, he too had had enough of women. We both had a man to man talk and decided to became domestic partners. We now live happily together in San Francisco and have adapted Elton, who is my ex wife’s son.”

Had Barbara been a man, he, Somerset, would have laid his head on her, Barbara’s, or rather his, Barbara’s, lap and asked him, Barbara, to stroke his, Somerset’s head.

I recoiled at the various stories I had been obliged to hear. I looked at my wife with concern. She too was reassembling her composure after having similarly recoiled.

“What a marvel, what a marvel life’s journey is!” said Barbara turning her wrists heavenwards in a biblical sort of manner. “We ought to thank Providence for the wonderful opportunity of those initial marriages and the lessons they teach. From relation to relation, from marriage to marriage, we keep moving on, learning along the journey what works and what doesn’t, what’s good for us and what isn’t, until comes such a day when we meet our dream boy or girl, who will carry us through!”

The crowd nodded their heads in approval and admiration. Personally, I had not heard anything so consummately foul.

“And you, Sir?” Barbara asked sweetly, zooming her attention on me. “I don’t remember having asked your name. How remiss of me!”

I was not prepared for this. Well, I had nothing against introducing myself, but I was not looking forward to speaking further about our married life, of which I was certain Barbara would be infinitely curious. I looked out of the window hoping to see my hotel, and noticed that we had only reached as far as Lahaina. Our hotel was at Kanapali - five more minutes drive before we could get out of this van.

“I am..,” I paused for a fleeting fraction of a second. Should I merely mention my logo, or should I unleash my name complete?

“I am Pillai,” I said boldly, deciding to do this in stages.

“peelay?” asked dear Barbara.

“No, piLLaI.”

“pill plus eye?”

“piLLaI,” I rolled the word luxuriantly, like the legendary Chemabai would have, while calling the attention of an errand boy by the name of Pillai, to fetch a tumbler of warm water.

“Oh, I give up,” said Barbara giving up.

I then gave her the works.

“PiLLaI is our family name. My name in full is, MaaNikyavasagam Appulingam Balamurugan-Chokkalingam PiLLaI”

“Wow!” said Barbara overwhelmed.

“MaaNikyavasagam is my first name, Appulingam is my father’s name, Balamurugan-Chokkalingam is my grand father’s name, and PiLLaI of course is our family name.”

“Wow! wow!! wow-wow!!!” said Barbara, awarding one ‘wow’ to me and the rest to my ancestors.

“And your wife and kids?”

“I am coming now to the wife and kids,” I said. “Meet my wife ANbarasi, my daughter AanDaL, and my son ShaTagopan.”

I knew it would be futile to try and find a shelter from Barbara’s barrage of questions. However, with my confidence getting significantly braced as a result of having humbled her with my splendid start, I decided to roll forward.

“This has been our first marriage. We have been married for twenty years and have been very happy,” I said handsomely. “And yes, our two children you just met are our own. We have no offspring outside of this marriage. ”

“How very interesting!” said Barbara. “Don’t you and your wife have disagreements and arguments?”

“Yes, often! We thank Providence for providing us ample opportunities to disagree – for, a marriage without petty quarrels is like..” curd rice without pickles? No, they wouldn’t understand.. Hotdog without a dog? Heck, no!
“..McDonald’s without French fries,” I completed, thanking my wit for lending quick service.

“We don’t believe that our present problems can be handled by a future wife or husband,” I said borrowing a dialog from a Tamil movie.

“From one anniversary to the next, we keep moving on, discovering what works best, and understanding what doesn’t, making a small sacrifice here, and showing some patience there, ” I hammered further. “We are blissfully happy the way we are.”

I was full tank with pluck and dash, and was in no eager frame of mind to stop. However I soon realized I had to, for the van had pulled up in front of our hotel lobby.

Before Barbara could coin a concluding remark, we had stepped out of the van. Turning backwards, we waved a genial good bye and were gratified to see several hands from inside reciprocate.

IV

A few minutes later as we entered the hotel elevator en route to our room upstairs, I noticed that Anbarasi was beckoning my attention. In case you do not remember who she is, for, one’s memory is seldom as sharp as Barbara's – she , Anbarasi I mean, not Barbara, is, and has been my life partner ever since we did the seven laps around the holy fire that auspicious day.

"yennanga? " Anbarasi asked at length.

“yenna sollu,” I replied warmly.

“It has been a long while since we ate South Indian food,” grieved my associate in sickness and in good health.

“Today is our last day of vacation here. We are leaving tomorrow.”

“It has been a long while since we saw our fellow folks,” observed my mate in depression and in happiness.

“Yes, after arriving tomorrow evening, we will head straight to Sunnyvale Saravana Bhavan before going home."

There could have been no more agreeable conclusion to the vacation than to end the itinerary with a dinner at Saravana - the place to unstiffen the lips, toss away the fork and spoon, and dig the bare hands into the goods with relish.

At the mention of the above, my better half brightened like a sunflower. Had she been a teenager, she would have swung her fists with a "Yyessss!"

End


Credits: Above picture from- http://ratnagiri.org/