An Ode to Komala Vilas

It sits inconspicuously at No. 78 on the crowded Serangoon Road, just one in a row of bustling shops and restaurants. The greatest institutions have no need for advertisement, and this one is no different. There are no boys handing out pamphlets luring the passerby in, unlike at some of the newer establishments on the same road,. The signboard simply says "Komala Vilas Vegetarian Restaurant". The lettering "ESTD 1947" below the name is the only flash of self indulgence, affirming that amid a sea of change, quality survives.

The uninitiated sometimes confuse KV with the Komala's chain of vegetarian restaurants. Those in the know would only shake their heads with pity. The latter is modelled on a fast food chain, with waiters in orange t-shirts and red caps, and has "Mock Mutton Biryani" on its menu. I suspect the owners of KV would rather sell out than allow any such item on theirs.

This is not to say that the KV menu is strictly South Indian. Apart from an array of dosas and other South Indian snacks, they also serve Veg Jal Farezi, Veg Biryani and the like. But what sets this place apart from the crowd is the South Indian meal, aka "Rice Plate" aka "Saapaad".

I suspect most of the clientele (a mix of Indian, Chinese, and Caucasian) have not chanced their way into this restaurant. They have been here before, and have come back knowing they cannot get the same elsewhere. As I enter, one of the staff mutters, "Rice Plate Upstairs". I feel a bit disappointed to be guided as a novice, clearly not seen often enough yet to be considered a regular.

I make my way up the narrow staircase, nod at the several black and white wooden framed photographs on the wall (representing, I guess generations of the owner family) and offer to pay for my meal first as per usual procedure. But the lady at the cash counter graciously says I can eat first. I look around and can tell why - today being Tuesday, the restaurant is only about sixty per cent full.

I find myself a small table meant for two, settle down on the familiar rexine cushioned chair, and place my hands on the table to test its wobble (a critical factor when negotiating rasam spread on a banana leaf). In a couple of minutes a banana leaf spreads itself on my table, with an array of curries, chutneys and dal adorning it, encircling a hillock of white rice.

I dig in, and within a couple of morsels, feel assured that the cooking staff here have not lost any of their touch. The dry raw banana preparation is outstanding. The beans poriyal could have been made in my mum's kitchen. The chana dal chutney, my dad's favourite, would have done my grandma proud. The Vatha Kuzhambu adds necessary zing to the palate. The radish sambar is heart-warming. KV's rasam is the only thing that I am not bowled over by, partial as I am to the stronger tomato heavy Bangalore variety (preferably with a hint of jaggery), but let's not split hair here.

The senior waiter on the floor is attending to me today, and makes five approaches to my table during my meal, to check if I need anything. I am almost apologetic about not asking for second helpings, but it is hard enough to get through all of the initial serving. Curd and payasam round off a hearty meal.

In relationships, there comes a point beyond which one loses ones capacity for objectivity, and can hear no criticism on the subject of discussion. I feel that way about a select few - my dearest family and friends, favourite movies, sportsmen, holiday destinations etc. I fear I am close to reaching that stage with KV. What is so special about the food here, one may ask. I can only say it is tasty, fresh and un-restaurantlike.

Inflation has not left KV untouched, and I remember the meal, now priced at $7, costed 50 cents less on my last trip to Singapore. Still, if there is a better way to spend seven bucks in this city, I would like to see it.

Year of the Dragon

It is the first day of the Chinese Lunar New Year. It's the Year of the Dragon, the only mythical creature in the Chinese Zodiac. The last time we had the dragon come around, it was the turn of the century.

The excellent thing about New Years is that they start with a holiday. CNY is a big event in Singapore, and most offices are shut for two days. This time, the first day of the New Year fortuitously falls on Monday, resulting in a four day weekend.

My New Year began with tossing a salad at my cousin's (now a Singapore veteran of 16 months), a traditional ritual to welcome the Chinese New Year. This is called Yu Sheng and while the real thing has strips of raw fish, we made do with a vegetarian substitute.

Seeing a long weekend stretching ahead of me, I found license to make it even lazier than usual, catching two movies back to back at the neighbourhood cinema. The two movies, "Contraband" (action thriller) and "The Descendants" (human relationships drama) were far apart in content, but both thoroughly enjoyable.

The weekend also gave me the time to sit back and re-connect with some friends and family I hadn't chatted with in a while. My social calendar in Singapore has suddenly started looking busier, with entry into a Book Club I was introduced to via my cousin. There's a bit of pressure, given the commitment to read a book every two months, and then talk about it. The latter bit makes me feel like I am on that TV talk show hosted by Whoopi Goldberg, but I believe it's all in a good cause.

While I was just loitering around the shopping area on Orchard Road, a passerby who seemed to guess I had nothing better to do, asked if I could help escort a blind lady to the bus stop a block away. I did this, and felt a lot better about myself than I had in a long while. Doing good feels good - no doubt about that.

I tried looking up what the Year of the Dragon 2012 has in store, but couldn't find anything that clearly made a statement, one way or the other. If the start is anything to go by, I think it's going to be A Good Year.

Gong Xi Fa Cai.

Solo in Singapore

I lived with my parents when I started working after college, and moved out only after marriage, thereby by-passing the bachelor lifestyle that embellishes many a middle-aged memoir. Life, as they say, usually gives you at least a second chance, and my time has come now.

I live on a busy but quiet street, quite centrally located. I was attracted by the exterior – a white two storey building that looked like it had been around for many years, and certainly for much longer than the modern multi-storey condominium across the street. It has a small iron gate that is never locked. When the agent opened the main door and took me up a wooden staircase that creaked under our every step, my instinct was confirmed, and I knew this would be home for the next few months.
The inside of my mini studio seemed just right for one or two, and too small for a family. Wooden flooring, double bed (super king size as the agent claimed – not quite truthfully, I think), cable TV with 3 Indian channels, fridge, cook top, shower , toilet, kitchen with some plates and cutlery. The washing machine has an array of options with an electronic display that would impress a pilot.

I have never made myself very useful around the house, but with a housekeeper (whom I have never seen) coming in once a week, I found myself with little choice but to take on at least some domestic chores. Ranking items in order of increasing drudgery, I have always found it’s a toss-up between doing dishes and ironing for the dubious distinction of “Most Painful”. I don’t know what I was thinking – ironing clearly stands supreme in this regard. Dishwashing, especially when one isn’t doing too much cooking beyond omelettes and tea, is a breeze. Ironing shirts that have been through a three hour washing/drying cycle, to emerge with more wrinkles than on the face of a 100 year Kurdish tribal woman that I think I once saw on the cover of National Geographic, is a different matter altogether.

I very quickly made my search for a neighbourhood laundry the top item on my agenda. Most turned out to be surprisingly picky, choosing to iron shirts only if they had also washed them for you, which seemed to me a bit like a barber saying he would only shave you if you let him cut your hair first. But in the end, I found the “Systematic Laundromat” which was clearly ahead of competition in terms of customized solutions, and also offered “Ironing Only” in its product suite. I was chided by the woman in charge for getting lint over my trousers which I had washed together with my underwear, and also bringing my clothes in slightly damp, but in the end I guess she didn’t hate me enough to refuse the business. Deal done, it was worth the money and the embarrassment.

On the culinary front, I have progressed a little beyond toast and tea. The last couple of times, I managed not to burn the rice, and concocted some edible mixture of vegetables in a broth, spiced up with some curry powder and chillies. It’s the sort of thing that tastes not bad when hot. I think it could be convincingly sold in a tea stall on a mountainous road that they show in some TV ads, as a Tibetan staple food that the locals eat with yak cheese, or something like that.

I work late during the week, and when I come back up my creaky staircase and open my door to the studio in the same state of disarray that I left it in the morning, it feels good to be home, however temporary, it may be. And when the bed is made, and the dishes nice and dry by the sink, I know it’s Tuesday and my invisible weekly help has been here.

Hanging around the Orchard

People make a big deal about Bangalore being called the Garden City, because the gardens are scattered and visible only fleetingly in the city's traffic. Orchard Road in Singapore is also rather inappropriately named. The orchard, if it exists, is well hidden. As per Wikipedia, "Orchard Road got its name from the nutmeg, pepper and fruit orchards or the plantations that the road led to in the mid-1800s." Obviously, re-naming roads in their present context is not a priority.

So this city is my new home. I am not yet sure how I feel about it. Sydney felt like a leisurely extended vacation. Bangalore is my "permanent" home. This city impresses me with its efficient public transport, law and order, sheer number of eateries, multiculturalism, and monuments to consumerism. Some say the city lacks character. How does one define this term? Can a city develop into a major international commercial hub with hardly any resources of its own, and yet be lacking in character, I wonder?

It is nice to be in a world class city that is only a four hour flight away from the mother country. For the short term fix, there is Little India with its amazing concentration of restaurants offering quality South Indian food. Yet, when I browse through the food courts, the pungency of foreign smells assails me, reminding me of how far away I am from home ground.

Home? Not quite. Once my family joins me, maybe then.

Shafted on a raft

In the spirit of “When was the last time you did something for the first time”, we decided to give white water rafting a shot on our recent Dasara family trip to the Bheemeshwari Adventure and Nature Camp located two and a half hours away from Bangalore. Having been assured by our guides that it is a beginner level course, we stepped into our rafts with some trepidation that turned to confidence when the rowing went quite smoothly for the first ten minutes or so.

A kilometre or so downstream, we got our first taste of undulating waters, the boat shuddering over a series of speedbreakers. Still, we are hardly wet and the excitement comes more from the guide yelling “Fast for’ard, fast for’ard” like the captain from an epic seafaring movie, exhorting his crew to row harder, than from any demons in the water. How big was that rapid? someone asks our guide.

The rapids have not started, that was just a wave.

Uh-oh.

A little further, we see a crocodile, a hundred or so metres, away sunning itself atop a rock jutting out of the Cauvery. Er, do they attack humans? (translated as - how safe as we in these plastic rafts?)

They are harmless. The river has enough fish, and it only has to open its mouth for a couple of fish to swim in. These are not man-eaters. We occasionally have a dead human floating in the river, and the crocs don’t touch it.

Comforting. Still, my hands instinctively move up the paddle, distancing themselves from the possible outlier that may be looking for a change in diet.

We then go through the first stretch of rapids, a biggish mean-looking swell that lets us free fall a couple of feet and then staunchly resists our efforts to paddle over it. But somehow, we move forward, and cross one more swell, and then another. The team cries out in a collective yell combining fear- delight-wetness.

Hmm..that was actually good fun.

Deciding that we are now nicely into the spirit of things, our guide decides to show us “surfing”. We row forward, reaching a big rock, where the current splits up across the two faces of the rock, skirts it, and re-joins at the opposite end in a violent collision that gives our raft a nice shake-up. As a result of some weird hydrodynamics, the boat refuses to remain steady, and keeps keeling over to one side and then another, while spinning at the same time. Basically doing everything other than moving straight ahead. At one point, I find my hands and feet still in the boat, fingers clutching the lifeline along its edge, with the rest of me in water. It is hard to imagine there is no machinery involved in generating this unstoppable force. This feels like some sort of aquatic rollercoaster cum merry go round. At some point, the guide realises I am not having as much fun as the others, steadies our ship and hauls me in. Someone yells out that my paddle is in the water and drifting away from us. Our sturdy guides change course, and one jumps into the water to recover the paddle.

We make our way to a calmer zone, where we are invited to jump into the water. I do so gingerly, holding on to the lifeline for dear life. A strong current pushes my legs forward and under the boat’s belly. Not a very comfortable position.

How might my backside appear to a croc down below, I wonder?
The guides decide there has been enough build-up and it is now climax time. This is another stretch of rapids, about twice as powerful as the previous one. The rolls and lurches are pretty violent, but this is better than the surfing we were doing a few minutes ago. We have come eight kilometres downstream, and in a couple of minutes are hauling the raft to the shore at our destination.

The rapids on the Cauvery river at Bheemeshwari are graded 2 to 2+ (basic paddling skill with no danger). There are places, like Rishikesh up North, with rapids graded upwards of 4, where advanced skills are required and there is real risk of injury. I am not going there.

The Defeated

“While we were impressed with your background and experience, the business felt that the experience you come with does not does not resonate with any current positions we have open. We sincerely regret that we cannot take your candidature forward at this point in time.

We would however like to archive your resume & contact you when suitable opportunities do arise that match your experience. We wish you all the best in your career ahead.”

The words differ from one case to another, but the underlying message is similar. I am either too old, over-experienced or just not the right fit. Without my fully realising it, over the years, my CV has acquired a personality of its own. The person in it is headed in a particular direction, which, it seems, does not lead home.

So after nine months of unconsummated flirting with prospective employers (the last five of them here on the ground) and perhaps a dozen polite rejections (mostly from the other side and occasionally from mine, as in the case I was required to work night shifts), I am calling it quits. It is a bitter pill to swallow, after all we’ve been through these last few months, but I’ve expended my stamina to run against the wind.

I shall once again become the person on my CV and head out from home. Just another economic refugee.

Grin-f***ed in Chennai

My boss in my new organisation spent more than twenty years in the United States before returning to India for good. Like most who have spent a length of time overseas, he has found that re-adjusting to an Indian workplace isn’t exactly a breeze. Somewhere near the top of the list of challenges is what he calls our national habit of grin-f***ing people.
“Kartik”, he tells me, “I have been grin-f***ed so badly, it’s not funny. People will nod their heads and grin at you, when you explain what you need from then. Then they go and do the exact opposite of what you have told them.” I think I now know what he means.
This morning I made my first official trip in my new job. Up at four fifteen, out of the house at five and walking down Margosa Road a little after. Ears straining to catch the rumble of an auto that will materialise from somewhere, as autos usually do. Walking on the main road, and keeping away from the footpath to avoid the odd stray dog that may emerge from a side alley. I don’t know if there is any research on this, but I’m pretty certain the strays have got more territorial over the years. The same dogs that lie docile on the footpath inviting you to trample them over during the day transform into snarling hounds at night, in that lip curled display of fangs that can give the stoutest soul the shits.
Anyway, true to form, my saviour auto appeared soon enough, and the train trip to Chennai happened without too much event. Except that I had forgotten how cold Bangalore could get before dawn, and now made a mental note to wear a jacket the next time I made a similar trip.
After two customer meetings in Chennai, an excellent South Indian meal at Ratna Café, and an hour of report writing at the branch office, I left the office with my colleague at four thirty. We apparently had enough time on our hands to make the station by five thirty, being the departure time of my train.
Traffic was pretty heavy, and at five ‘o’ clock, when it seemed that we were still in pretty heavy traffic and the station a fair distance away, I glanced at my colleague and said, “Er…my train is at five thirty…hope I can make it.” He smiled back and said, with supreme confidence, “Don’t worry, Sir, we have plenty of time.” I wondered about his confidence when a minute later, I caught him stealing a quick glance at his watch.
5:03: A tempo brushes against the left side of our taxi, wrecking the side mirror.
5:05: Our driver has pulled the car up by the side of the road, and is engaged in a civil but forceful discussion with the tempo driver, seeking five hundred rupees as damages. The tempo driver does not seem like someone who has seen that much money in his life, let alone carry it around in his pocket.
5:08: Above discussion does not appear any closer to resolution.
5:10: I nervously ask my colleague again about the prospects of making it to the station in time. “We have plenty of time,” he smiles again and says. I wonder if he knows of some secret expressway that I don’t.
5:15: The driver steps inside the car, to my relief, having collected what looks like one hundred rupees and a phone number from the guilty tempo driver. We remind him that we are cutting it fine. Thankfully, by now, my colleague seems somewhat concerned as well. The driver cheerfully says, “We have plenty of time, it’s only four thirty, isn’t it?” We inform him that it is actually five fifteen.
The next fourteen minutes is a vague memory of our taxi straddling the footpath and the road, and making a series of continuous honks to cut its way through the traffic. As we near the station, the driver nonchalantly says, “ I will drop you near the side entrance. It will be easy for you.” The tone seems to suggest he is upgrading me from economy to business class at no extra cost.
“Easy, this is effing easy!!??,” I think.
At exactly 5:29, I am deposited outside Chennai Central, alongside platform 10. Thankfully, having made the journey a couple of times recently, I know my train starts from 2A. I run faster than I have in years, and see that the train on my platform is yet to start. Relief. No…there’s a green flag waving…it’s pulling out! I kickstart again, and somehow propel myself through the crowded platform to catch the rear end of the train. It is the generator van and the railway official at the door shakes his head and points me to the next carriage.
“I am never doing this again”, I think as I run and push open the door of the next carriage, hauling myself in. As I board the train, my progress is blocked by a bearded youth lying on the floor with a glazed look in his eyes. Bloody drunks, why do they allow them on the train?
Another passenger explains, “He came in running to catch the train just before you did.” I nod and the two of us exchange a weak smile amid the huffing and puffing, bonding in our shared experience. I place a hand on my chest, expecting stabbing pains to occur. A few seconds later, I am satisfied that there are none, and make my way to my seat in the next carriage.