Dummies Guide to Making Rava Upma

Hi there, dummy! How is life? Or, as they ask in North Karnataka, Oota aitha? 

My first tip to you is this -- while starting cooking, always start with the soaking. While whatever needs to be soaked soaks, you can do the cutting. This will save you time. Now, upma requires no soaking. So, you could first go soak those clothes you need to hand-wash because colour will run. Or, take warm water in a tub, add salt and shampoo and soak your feet in it. Feels good, doesn't it?

Upma, though, needs roasted rava. Don't bother with roasting rava. That process does not soothe your soul. In other words, it's deadly painful. Just buy roasted rava. Or, buy Naga Sooji Double-Roasted. That's the granddaddy of all roasted ravas. Because it's the only one that's double roasted. So, if you roast it again, it becomes triple roasted. That's overkill. Don't roast Double-Roasted Rava. Don't. It's the third basic rule of cooking. (The first rule is: Don't be afraid. The second rule is: Say "Sai Ram" before you start.)

Upma optionally requires cutting. Of onions. Or tomatoes. Or carrots. Or beans. On okra. (Ok, I'm kidding about the okra.) Take any of the above vegetables in whatever quantity (see, I'm pro-choice) and cut them into smallish pieces. If the pieces are not of the same size, you will be docked 41 points by the Samayaleshwara, the Lord of Cooking. But don't worry, Uncle Samayal's brain -- like cooking itself -- is a great combination of bad mathematics and a ton of forgiveness. So, he won't really dock you anything.

So, once you're done cutting the onions... wait... you're not one of those types, are you? The sort that doesn't eat onion and garlic because they grow underground, but eats carrots, beetroots, potatoes and chamagadda? There's a word for people like you. It begins with 'h'. No, I don't mean 'hare-brained'.

Sounds like.

Back to our chopped onions now. Just keep them aside. But not too far away from your stove. You'll need them sooner than you think.

Take a pan -- a kadai (in India) or a wok (if you're in the East) -- (ok, I want to say cooking is no "wok in the phak", but I shall refrain) and put some oil in it. Don't put too much, it's not good for your health. But don't put too little; else your tongue will complain. Switch on the gas. Put the kadai on the gas.

Now, dummy, I presume you know how to switch on the gas? You take the starter (it looks like a steel syringe with no needle) in your right hand (if you're a right hander), place it near the mouth of the burner, press and turn the knob ninety degrees (No need to get your protractor out. You can just use an approximation.) counterclockwise with your left hand (if you're a right hander), and then click the starter as if you're injecting life into the burner. Watch the flame crackle brightly, warming the cockles of your heart. (You might have to click more than once.)

Right. Now. Gas burning. Oil heating. Quickly introduce some mustard seeds (kadugu) into the pan, and follow it up with urad dal and channa dal. Hop on one leg twenty-one times in front of the pan, holding your hands on your hips. The time taken for you to hop will be enough for the dals to have browned a little. If you aren't an h-word, add the onions. Now, hop on the other leg twenty-one times. By this time, your onions will be transparent. (Now, you may ask me why you should hop. Why can't you just count in your head? There is a reason, dummy. It's healthier. It builds an appetite. Most importantly, at the end of all that hopping, whatever the upma tastes like, you'll devour it.)

Now, you can add all or any of the following -- green chillies (slit), green chillies (chopped), green chillies (whole), dry red chillies, ginger, ginger paste, garlic, garlic paste, methi seeds or curry leaves. Wow, that's a lot of choice, isn't it? You know the great thing about cooking -- there are no rules. You feel like adding coffee at this point, add coffee. You feel like mixing some wine, mix some wine. You want to add coconut milk, add coconut milk. You want to add ragi malt powder, add ragi malt powder. You want to add whipped cream, add it. You want to add pasta sauce, add pasta sauce. See, if you add tasty things, it will taste good. (No, that's not always true. But there's no better way to find out than to actually get into the kitchen and try.)

Now, add the remaining vegetables and water. Two cups of water, approximately, for one cup of rava. Then, add salt (to taste) (obviously to taste, not to not taste) (ok, bad joke).

[Life tip: Err on the conservative side with the salt, you can always compensate later. If you're too liberal with the salt now, you're stuck with something too salty. Then, your only option is to hop away until you can eat the upma.]

You can also mix all or any of the following (Yes, you're supposed to say, "Whee! Such a libertarian recipe this is!") -- turmeric powder, coriander powder, chilli powder, sambar powder, rasam powder, peppercorns, crushed pepper, heeng, garam masala... Feel free to improvise. Unimaginative cooking is insipid cooking. Insipid cooking is tasteless cooking. (God, I sound like a self-help guru.)

Let the water boil. Let the vegetables cook. Into this colourful, boiling goo, pour the rava. (Hopefully, you have Naga Sooji Double-Roasted rava.) (No, they haven't paid me for this blog.) (Really, they haven't.) (I wish they do, though. Hey, Naga people? Can you hear me? I'm advertising for you guys. Come on. Give me some dough.)(Shouldn't have said dough in a cookery blog. It has different connotations here.)

While pouring the rava, remember this -- POUR IT IN BATCHES. AND KEEP STIRRING. IF YOU DON'T FOLLOW THIS INSTRUCTION, GOD WILL PUNISH YOU. (See, we're not all that libertarian after all. More like Gandhian liberalism. "Hey, I'm liberal. You're liberal. We're all liberal. But we mustn't drink. We must pray to God. We must be clean in thought and deed.")

The thing with upma is that when you add the rava (as I said earlier, preferably Naga Sooji Double-Roasted), it turns into upma faster than you think it will. I'd say, on full flame, you've upma-fied in 45 seconds flat. In other words, in fifteen one-legged hops. Newbies don't expect that. And because they don't, they screw it up. The trick is this: when it is still a little gooey, say two-thirds its final intended consistency, turn the gas off and cover the pan. (This is because it will solidify in its own heat. If you turn the gas off when it is the consistency you want it to be, it'll turn into rock upma. Can you smell what The Rock's cooking? I can't. Thank God. Have you seen the guy? Do you feel like you want to smell his cooking?)

This is the great thing about upma -- you can make it (and make it quite tasty) in less time than it takes for you to read this blog post. (That's partly because I digress a lot, and I like irritating people with my sense of humour. A bit like Govinda or Ravi Teja, you know -- the humour is based on the fact that it is slightly irritating. If it gets too irritating, it's too irritating. If it gets any less irritating, it's not funny anymore.)

So, if you avoid the cutting of too many vegetables, you're done in 5-7 minutes flat. At the end of it, you have yummy, healthy, traditional South Indian breakfast. That hot-Tamizhnaattu-pulchritude/ NRI-Karthik-Iyer-who's-missing-South-Indian-food (delete as per preference) you've been trying to impress  will fall head over heels in love with you.

So, what are you doing here? Get into the kitchen, and cut open that packet of Naga Sooji Double-Roasted, yo!

Yoraanar!

This article was first published on mylaw.net
***

I read somewhere that to run a successful Tamil mega-serial, you need only three sets – a gaudy house, a police station and a hospital. Then, you find a film actress of yesteryear, a few buxom middle-aged women, hot-blooded men, Ram Gopal Varma dropouts and rejects, and put them all in a not-so-merry-go-round from home to hospital, hospital to police station, and back home. Make some characters run anti-clockwise, some oscillate between two points, and others (like nurses, grandmothers or constables) stay put. Amidst all this, you can have the police and the RGV goons mete out guerrilla justice, reinventing procedural law in the process.

In one such prime-time soap, misleadingly titled “Thendral”, meaning “lilting, gentle breeze”, the lead character, misleadingly called Tamizharasan (he speaks mostly English) is set to marry a rich girl, Charu, when he is falsely accused of embezzlement. Instead of fighting it out in the courts, Tamizh decides to nab the real culprit. Unsurprisingly, he finds himself in deeper shit. Charu’s father engages a top-notch criminal lawyer – a man dressed in white-and-white, wears bands and a black coat even when he’s at his client’s house, and carries around an unnaturally slim case bundle at all times – who gets Tamizh his bail from the High Court. He’s paid a judge off, we hear.

Sadly, Tamizh dumps Charu for his true love, Tulasi. Charu’s father is livid. He calls up the criminal lawyer and says, “Saar, please cancel his bail!” The criminal lawyer cancels the bail (in the police station!) by simply taking back a piece of paper from the concerned inspector. Tamizh finds himself arrested, and detained at the police station for two whole weeks!

In another serial, “Thangam”, (starring yesteryear sex-bomb, Ramya Krishnan, as a devout, subservient, role model, at once an IAS officer and a doting wife) the heroine’s father has two wives – both of whom he loves and treats equally. In a kinky turn, the wives love each other too. It is one big happy family. Almost.

Ramya and her sisters, born to the second wife, are detested by their half-brother, who files a suit in the local court. On the anointed day, the entire cast gathers in a court hall, when the judge enters ceremoniously. The judge says, “May the case for today be heard.” The dafedar, holding his sceptre aloft, hollers, “Thiru Karthikeyan! Karthikeyan! Karthikeyan!” Karthikeyan, the son, stations himself in the witness box and puts forth his case.

He wants to be declared the sole heir to the property. He wants the court to declare that Ramya and her sisters are not his father’s daughters at all. “They must be thrown out of society,” he declares, self-righteously in court, and then mumbles to his lawyer, “Saar, please tell him the legal point.” To which the lawyer, who was sitting with three others in the semi-circular table, rises and says, “Yoraanar, according to Indian law, a man can have only one wife.” The judge nods gravely, and jots down something in a notebook.

Karthikeyan continues. He wants the property to vest in him immediately, before his father writes his will. He offers to give his father and the first-wife 10,000 rupees each month for their subsistence. The first-wife, unable to bear the ignominy, faints. The second-wife consoles her.

At this point, the judge declares, “Let the accused be brought.” The dafedar announces, “Thiru Selvaraghavan! Selvaraghavan! Selvaraghavan!” The father, a village headman, enters the opposing witness box. The camera swooshes from one box to another, accompanied by pounding music.

The lawyer begins his cross-examination, “Do you admit that you have two wives?” The father admits. “Do you admit that it is against the law to have two wives?” The father admits. “Then do you admit that your second wife has no interest in your property?” He denies.

The tension is insurmountable. The father, calmly explains, “The law might be against me. But the law is wrong. My ancestors have been headmen for generations. I have been a headman for fifty years now. In these years, I have given large parts of my property to the Amman temple, the local school, to poor people. I have shared my wealth with everyone in this village. Nobody questioned me then!” Where is he going with this, I wonder. “Today, my own son, my own blood, tells me that I cannot share my love between two women? He tells me that the law doesn’t allow it? Yoraanar,” he addresses the Bench, “You sit in that chair not only to enforce the law, but to do justice. Tell me, now, which of us is just?” The judge nods and makes furious notes, before ruling in favour of justice over black-letter law.

This is what the courts should do. No plaint, written statement, interim prayers and applications, exhibits, proof affidavits, typed sets, precedents. No putting-up, mentioning, batta, coding sheet, docket, SR number, application number, witness number, adjournment, hearing date. No section 20, order 1, rule 10(2), CPC, CrPC. Just a one-on-one face-off.

Return of the Odds and Ends Post

See previous such posts here, here, here, here. I'm sure there are more, but I can't find them now.
***

Hanuman

I'm a slightly religious guy, although temples don't really interest me. I prefer finding my Gods elsewhere. Like lots of people in my generation, I've gone through an atheist phase, and then I've come around to where I started - although, in the process, my conception of this Being might have become slightly more sophisticated. Coming back to the point, temples don't really interest me. So, I often evade and avoid visits to temples (unless there are concerts happening there). Even so, the Anjaneya temple in Nanganallur has always intrigued me. Every single person who has gone there has told me that it is a must-visit. I haven't heard a single bad report of the temple - even people who tell me it is really crowded always add that it was still worth it.

The other day, I had an opportunity to visit such temple - Guru was getting an award from the Rotary Club of Nanganallur for his services to Carnatic Music, and I was the driver to Nanganallur. Mami (his wife - a most sweet lady) came along. He was least interested in seeing the temple (actually, he was worried there'd be too much crowd - Sunday and all that, given his advancing age etc.), so Mami and I (ooh, that makes it Mami and Mami) went to the temple.


Now, when people hype up something majorly, often it disappoints. The temple didn't. The idol ("32 feet high," Mami whispered in my ear, as I stared at it in awe) was large and beautiful. There was this stateliness about it (not easy to achieve when the statue in question is a plain black, monolithic monkey with folded palms), and there was a dignity to the way the temple was kept. I liked that. Don't get me wrong - I love my chaotic temples, but this had a real dignity to it. Really enjoyed myself there. (Also saw a Hayagreevar Temple where said Mami did an archanai in my name for my early marriage. That was a bit trippy.)

I even liked the awards function that evening. Except for the Rotart District Governor (who spoke too much and knew little), no one else engaged in mindless superlativitis (none of the he-is-an-avatar-of-Lord-Krishna-himself-type stuff - only some very well-written words about ). At the end of it, there was a heavy saapaattu. Felt like a wedding - two payasams, sambar, vetthakozhambu, rasam, chips, chepankazhangu (chamagadda) roast, ghee, fruid salad, curds etc. Yum.

I will soon forget the contents of the meal, I'm sure. I might even forget why I went to Nanganallur. But that Hanuman will stay with me.
***

The Post Office

I went to the T. Nagar Post Office with aforementioned Thatha to collect his pension. Each year, in November, all pensioners must give this thing called an "Existence Certificate". Basically, you must certify that you exist. "Respected Sir, As evident from this letter, I still exist. Regards, TVKRS Subramanian" type thing. I once heard of a case in one of the High Courts where a man hadn't given this certificate for 3 years, but still got his pension. Suddenly, when he gave the certificate in the fourth year, the Government discovered that there was no certificate for the three previous years and demanded that he return his pension. He argued in the High Court, successfully, that if he exists now, he must have existed in those three years also. Unless he was Jesus Christ or Vishnu (who came back ten times).

Anyway, I went to the Post Office with Thatha. The pension section is on the second floor of a building with no lift - some basic planning, perhaps? (Thatha is surprisingly fit for his age, and I can think of people twenty years younger than him who'd find it hard to make the trek up the building.)

Nevertheless, he called the mobile number of a friendly lady who worked in the pension section, and she told him she was in Bombay. They had a conversation for about five minutes where they caught up on each other's lives (her Appa was not well, apparently, and Thatha informed her about his own recent sortie to the hospital), at the end of which she said she'd send someone downstairs to get the form and take his signature. He said he'd ask his grandson to go up and bring the form. Friendly substitute lady came downstairs with me, introduced herself to Thatha, asked about his health, he found out some basic info about her (Husband's job? How many children? Son? 11th Standard? Going to IIT class?) and took his signature.

The institution doesn't work, but the people still seem to make it friendly enough - just like how many nationalised banks and government departments work.
***

Twins

When I was (much) younger, I couldn’t tell the difference between Anandabhairavi and Reethigowla, Darbar and Nayaki, Bhairavi and Mukhari (sometimes Huseni also!), Kedaragowla and Yadukulakambhoji. Today, I find it hard to understand why I couldn’t tell these apart! (I sometimes still don’t understand how people who know no music tell really close ragas apart, rarely, if ever, making a mistake.) I think it is like telling the difference between Sehwag and Tendulkar. When Sehwag burst on to the scene, I’d often look at him bat and presume it was Sachin. And he’d take a single, and the guy at the other end would look the same. Soon, you begin to tell Sehwag from his backlift, his slightly wooden legs, his bat-speed, his savageness on the on-side and his slapping cover-drive. Sachin’s legs are always in position, he doesn’t look brutal even when he lifts it over mid-wicket and his cover-drives are lovely punches. They haven’t changed over the years, you’ve learn to identify them better. When you first see them, you only learn to look at the patterns you already know. You’ve seen a Sachin. So, when your mind is faced with Sehwag, it only sees the similar stance, the build, the irreverent shot-making. Only after some time, do you begin noticing those differences. When I was first faced with Reetigowla (after I had already learned to identify Anandabhairavi), my mind immediately slotted it in the ‘Anandabhairavi’ folder. Only with time, did it see those differences.

Now it knows that for all their likenesses, Anandabhairavi and Reetigowla are very different animals. Anandabhairavi seems to enjoy meandering in the madhya sthayi – that glide from panchamam to nishadam to panchamam that defines the raga, the twisty sgrgm phrases; and has heart-rending tara-sthayi sancharas (recall the anupallavi in Marivere). It has been interpreted, reinterpreted, encroached upon over the years, but it retains its classicist nature – like Sachin. Reetigowla, on the other hand, has trademark mandhra-sthayi sancharas (unlike most Anandabhairavi interpretations), has a lovely plain double nishaadam (oh, I love that sound!), an odd symmetry amidst its jumpiness (the nn-s/ gg-m combination, for instance), and a different kind of joy from what its predecessor offers. I’ve always thought of Reetigowla as slightly moody. When the artist has got it right, he’s on a roll, but on days that he hasn’t, you’re waiting for the next guy to come in – like Sehwag. Reetigowla might have looked to Anandabhairavi for inspiration, like Sehwag did to his guru, but it has carved an identity that gives it its own flavour.
***

('Twins' might appear in the next edition of Sruti - if you like Indian classical music/ dance, I'd strongly suggest subscribing to it. Check out maadi!)

Madras

Learning Tamil

So, many years ago, my cousin and I bought Tamil alphabet books in Madras (I lived in Manipal and he lived in Bangalore then) and taught ourselves Tamil reading. We even wrote letters to each other in Tamil (in those prehistoric days of the blue Inland Letter) to practice. But we lost touch with the language after that.

Now, I practice using signboards, bus routes and movie posters. The word I learnt to identify most quickly and accurately in two weeks in Madras is 'Kalaignar'.

Conversations with Thatha

Conversation 1: About six months ago
Two fairly cute chicks walk up the stairs to the second floor. They say, "Good Morning, Mama!" to my Thatha as they climb up. I'm immediately curious.
"Thatha, who are these girls?"
"Oh. They're call girls."
Stunned silence.
Thatha explains, "All-night they sit and take phone calls..."

Conversation 2: Last week
I've just entered home at night after office. A letter has come to me with my credit card bill.
"There is a letter with your credit card bill in it."
"Oh, ok." I proceed to inspect the bill.
"What have you been eating on the trains?"
"Eh?"
Then I look at the bill and realise that all payments are due to "Indian Railways Catering"!

Amma's Question
To her old friend
"So, what does your son's friend do?"
For a couple of seconds, I wonder what it means. Then it strikes me. Friend!

Conversation with Guy at Canteen in the High Court
"Oru bottle thanni kudunga..." (Give 1 nos. bottled water...)
"Cooling la venumaa?" (You want it in cooling?)

Argument with Auto Guy
He: (Check this sentimental argument out) "Saar, we're not going to get rich by cheating you..."
Me: "Then why are you cheating me?" (Take that.)
He: (Damn. I didn't expect that response) "Saar, also... No auto... Traffic... mumble mumble..."

Bus Advice
When you see a bus saying T.Nagar on it, don't jump with joy and rush into it. Taking a bus is like getting into a relationship. If you're not sure of where exactly the bus goes, you could be taken for a ride. For instance, 5B, from Mylapore to T.Nagar goes through Adayar, past IIT, past everything, through Poland, Greenland, and then hits the road coming from Velachery and reaches T.Nagar. Don't take it unless you like to sight some Polar Bears for just Rs. 5 (or you want to go to Adayar or IIT or Velachery).

Conversation with Cousin who's just finished his Twelfth Standard
In stern voice, "So, this Engineering College you want to join... Is it strict? Do they forbid you from talking to girls and using cell phones?"
Taking the bait, "Yes. They are very strict in these matters..."

Conversation on Shaving
To me: "Saar, you must shave everyday and come to office. These two days stubble and all is not good..."
Me, pointing to colleague: "Look at this guy. Always a two-day stubble."
Colleague: "Dude, I shaved this morning. Even then it grows like this."
To Colleague: "You must shave in both directions. Look at my stubble. So smooth... Touch and see." Grabbing hand, "Touch and see."
Me: "Saar, just because the 377 judgment is out-aa?"

Oh, lastly:
Lowely, beautiful, smart, fair, well-educated, superwoman, Madras-but-now-in-You-Yes friend has a food blog. Go check out.

The Love Theme in Ritigowla - Part V

Fr the other parts, click here. I didn't find the password, but I had this part written down elsewhere.
***

I didn't sleep at all that night. I don't know if it was the excitement, the randomness or the sheer stupidity of it all that didn't make the atmosphere conducive for sleep. Actually, it might just have been a freaky dream I had, coupled with the constant banter between the driver and the conductor. They needed it to stay awake. Most times, it was inane talk about their wives cooking, childrens' future plans, family weddings and the like. They were cousins, I surmised. They lived beyond RT Nagar in Bangalore - some ghetto whose name I couldn't place. They also engaged in some shop talk on how the gaadi was running, its screwed-up suspension, what latest movie they could play, or about the other bus owner who had bought new Volvos.

Amidst all this, I stared out of the open window, an icy wind blustered against the sides of my face. Occasionally we'd overtake another lorry, and I'd wave at them. Sometimes, the lorry drivers waved back, most times, they were just too stunned to see someone waving at them at night. Occasionally, there was enough light for me to look at the milestones. Bangalore approached slowly. The driver declared that he'd make it Bangalore before the sun rose and the rest of the ride proceeded like a race. The conductor teased the driver with his updates on the increasing light, and the driver responded with a violent push of the accelerator and noisy change of gears.

So, dawn dawned, as dawn tends to do. The number next to "Bangalore" on the milestone was in double-digits. I still had no idea of what I was going to do once I reached Bangalore. I had this vague plan of staying with this friend of mine who worked in one of those large, glass buildings in Electronics City and lived in one of those many one-bedroom apartments in Koramangala, but I didn't have his phone number.
***

"How'd you find my number finally?"
"Asked a long chain of people. I'm not in the mood for that story now!"

When I rang the bell outside DG's house, I had no idea what to expect. DG, Devarajan Gangadharan, alternately expanded as Dirty Guy, had always been the volatile sorts, and him settling down into a software job was a relief to his parents, and an anti-climax to his friends. We always thought he'd end up in jail for piracy, theft, consumption and sale of narcotics or all of the above. He'd introduced us to every one of our vices, his house was the designated place for teenage porn-watching, he always got the chicks, and had the reputation of being a wasted genius. He was an amateur magician - legend had it that he'd learnt from the celebrated P. James himself, he read extensively, wrote brilliantly when he bothered to sit down and write, was a famous debater in college - known for his humour, and tried unsuccessfully to play a guitar and yet featured in three bands for sheer coolness value. I hadn't heard much about him in a while, except for excerpts of his exploits with exotic women - a red-haired Turkish woman, a Bangalorean ballerina, a Chinese girl with a Ph.D in economics, a half-Bihari-quarter-Tamilian-and-quarter-Irish who was an assistant director in Bollywood. I had a weird dream in the twenty minutes that I did sleep where I turned up at his house, and Ni was there. I didn't sleep for the rest of the night.

When he did open the door for me, he looked just like I had imagined him - in an old T-shirt and boxers, bright orange Adidas chappals, a large mug of hot chocolate in one hand, newspaper in the other, and a cigarette tucked behind his ear.

"Motherfucker!" he exclaimed when he saw me at the door. I smiled. "What the fuck are you doing here at five-thirty in the morning?"
"You're fuckin' awake, motherfucker," I said, "At five-fuckin'-thirty in the fuckin' morning. That's more shocking."
"But, dude, why the fuck are you here?" and then suddenly realising it, "Oh, dude. Come in!"

A long explanation ensued over a large mug of Milo. I told him the tale of my romance with Ni - about the first concert, then meeting her at the concert when she was with Watermelon, following her around during the season, our meeting at coffee day, and those cryptic messages.

He declared at the end of it all, "You've met her like six times in your life. Fuck, dude. You're crazy!"
I laughed, "Dude, if you've seen her, you wouldn't think so."
"She's from Bangalore?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Violinist, right?"
"Yeah."
"Really hot."
"Yeah."
"Looks like one of those Godesses in those Murugan-type calendars."
"Murugan-type calendars?"
"Those ones where you tear the page off each day."
"Yeah. She looks like one of those Goddesses."
"You said her name was Nikhila?"
"Yeah."
There was an eerie silence, at the end of which I said, "Dude, you know her?"
"Yeah. I've met her a couple of times."
I was suddenly mortified. "Dude, have you, um," I didn't know how to ask him, "Have you, um, you know, um..."
"No, dude. I haven't, um."
"Thank god!"
"But I must say, I tried."
"And?"
"She seemed very happy with this large guy..."
"... who looked like a watermelon. Tell me about it!"
Both of us sighed. I said, "Dude, she's got a really bad taste in men."
"You have a chance, then."
"Fuck, I walked into that one."
"I know."
***

Anna came back from the US after a triumphant visit. Mamas and Mamis who had either settled down in the US or had gone to take care of their grandchildren spoke in hushed tones of this boy who would one day become a towering legend. Only his seriousness stood between Anna and fame now.

The next morning, Mridangam Sir landed up at home. For five years now, we started going to his house for classes because he'd grown too old to travel around the city. So, this was a fairly unexpected visit. Anna was as servile as ever, and Amma brought him his dose of filter coffee. Appa sat across him on the sofa and made pleasant conversation about the weather and newer models of the veshti.

Two sips into the coffee, Sir, having had enough of the veshti conversation, pronounced, "I think Arjun should get married."
Amma almost dropped the tray on which she brought salt biscuits, Krishna Sweets Mysurpa and mixture. Appa coughed into his coffee. Anna looked on seriously as ever.
"No, when we went to the US," Sir continued, "He was very close to this girl. She's a violinist from Bangalore."
Appa turned to Anna, as if to silently ask him if there was anything to the story. Anna determinedly looked away. Amma gazed alternately at each person in the room trying to get a grip on things, as Sir continued, "She's very good looking. Brahmin family. And she plays really well. Same level as our Arjun."

Silence was all wet - it reigned.

Sir seemed to be the only one who had it in him to speak, "I made some enquiries. She is not married. She doesn't have anyone - you know, nowadays, youngsters... Nothing like that. And her parents are looking."
There it was - the keyword - 'looking'. It didn't need to be qualified. When the parents of a twenty-something-year-old girl are 'looking' you can safely assume that they aren't looking for a lost key or a credit card. The word was music to the ears of any parent with a twenty-something boy.
Sir had this speech prepared, "See, Arjun is like my son, and when my children got married, I insisted that they marry only musicians. Some compatibility is required, no? And Arjun, he definitely needs to marry a musician. You wont find one better than this girl."

Amma needed to hear nothing more. She joyously proclaimed that all efforts would be made to seal the match. Appa asked Anna, "What is your take on the matter?"
"I'm fine with it."

Amidst all this excitement, they forgot that I hadn't returned from Trichy as scheduled.
***

I called Ni, but cut the call before it connected. I had to gather myself. I repeated this thrice when DG noticed.
"Dude, you want me to talk to her?"
I laughed, and tried once more. I failed. I was wrecked by nervousness. But I didn't know why. Maybe it was because I knew I had done something crazy, and didn't know how the object of the craziness would react to it.

I finally managed to call her.
"Hello?"
"Hey."
"What happened?"
"Um, nothing happened."
"Oh."
This was going nowhere.
"Hey, listen. I'm in Bangalore. Now what is point b?" That was my prepared speech. No beating about the bush - straight to the point. Only, I was so eager to say it that all the words seemed to come out at the same time, making me sound like an idiot. She didn't say anything for a while.
"Hello?" I tried.
"Yeah. Hi. I'm here. I, um, I don't know how to react."
"Why?" God, why was interrogating her?
"Um, I think, I didn't expect you in Bangalore."
"Well, I'm here."
"Okay. Wait. I'll call you in a while."

She called, and we set up a meeting to discuss the mysterious point b.
***

If the dabbawalas are Six Sigma, the Mami networks when it came to matchmaking at least eight or nine. They never made a mistake. Now that a girl was identified for Anna, the networks started working overtime to get messages across. Amma called her youngest sister who lived in Bangalore to find out if she knew this family. Her sister didn't. Appa then called his Bangalore cousin, who said he had a vague idea. Amma's sister meanwhile, called another relative of her husband's who also said he had a vague idea about this family.

These vague ideas became clearer as more Mamas and Mamis were contacted - more Mamis than Mamas - and in three hours, three sources told Ni's parents of a match from Madras. Ni's parents, as the girl's parents must be, were excited, yet cautious. They wanted the best for their daughter, and they had heard of Anna and his prowess, but seeming too eager was also a problem in this market.

As is custom, the girl was told nothing of the 'match' until she was required to be told. There were many hurdles to be crossed before that stage. She was Kannadiga, but both parents were okay with that. They muttered something about modernity to each other. Their Gotrams didn't clash, which came as a relief to everyone. Horoscopes had to be exchanged - each family had a family astrologer whose word was crucial for any match to proceed. Astrologers worked in soft copies and email, and the exchange process took less than half a day. Both astrologers had computer programs that analysed matches, looked for the dreaded doshams, and determined if either party had to marry a tree first.
***

I reached the Barista on MG Road early. Surprisingly, she was already there. She didn't notice me as I entered, and I walked up behind her, and tapped her on the head. For some reason, I thought it was cute. Her eyes darted in my direction, and I felt that feeling again - as if she was reading me like a book.

"What is point b?" I asked, without even bothering to sit down.
"Sit first."
I sat.
"You want some coffee?" she asked.
"Point b."
"Point b is that I am incapable of liking someone I hardly know."
I stared at her blankly. I made a detour across South India to hear this?
***

Both astrologers gave the match a green signal - it was as green as signals come, they said.
***

To Continue.