I am so obsessed with food :) And I find that my metabolism rates are at an all-time low...How else can I explain the sudden fat accumulation? Okay, I know I am digressing...We'll keep the association between food and me for another post. Yes, coming back, I had been to one of these so called 'hippie' restaurants with striking ambience, posh settees and couches, haute couture-d bearers, where you can see etiquette-conscious elite men and women speaking English with the tip of their tongues, dining in finesse, on one hand and lots of young blood with their phirang-clients(most of whom have this uncanny habit of laughing out real loud!) and PMs and TMs (read old men, institutionalized in the company they work for), having a whale of a time (obviously at the company's expense:)), on the other. And we ordered for some Shorba(this is a multi-cuisine restaurant, specializing in Moghlai cuisine but I must say, it offers food on AWESOME cutlery). We were offered complementary roast and rolled papads with tangy pudina chutney and we were left munching that for about half an hour by the end of which we were really scratching the base of the papad basket groping about for pieces, all the while engrossed in conversation (sounds awful I know, but I hate to wait long when I am really hungry!). And then, when it came to the main course, it was Romali Roti, which is precisely (going to be) the object of discussion of this post.
Now, Romali Roti is an Indian (if I am right, Kashmiri) speciality - soft and bright white(now, other Indian rotis are all shades of brown) with a distinct maida flavour. Now, the characteristic feature that gives it the name, is its thickness - or thinness rather. It is akin to a 'rumal' (handkerchief in Hindi) in that. And it also has a very dry but smooth nevertheless, melts-in-the-mouth texture. In short, just imagine munching an ultrasoft muslin-cloth that just tastes delicious! And the best thing about this roti, is the way in which it is prepared before it is cooked. Now, there is this bright yellowish dough, which is rich in maida, and it is set into medium sized balls and covered with a wet muslin cloth. The chef takes one of these balls and rolls it roughly in to a thin white flat sheet. Then he takes the rolled roti and just tosses it into the air high. It is here that one can see the elasticity of the dough in all its splendour! And this tossing and rolling is done twice apiece by which time the roti becomes as thin as a veil. And its, cooking time! The chef just lays the roti on a special tava which is in the shape of an inverted wok/round-bottomed dekchi/chatti.And in a few seconds, you can see brownish blisters/bubbles appearing all over the roti and there, it is done. This's what India brings to you, in the form of Romali Roti.
I have tried this in several places(read intersection of 'wherever I go' and 'wherever it is available') and it really surprized me that this posh restaurant served this roti that was of a 'hang-out' kind of standard. In the first place, it wasn't in its thinnest self and the corners were uncooked! And why do these places boast of authentic cuisine? When you say authentic, you mean that specialized food is served there in the truest and best possible form. And wouldja believe it if I say that of all the places in the North/South of India that I have tasted the Romali Roti, the best place is in my very own Coimbatore ?!!! Seriously! There is this Hotel(or should I say 'was', now that it has been taken over by the Taj Group) where once upon a time, my erstwhile friend Ravi was the roti-chef! I was a very small girl then and this Romali-roti used to be prepared in a glass windowed enclosure by Ravi, for all to see. Ravi was deaf and dumb and so, his style of communicating with me was using the maida meant for dousing the wet dough! He used to just strew the maida on the black granite and write his words and I used to answer back the same way. And all our conversations ofcourse, were followed by a small treat that Ravi could afford (not everyone used to acknowledge him for his talent, so he felt that it was a like a treat from me, mind you I was very generous!), a big piece of what he called 'Romali Papad', which is the result of slightly over-cooking the roti. He had a very admirable style of tossing the roti which is deeply etched in my memory and till date, his romali rotis are the best and the finest ever, in my dining experience. He left the hotel after sometime and I have never heard about him since. Though now-a-days the fact that The Residency, Coimbatore, also offers great romali rotis, makes me think Ravi works there :) Though no-longer in a see-through cubicle entertaining children and first-time guests alike! I remember I was so smitten by his style that I never used to fulfill the purpose of a family night-out together, and used to run over to him as soon as we entered the lawns of the restaurant, so much that my parents even threatened to stop bringing me there!
Wow! Now, I feel like having a soft bite out of a good Romali-roti :( And its lunch time here and I can hear someone grumbling inside!! I am off to the sodex-ho cafe we have here, to resume my quest for India's tastiest Romali roti :)
Friday, May 12, 2006
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
The Name says it all
It was a very hot night. Mine was a window seat, I felt so exhausted that I kept drifting in and out of an uncomfortable sleep and the plane just droned on and on. Something outside caught my attention and then I saw it - the orangish yellow hue of the Magnolia Crescent - slightly blurred to my eyes, because I was seeing it through the waves of heat emanating from the propeller on my side. My line of vision was level with the the moon. It was so surreal and then, I could somehow relate myself to it...so full of mystery, brimming with a kind of beauty, something like a companion, coming with you wherever you go and yet so 'unfinished', half done...Ofcourse I first came across the words in one of these Harry Potters. Many people asked me why I have named my blog this way, but well, I did so because...the name says it all
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Not again!
The most difficult part of blogging for me, is to get an appropriate title for my post. It is most annoying, really. And I just can't satiate my thirst for the perfect title, from the phrases I choose. It is like trying to get a big elephant fit into a match-box. Gosh! And it is more frustrating to find that, what I liked or rather, seemed to like yesterday, I see today and think, 'what crap!'. Hmmm...
Country-side Ramblings
I wonder how many people in the world have the patience to enjoy a ride in an airy townbus or a day-train. Everytime I traverse from a point to another, in one of these dabba-like buses I feel like taking my pen and a sheaf of papers and go on and on about the observations of my activity-hungry eyes. It is one of the most happening modes of travel! Though I admit I won't feel any pleasure if the bus is just spilling out with people with hardly any space to breathe - feet over feet, body over body getting crushed and not to mention the fresh sweat oozing from the back of people's necks or from under their arms...no, no..NO, I never meant this kind of a ride, don't look at me so indignantly! Quite the contrary infact, just imagine riding through the country-side...
I had been on this bus for about an hour now, well, looking back, I was shaken awake and made to rush through the morning formalities as the bus was scheduled to leave in about half-an-hour and I had hardly anytime for a proper bath! Soon I found myself rapidly swinging in and out of the thronging crowd at the bus-stand and finally found a suitable bus and jumped in. I managed to get a good seat, despite my delay and it was near the window ofcourse, though I confess it was a dirty part of the dabba(box), it sure gave me the impression that the previous occupiers of the seat had been feasting on pan, yuck!! It was bothering me for quite sometime, for I was oblivious of the people around and was intent on saving my shirt sleeve from touching the window. But something made me sit bolt upright and it was ofcourse the careless bus driver, under whose able guidance, the bus which was cruising through, was promptly caught unawares by this sudden speed-breaker! After hearing some muttered curses from my fellow passengers and from my own lips;) I began to notice my surroundings.
An hour had passed since my boarding the bus, and we(the bus and I) were now far from the glares of the pollution, the smoke and the asbestos roofings of industries on either side of the road. The bus was actually rambling along the countryside now and I was startled by the sudden change in the landscape, it felt like someone has just pulled in a different back-drop in a theatre play. And soon there could be seen a lot of activity, shuffling people, baskets and all sorts of movement all around. Apparently, we were nearing some obscure village hidden-away amidst natural splendour. The coming of this bus was indeed an event. Lots of them alighted and an equal lots of them boarded.
I was particularly interested in this old woman - wrinkled face, large earlobes with those B-I-G pambadams hanging in the most dangerously precarious way (if one slipped off and fell on your foot, I bet it will swell as big as a medium-sized potato!), darkish brown good natured eyes, and a mouth the edges of which were slightly oozing with a reddish-brown liquid, from chewing pan ofcourse. Somehow, she made me think that she must have been a very beautiful and sensual looking woman in her youth. Honestly, I felt pretty funny. Some kind of strange radiations emanated from her and it filled my insides with a queer joy. And the bus was still ambling along the narrow improperly laid country road, meandering along the bright green and yellowish paddy fields. There was this little boy with her, with bright innocent eyes on that inquisitive face and he was just enjoying the wind sitting next to the window. Another stop came around and this time a little girl about the same age of the boy got in with her father. The girl was standing next to the woman I was talking about and immediately, motherly instinct made the old woman move a little and let the girl sit inbetween her and her boy. The poor girl was pretty frightened apparently from being forced to sit between two complete strangers and kept throwing glances behind her to make sure her Naina was still with her, though he was too busy groping about with his thoughts, to give the girl an acknowledging look. Soon she got used to her neighbours and began to take a natural interest in the boy. I couldn't help hearing their exchanges and besides, I had nothing else to do but observe.
she: Unga per enna?(what's your name?)
he: Sedhu. Neenga? (Sedhu.And you?)
she: Sudarmani
And so they began, politely addressing eachother with respect, making me wonder how they are taught to do so at that tender age. Soon, they were talking about their respective pallikoodams(schools) and lessons. The old woman immediately joined them and asked to remember their poems - 'pasangala, enga Aathichoodi sollunga paakalaam?' soon after which the children were enthusiatically remembering the verses of Avvai and busy correcting eachother and laughing over their blunders. The old woman sat there enjoying the silly jokes and the giggles of the little-ones. She was the epitome of contentment.
There was a cacophony coming across from a bunch of women on their way to work, they were chattering about some old lady who died, leaving all her money to her eldest son and none to the younger, because of his cunning wife...The story was narrated in detail by one of the women, as though she was narrating the script to a film-director, with vivid expressions, her nostrils flaring and cheeks turning bright, she would very well have made a good theatre artist, with a good deal of conditioning! There was the little girl in her floral skirt and dirty, baggy, oversized shirt with her basket of ripe, reddish mangoes, off to the town to make her day. And behind me were the two old men who were going to the distant bank to collect their pensions and were doing some mental calculations, with their razor sharp brains!
And right in front of me, sat this newly wed couple - the fresh-looking, youngish face of the bride with those uniformly kohl lined eyes, hair bedecked with strings of fresh jasmine, the scent of which was intoxicating and her neck weighed down with a big gold chain and the yellow thread (thaali) signifying the recent wedding and next to her, the naive young groom on whose face had masculinity hardly set in - one could see the beginnings of a young moustache now, raring to burst out into freedom, from under his facial skin! And they were busy exchanging nothings - the shy girl, forever looked down on to the bus' floor and the guy was constantly prodding her, trying to get a word or two, all the while making sure that his elbows were rubbing against her waist, making her scared, happy and embarrassed all at the same time...
And soon after, a dingy old man boarded the bus, smoking a beedi, his eyes puffy and heavy with drinking and he found a seat right across the young couple, which was very inconvienient, as both parties found out soon. The old man began to mumble to himself, cursing the youth of today for their 'disrespect' towards women and the young man began to feal uneasy and silence prevailed between the couple.
Soon, the bus came to a stop and I was aroused from my observations, by the repetitive calling of the conductor 'Vange, vange, Naduvachery, Naduvachery' (I had never realized the time passing by so quickly - 2 1/2 hours!!), where it was my turn to alight and while I did, I thought about the dabba being oblivious to the sights and sounds it was literally filled with and sadly hoped that someday, it will be able to drink in the beauty of the bright colours outside and the babblings inside. And it rambled on monotonously, unable to hear my thoughts.
I had been on this bus for about an hour now, well, looking back, I was shaken awake and made to rush through the morning formalities as the bus was scheduled to leave in about half-an-hour and I had hardly anytime for a proper bath! Soon I found myself rapidly swinging in and out of the thronging crowd at the bus-stand and finally found a suitable bus and jumped in. I managed to get a good seat, despite my delay and it was near the window ofcourse, though I confess it was a dirty part of the dabba(box), it sure gave me the impression that the previous occupiers of the seat had been feasting on pan, yuck!! It was bothering me for quite sometime, for I was oblivious of the people around and was intent on saving my shirt sleeve from touching the window. But something made me sit bolt upright and it was ofcourse the careless bus driver, under whose able guidance, the bus which was cruising through, was promptly caught unawares by this sudden speed-breaker! After hearing some muttered curses from my fellow passengers and from my own lips;) I began to notice my surroundings.
An hour had passed since my boarding the bus, and we(the bus and I) were now far from the glares of the pollution, the smoke and the asbestos roofings of industries on either side of the road. The bus was actually rambling along the countryside now and I was startled by the sudden change in the landscape, it felt like someone has just pulled in a different back-drop in a theatre play. And soon there could be seen a lot of activity, shuffling people, baskets and all sorts of movement all around. Apparently, we were nearing some obscure village hidden-away amidst natural splendour. The coming of this bus was indeed an event. Lots of them alighted and an equal lots of them boarded.
I was particularly interested in this old woman - wrinkled face, large earlobes with those B-I-G pambadams hanging in the most dangerously precarious way (if one slipped off and fell on your foot, I bet it will swell as big as a medium-sized potato!), darkish brown good natured eyes, and a mouth the edges of which were slightly oozing with a reddish-brown liquid, from chewing pan ofcourse. Somehow, she made me think that she must have been a very beautiful and sensual looking woman in her youth. Honestly, I felt pretty funny. Some kind of strange radiations emanated from her and it filled my insides with a queer joy. And the bus was still ambling along the narrow improperly laid country road, meandering along the bright green and yellowish paddy fields. There was this little boy with her, with bright innocent eyes on that inquisitive face and he was just enjoying the wind sitting next to the window. Another stop came around and this time a little girl about the same age of the boy got in with her father. The girl was standing next to the woman I was talking about and immediately, motherly instinct made the old woman move a little and let the girl sit inbetween her and her boy. The poor girl was pretty frightened apparently from being forced to sit between two complete strangers and kept throwing glances behind her to make sure her Naina was still with her, though he was too busy groping about with his thoughts, to give the girl an acknowledging look. Soon she got used to her neighbours and began to take a natural interest in the boy. I couldn't help hearing their exchanges and besides, I had nothing else to do but observe.
she: Unga per enna?(what's your name?)
he: Sedhu. Neenga? (Sedhu.And you?)
she: Sudarmani
And so they began, politely addressing eachother with respect, making me wonder how they are taught to do so at that tender age. Soon, they were talking about their respective pallikoodams(schools) and lessons. The old woman immediately joined them and asked to remember their poems - 'pasangala, enga Aathichoodi sollunga paakalaam?' soon after which the children were enthusiatically remembering the verses of Avvai and busy correcting eachother and laughing over their blunders. The old woman sat there enjoying the silly jokes and the giggles of the little-ones. She was the epitome of contentment.
There was a cacophony coming across from a bunch of women on their way to work, they were chattering about some old lady who died, leaving all her money to her eldest son and none to the younger, because of his cunning wife...The story was narrated in detail by one of the women, as though she was narrating the script to a film-director, with vivid expressions, her nostrils flaring and cheeks turning bright, she would very well have made a good theatre artist, with a good deal of conditioning! There was the little girl in her floral skirt and dirty, baggy, oversized shirt with her basket of ripe, reddish mangoes, off to the town to make her day. And behind me were the two old men who were going to the distant bank to collect their pensions and were doing some mental calculations, with their razor sharp brains!
And right in front of me, sat this newly wed couple - the fresh-looking, youngish face of the bride with those uniformly kohl lined eyes, hair bedecked with strings of fresh jasmine, the scent of which was intoxicating and her neck weighed down with a big gold chain and the yellow thread (thaali) signifying the recent wedding and next to her, the naive young groom on whose face had masculinity hardly set in - one could see the beginnings of a young moustache now, raring to burst out into freedom, from under his facial skin! And they were busy exchanging nothings - the shy girl, forever looked down on to the bus' floor and the guy was constantly prodding her, trying to get a word or two, all the while making sure that his elbows were rubbing against her waist, making her scared, happy and embarrassed all at the same time...
And soon after, a dingy old man boarded the bus, smoking a beedi, his eyes puffy and heavy with drinking and he found a seat right across the young couple, which was very inconvienient, as both parties found out soon. The old man began to mumble to himself, cursing the youth of today for their 'disrespect' towards women and the young man began to feal uneasy and silence prevailed between the couple.
Soon, the bus came to a stop and I was aroused from my observations, by the repetitive calling of the conductor 'Vange, vange, Naduvachery, Naduvachery' (I had never realized the time passing by so quickly - 2 1/2 hours!!), where it was my turn to alight and while I did, I thought about the dabba being oblivious to the sights and sounds it was literally filled with and sadly hoped that someday, it will be able to drink in the beauty of the bright colours outside and the babblings inside. And it rambled on monotonously, unable to hear my thoughts.
To see or not to see
I always have this habit - staring into the mirror...Actually, I stare into the rear view mirror of the bus that I am travelling in, sometimes it catches the attention of the driver, and then I see his baffled face, that keeps wanting to send glances at the mirror on the pretext of seeing whether I am still staring at him...the point is, he fails to see that I don't see him at all! And I stare into the side-view mirror of the vehicle standing in front of me, I don't know why, my eyes get very interested in the mirror in front and I don't see things in the mirror...I don't see the person who is peering out by now, curious as to what this girl is drilling her eyes into...I don't see the glare of the sun or the obscurity of the angle in which the image of the person driving the vehicle is reflected or even the bright gay clothing of the driver or...or just anything.I just see...no view, no colour, no contrast...I see nothingness in all its blinding glory...
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