Mama's Kitchen

Short Fiction ~ Chandrika R Krishnan

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2016

It took ten minutes. It took just ten minutes for the half a dozen young men to wreak havoc and reduce the shop to nothingness as they crossed the threshold without a backward glance. But, to the elderly couple who saw their livelihood and way of life crumble around them, it was the longest and agonizing ten minutes of their life.
 
The story is getting a little ahead of itself. So, let me press the rewind button.
 
Mama's (pronounced like drama) kitchen was located in the labyrinth of Sri Venkateshwara Temple Street Ulsoor, in the city of Bangalore. 
 
The narrow streets and lack of parking place proved to be no deterrent when it came to satisfying the gourmet taste buds of the discerning few or the loyal others. They came in singles and dozens to devour the fluffiest Idlis made in this part of the world. The shop had no signage to speak of nor boasted of appealing ambiance. Operating from the front room of their own house, Mama and Mami (his partner both in life and profession) did not serve anything other than Idlis and Sambar signing it off with piping hot filter coffee. A small steel container had the mulagai podi* paste to go with the idli for those who hankered for more spice. The latter was often called the gunpowder for the spicy trail it left behind in your mouth. Yet, most patrons stood around dunking the piping hot idlis into the sambar* and licking their fingers after each bite. There is nothing new about this traditional and popular breakfast in most South Indian households. Yet, a plate of hot soft fluffy Idlis with the suitable accompaniment has made stronger men weep for the sheer joy it brings forth as it tingles the palates as never before while being kind to your gut! 
 
The reason people braved the no parking zone to enjoy the quick 'take away' was not a matter of mystery considering the fluffy nature of the 'whiter than white' idlis. The aroma of sambar, a broth made from an assortment of vegetables, pulses, tamarind pulp, and spices and boiled to the right consistency, would waft down the road and overpower the odious fumes made by the passing traffic even on the main arterial road. It had the right amount of tanginess, spice, and all things nice. 
 
The couple rolled up the shutters as early as half past six in the morning to serve the early birds who had to leave for work. They served on till 1 PM. They again opened it at six in the evening till eight in the night though it was mainly to cater to the bachelors who took up accommodation in nearby areas. The couple knew no holidays. It was a way of life for this tall, swarthy man and his comfortably plump wife.

​The fact that this small eatery could thrive amidst the proliferation of high-end restaurants, could be attributed to his "Kai Manam' – a phrase in Tamil which can be loosely and literally translated to 'magic of his hand' in English. At 5 AM each morning, Mama soaked the de-husked black lentils and rice in separate containers. At noon, mami ground them in a grinding stone, and he beat the mixture with his hands to aerate them. The ground batter was left to ferment for the rest of the afternoon and night. They ensured that a wet gunny bag kept the batter cool during summer. Sometimes, they had to soak more in the afternoon and grind one more lot in the night, especially on the weekends and holidays. But, then this is not a story of the Idlis & sambar nor it was of the filter coffee!
 
Moving on to the story now that you got the drift, Mama, whose given name was Srinivasan, was one of those taciturn kinds. His smile was a mere twist of his thin lips, something Mona Lisa had perfected but sans the intrigue and mystery. He hardly spoke to customers except to tell them the amount each one had to pay, and he rarely made a mistake. Most people, even if their middle name was to 'bargain,' paid without protesting primarily for two reasons- it was reasonable. Secondly, they wanted the taste to linger on and didn't want to talk lest it wafts away. 
 
His wife, Kamalam, was more talkative of the two and enjoyed conversing with all her customers. Besides helping around the house, she got the best bargain for the vegetables. Like her husband, she too was not a well-read person but unlike him, she kept abreast with the local news and spoke to her neighbours. The couple had come to Bangalore in 1960s when they both were in their early twenties. It is one of the universal truths that hardships make one grow faster. It was his mother's brother, enjoying the hospitality of the Kannada-speaking population and the clement weather of Bangalore, who insisted that he come away from a remote village near the Tanjavur district of the neighboring state of Tamil Nadu and try and make a living in this new place.
Mama surpassed his uncle's expectations. His profit for the last fifty years would have been more significant if he had been a hardcore businessman. He never worried about competition, for he believed that he had his loyal clientele.  Both he and his wife provided idlis, free of cost, to the youth who came to the city to earn a living. He reaped the benefits of his labor and goodness, and he was never in want of either customers or money. 
  
He and his wife were a beautiful team working hard and had twin boys, Vasu and Sriram, who were academically oriented. Like most Indian parents, they gave much importance to academics. The children, in turn, made their parents proud by working their way to the top, getting admission into top colleges, and enjoying the subsidized fees their parents could afford. Like most children of that particular generation, they flew to the United States of America for their further studies and had just completed their education and were employed in the city of New York and Connecticut. 
 
They often spoke to their mother and talked to their father through their mother! During their weekly call back home, they urged their parents to wind up the business and make their home with them. The mother promised that they would visit them over the glare directed at her by her husband, for she knew that her husband would be most uncomfortable in unfamiliar surroundings. She sighed, wondering if he would even ever visit her boys. She missed the boys. They were good children, and she looked forward to seeing them.  She asked her husband every day as she rolled the mattress on the floor next to the only cot in the adjoining room, "Ēṇṇā will we be able to walk in the plane?"
 
Another night, she would ask, "Ēṇṇā, will idlis be available there or only Pizza (which she pronounced as Pijja)?"
 
His impatient grunt would make her look at the calendar thinking of one more day gone by without seeing her children. Despite a silent tear, she would thank goddess kamakshi for giving her this husband who did not tire of working hard and providing for his family, unlike her sister's useless husband.

Somerset Maugham once wrote that though he respects and admires ordinary people, they are not the sort he could write stories about. People needed a singularity of character or involved in unusual contingencies by some accident or circumstances to be written about. Similarly, this story wouldn't have been told if not for that dark evening in September 2016.
 
Both the states of Karnataka and Tamil Nadu had an uneasy relationship and were on constant loggerheads over the sharing of the waters from the River Cauvery. The sharing river water was always a volatile topic considering that the agricultural nation was heavily dependent on good monsoons and river waters. Politicians ensured that the parochial fervor played a pivotal role, and the tempers simmered with frequent reminders. Despite the embers, ordinary, middle-income men were too busy keeping their heads above the water to worry too much about differences in the way they spoke or the dress they wore.

The cosmopolitan city of Bangalore too underwent a remarkable change as 21st century rolled in and brought forth many changes. Gone was the idea of neighbourhood and the oneness.  Aloofness and non-interference were fast becoming a norm among neighbors with people becoming busier than before. Many old-timers made their new homes with their adult children in different cities or moved to apartment complexes. Hence, there were a lot of new faces and an absence of old, familiar ones. People in power depend on the gullibility of the crowd to use them as a tool for destruction. A tranquil city can turn into a violent and destructive one as riots are rarely mindless.
 
Hence on September twelfth, 2016, when the Supreme Court passed an order in favor of the neighboring state in the quantum of Cauvery water to be released, Mama's kitchen became an unwitting target. 


Armed with bats and sticks, sickles and hammers; the masked youths plundered and wrecked the shop. At the end ten minutes, the white batter on the walls took the shape of horror.  The soft, fluffy idlis flew across the street and were stomped. In a country where thousands went to bed hungry, this was a tragedy of monumental proportions. The utensils were thrown out, and the grinder on which the batter was ground was broken. The smell of the coffee decoction ceased being aromatic and carried the stink of destruction. The *sambar* in the utensil was upturned and flowed till it became mere splotches on the uneven, cemented floor. The shop was plundered beyond recognition, and except for the twitching curtains, none came to help the older man who cried the deep guttural cry of a man who saw his life wash down the street for no fault of his. They ignored the older woman's screams as she beat her chest and ran from the home to the road and back again.
 
The couple who had never considered themselves an outsider discovered themselves to be one, and that too in their own country. They found themselves alone amidst many familiar humans.  In the midst of the broken shop sat the dry-eyed man as his wife sobbed at his feet. The police did come a little too late. They asked the old lady questions but couldn't get any response from her as she couldn't find the right words and reverted to her mother tongue, Tamil. The crowd grew, and there were a few empty words of comfort, but nothing could take the pain away. The sun set on the old couple, and people drifted away, leaving them in the darkness of despair. The madness continued in both the states with buses torched. The number of dead and the injured became a part of the known statistics. But destruction of shops like Mama's kitchen fell between the cracks among the powers to be.
 
The following morning, the old neighbors and friends of their sons came bringing with them humanity in the form of food. They tried to retrieve what they could from their shattered lives. Amidst it all, Mama lost his grunt too.  
   
No amount of coaxing from his scared and scarred wife could make him move away from the place that was once his shop. One of the twins flew down to be with them as soon as he could get leave from his office. He took charge of bringing some semblance of order to their home. No amount of medical intervention could help the father recover his' voice.'

Though none is a stranger to hate crimes- the madness closer home brings forth a wave of anxiety, fear, distrust, and rage. Sriram made arrangements so that his parents could travel back with him. Staying longer was not an option as both sons had their own bills to pay. So, they did their best in the present circumstances- uprooted their parents from their known surroundings so they could take care of them and yet hold down their respective jobs.
   
2023
 
The line snaked around the corner leading to the gleaming food truck. The aroma of something tangy and spicy was in the air. Some among them were newer patrons, but for most standing in the line, they knew precisely the gastronomic pleasure they were in for. 
 
The road to the present wasn't all that easy. The older couple had found their displacement from their known environment painful. The weather too had been a source of tremendous discomfort. The nightmares of that September evening continued to remain fresh. Mami found it far easier to adapt but for Mama he continued being frighteningly quiet. Not one to share his pain, he withdrew into a shell, and with each anniversary of the devastation, he turned even more of a recluse. The pandemic proved to be a blessing of sorts.  Their idli making enterprise started small with them helping out the community when in need. Very soon, the demands increased and one of Vasu’s friends, who never forgot the number of times he was offered 'free idlis',  reached out to crowd source for their 'idli making mama.' Mama's Kitchen came into existence in the corner of Flushing Meadow Park at the start of 2021. The familiar grunt was back.  
 
Glossary:  
 
Ēṇṇā: The way of addressing husband among traditional Tamil Brahmin community without using his name as it is considered disrespectful 
Mama - addressing a maternal uncle. It also is an easy way of addressing an older man in South India where people are uncomfortable or hesitant to use their given name.

~
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Chandrika R Krishnan, is a Bengaluru-based writer and educationist who likes all things beginning with a ‘T’ – talking, teaching, tales, and tea.
 
A people person and a born observer, she weaves fiction and dispenses ‘gyaan’ alike to the unsuspecting audience.  Her 250 odd articles and stories (both in print and online media) are mostly eclectic and experiential. She is a published author, and her collection of flash fiction was published recently titled- vignettes- a slice of life. Her stories feature in many anthologies.
 
You can read her articles @ https://chandrikarkrishnan.com/
 
You can connect with her at:
 
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https://twitter.com/Chandrikarkris1
 
https://www.linkedin.com/in/chandrika-radhakrishnan-12101b1b/

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