The fiddler of Kodihalli and other stories

Vivek had assigned a special ring tone on his Nokia mobile phone to warn him of calls from his mother. He recognized it instantly amidst the drone of his manager’s talk in the conference room. Wondering what it could be, he nevertheless cancelled the call making a mental note to follow up later.

At lunch time, he called her. “What is it amma? I was in a meeting when you called earlier. Is everything alright”? “Oh! Nothing to be alarmed. I just remembered that your father’s shraddam falls on the 26^th. I thought I’ll let you know well in advance so that you can plan your leave. We should do the proper rituals at least for the first few years.” Vivek tried to think if he had any important engagements on the 26^th. “It should be okay I think. Prema and I will be there on 26^th morning. Have you informed the priest?” “No, I haven’t. But I’ll do so now. Good to know that you can make it. Your father will be pleased. Hope Prema is doing fine.”

Vivek and Prema were a dink couple, married for about two years, working in Bangalore. They were not particularly religious but at the same time they did not want to offend the sentiments of their elder generation. Vivek’s mother Meenakshi had been widowed shortly after Vivek’s marriage. Despite Vivek’s offer to live with him and Prema in Bangalore, she had chosen to continue living in Madurai, her hometown and residence of sixty years. What would she do in an unfamiliar city at this age? In Madurai, at least she knew her neighbours and the beloved Meenakshi Amman temple was just a short distance away. Besides, she knew too well that it wasn’t the wisest thing to live with a newly married son.

On the morning of the 26^th, a pot-bellied priest and his two assistants in tow performed the homam to the accompaniment of vedic chants. How do they remember all these verses, wondered Vivek, sitting beside the holy fire, wiping his smarting eyes with his angavastram, his wife standing behind him draped in a nine yard podavai. This being the second anniversary, he too was beginning to remember parts of some verses. The oral tradition was playing itself out, etching the verses into Vivek’s mind. The hired cook had prepared a sumptuous shraddam feast, after eating which one could not help but fall asleep.

Later in the day, he chatted with his mother, enquiring about the local affairs and her general well being. Meenakshi wanted to ask Vivek if they were planning to start a family but then she thought the better of it. “We’ll have to leave at 8pm to catch the train to Banaglore”, said Vivek. “I’ll prepare dosai for palaharam. Don’t go on empty stomach”, offered Meenakshi. Vivek and Prema were only too happy at the prospect of home made dosai. It was the perfect light meal after a heavy lunch in the morning. Prema offered to prepare chutney for the dosai. “Don’t bother” said Meenakshi, “I prepared some thenga milagapodi (coconut gunpowder) while you were asleep. Have chutney in your Bangalore hotel. Here you have it with my preparation.”

Prema was pleasantly surprised. Thenga milagapodi was her favourite side dish for dosai. The fine blend of powdered lentils, chilly, spices and grated coconut was a rare delicacy these days. It is best eaten fresh, the coconut loses flavour after a couple of days. It was one of those little delights that hadn’t yet been vacuum sealed and marketed as ready-to-eat food in Bangalore’s up-market groceries. Prema ate six dosais. She enjoyed the taste and aroma of thenga milagapodi laden dosai.

Isn’t it curious that the taste of native food can bring back native memories? Prema remembered her carefree days in school when she would return home to similar fare prepared by her mother. “Quite remarkable people,” Prema thought to herself. “They have so much energy and zest to do these things. I wish I could bring myself to prepare this stuff in my kitchen. But then I have a 9 to 6 job and gym in the evening. Besides its too much work. And who’ll do the cleaning?” And then it struck her that her boss had once fondly referred to tasting thenga milagapodi on his visit to a friend’s house in Chennai. It would be quite cool to be able to demonstrate her culinary skills to her boss. “Amma, how did you prepare this?” she asked her mother-in-law, ready to add this recipe to her meagre portfolio. “Ah. Looks like you liked it. You eat. I’ll tell you.”

Vivek gave Prema a wry smile as they left the table, “You are terrific!, you are hardly interested in preparing sambar and here you are asking recipes for exotic side dishes.” “So what?” asked Prema, “you can have all the sambar you want at the local Darshini, will you get thenga moligapodi there?” Wishing Meenakshi goodbye they left in the evening, ready to resume their routine but quite gratified to be touched by an enchanting slice of culinary nostalgia.

written on:   Tuesday, July 29, 2025    permalink

note: This is a work of fiction. All names and characters are fictional.