Tales From Mayapuri

Tales from Mayapuri
Pakodas to Pep up an ordinary meal...
The Story goes, I used to go often to Mayapuri  Army Vehicles Disposal Market And miscellaneous motor vehicles and motor parts ... you could buy a Dodge Gun carrier to Jonga Jeep to a Russian Vaz  to German Mercedes Mog ... I was refitting my Pajero and building my MM550 Jeep..
The market had many rogue vendors as the name suggests.. it’s Mayapuri .. but also many honest salesmen and mechanics.

I have realised in life the more you trust people, the better they perform. I always and will be a believer of the Theory Y of Mc Gregors Theory X and Theory Y .. ahem at least at..Work.

So I started working with Goyal Motors and Hanuman the Mechanic. Maya Purim is also known for the  famous Family Khalsa Dhaba .. known for its Garlic water and Ghee Roast Mutton and Brain Curry amongst other things where I have had the audacity to take my elitist friends and enjoyed the experience..

So back to building my off-roading vehicles and the main protagonist, the Pakora Story.

So all the the mechanics and Jeep builders would huddle around for lunch, ( incidentally all the hard working Indians, and all South Indians take their Tea- Break and Lunch Break very seriously).

So watching them all lunching would be delightful.. all sat around in a circle ⭕️ opening the Lunch boxes of .. Roti Subzi or Roti Dal .. but to pep up their meal they would order Mixed Pakodas from a special shop and would gather around the kilo of Pakodas like a royal feast adevour the crumbs too and make a handsome meal of a mundane meal..

Inspired by them , during the long and over a 90 day day and nowtouching a 100 days lockdown, I pep up our sometimes  ordinary and mundane meal with mixed Pakodas or one type or the other with Chutneys to Pep us up and feel alive ....

A Short gastronomic thriller , an ode to my Dad on Fathers's day

Inspired today to write a short story on  Father's day, everyone thinks of stories of courage and valour and generosity and sensitivity. let me see if this one has any elements of that, and of course its food related as I am an aspirational food writer.

It was the height of summer, (those summers definitely felt hotter than today), we were on a runaway train travelling from Vizag aka Visakhapatnam aka Waltair to New Delhi. There was a Railway strike and this was one of the only trains one the move, as it had already departed.

There was no food,  the journey too was three days long and it was the 70s, no catering ,no dining cars, the runaway train screaming through the Central Indian Plains in the sweltering heat. With depleted rations of snacks, fruit and biscuits and packed meals, we were now looking at the painted empty stations as we whizzed past mofussil towns. Mind it no air conditioning, just open windows and whirring fans.

My Dear Father, a career travelling salesman, decided to get down at Itarsi Junction Station to get some nice food, the next station, he disembarked met the train driver, how long will the train halt, he said 15-20 mins, so he decided to go outside and get some food packed, he told the engine driver,  I will be back before that. Now this we got to know later, he moved out of the station, he took a cycle rickshaw to a Dhaba  (he had heard or knew about it prior, a Sardars Dhaba), got there, packed Keema, Roti and Pyaaz Salad, took the rickshaw and got back.He saw the train slowly moving out of the station.

Meanwhile, me at age 8 and my brother aged 11 and huddled closer to Mom, now what will happen, shall we pull the chain to stop the train, or has he boarded, then why isn't he coming. Then in all the excitement, a co-passenger says, don't worry I saw him running behind the train with food in both hands, he must have boarded, he has boarded. Now worried praying, these were days when the trains weren't interconnected. Now the long wait, Mom anxious, was he left behind, still consoling us. The train wouldn't slow down or stop. The next proposed halt was an hour away, my brother biting his nails, me rubbing my sweaty palms, rolling imaginary dirt. My mother putting up a brave face, like she even does now. The train finally tired out and slowed down, he walks in , as it stopped, with aromatic keema,rotis and onion salad, as he had vanquished the enemy, as he had just climbed the Everest. My Mom scolded him why didn't you drop the food and make a dash for it reach us  our bogey, rather holding on to it. He said, with wry smile, this is precious cargo.

My dad was suddenly the hero of the train or at least among'st all  those around us. We ate a very hearty and most memorable meal. He did show, valour , courage, sensitivity and took a risk for his family all rolled into one at that hot summer day at Itarsi Junction. Happy Father's Day Dad.