50 days in US of A. Getting reminded of the benne dosa and the smell of capsicum bajjis very often.
I remember one particular period of my life, where I was totally addicted to the oil rich snacks. I used to work in a small scale industry near ramaiah college, bangalore. I had an equally addicted colleague. In the evening we generally go for our yummy snacks. Our long conversations would go on like this.
Prabul: "Hi"
Raghu: "Ok"
And we are off to Janata hotel@ malleshwaram. Once you enter, its like entering a time machine. You will find old furnitures and older waiters. This place is perpetually full of customers. Most often than not you may have to wait for a seat, which most probably you may have to share with others.
You can find a pattern of people visiting here. Many are old people who has a royal old world charm look among them, drooping cheeks with eyes brimmed up with knowledge of uncle-ish philosophy and knowledge. They would be in age BCA (before cellphones and ATMs). Even the younger lot does not seem to very different. You can find them generally with their shirt not tucked in , slim, with a black bag about size of a book with zipper under their armpit, furiously looking for a place to sit.
The equally old waiters with an air of superiority which would make taj waiters cringe. Waiters would be in banians and faded orangish dhoties folded much above their knees and the trademark red towel with slight brownish ting. They would ask "Helle" with a dead pan expression. We order our regular Masala dosa. God forbid if you ask "Yennu iddhe?" then the deadpan expression does not become dead any more, he would start into a string of menu. Which I doubt he would have understood himself. Even then, you would have what is safe at any tiffen room like this. But then, the waiter would have understood that you haven't come here before. A slight discernable micro change in his expression would mean that he has seen you as a regular.
You get your delicious dosa dripping with molten butter(slurrrp) uncermenonisly dumped on your table with thick chutney and steaming sambar already spilled on your dosa. Very few people achieve nirvana on earth. You eat this, bliss is guaranteed .I wash my dosa down with a coffee. Not machine coffee, but actual, beautiful, fragrant filter coffee, made the way it's meant to be and served in steel tumblers. As I sip it with a loud noise, nobody would even bother your way of drinking, because it's the way the coffee to be drunk.
I get a fleeting glimpse of how the place must have looked like when it opened, with it's clock and paintings and all it's customers. I'm sitting in a piece of history. I am sure this place would have been looking exactly same 50 years before. Most of their interior decoration is the same, that old idols filled with jasmine flowers and a big red flower in middle. Old solid redwood furniture and the aroma of delicious fried bajjies and benne dosa...
I hope they can capture that smell and bottle it.
Slrupp
I am not sure. But now-a-days I see the things in the perspective of the camera lens. Or may be I see more of colors around me. Their depth or their all encompassing arms makes us feel so small. Why is that I dont observe when I am in india??? Does views in india is any less?? definatly not. A quick view through my Foto album dicards this thought. Is that we dont have time back home? Are we too busy to observe the colors. Atleast I dont see myself trying to take snaps on the way back home, like I do here. May be its the reason why I love travelling so passionately. May be I have a escapsim tendency. Or use the reason of travel to capture the colors in god's paint palatte. May be thats why.........
