The "Poha" paradox
It's 3.46 am. Deccan Gymkhana. Opposite the PMPML Central Bus Stand. I've just finished doing an emergency brain surgery. The patient, a 41 year old cop who fell down at home and sustained a bad contusion( bruised and injured brain with motley haemorrhagic areas) that was really causing pressure on the central portions of the brain- the brain stem.
The surgery went off well barring the routine irritations of having a rather junior scrub nurse who was in awe of assisting a brain surgery. She was a bit dumbstruck by the proceedings, and irked me by her confused state of mind. Anyways I finish my job on hand and after a safe decompression, I ask my junior to do the honours of suturing up the incision.
I have a word with the anxious relatives, groping for equivalent terms to explain abstruse concepts and colloquial terminology for the rather unpredictable and idiosyncratic organ and the equally intangible pathologies that I have to deal with . After attempting to answer all the rational and irrational queries that even touch philosophy, destiny etc, I look at the watch and its 3.30. I crank up my pickup and head homeward. As I take the first turn , I see this handcart, a very rustic mini foodtruck if you please. I had a frugal meal the previous night and the hunger asserts itself by a sudden, audible peristaltic rumbling. I pull the pickup to one side and make my way to the handcart laden with yummy steaming hot "Pohe".
I park myself in a quiet corner after ordering a plate of Pohe. Ther guy very deftly plunges a serving spoon into that heap of golden yellow Pohe garnished with fried peanuts. He scoops out a couple of servings which he fills up in a small plate. He generously sprinkles it with Shev and tells me to help myself to some pungent spicy Sambar that's looking angry red and fuming in a container.
I reach out for a serving of that sambar and let it trickle gently on the Pohe. This dish called Pohe has traditionally been the preparation, served in the "Boy meets girl" episode of arranged matrimony. A rather innocuous looking simple recipe that inveritably sealed the fates of prospective brides and grooms. I shovel a heaped spoonfull of pohe marinated in that insanely spiced curry into my mouth and the taste buds explode with culinary ecstasy. As I'm indulging in shameless gluttony, my gastronomic lust is rudely intruded by a rather irritating query from a newly arrived 25 something guy. " Sir do you eat at this place regularly?" I turn to look at him in the pitch black darkness of the wee morning hours. And to my chagrin, it's the relative of the patient whom I had just operated.
I feel very uncomfortable and embarrassed as my mouth was almost in a transcendental state and I hurriedly gulped down the partially ruminated Pohe. I think seeing me, the divine " Saviour" of his brother in a very modest human form, eating street food just as the rickshaw driver standing next to me was a paradox. I was a far cry from the high flying blue collared professional Neurosurgeon. I decided to make the most of the situation and earn a few brownie points for myself and my noble profession.
I tell him rather apologetically, that I had not had proper dinner and the surgery had really made my hunger uncontrollable. I try in vain to restore some divinity to this rather banal and mundane indulgence.
Actually, I'm as much or probably much more vulnerable and anxious than he was since I had no one to ask questions and had to only provide answers.
Answers and accountability to every question hurled at me by the relatives. As he orders a cup of tea and looks hungrily at the dish of Pohe being served to him, I start back towards my pickup throwing a last glance at the heap of Pohe. A dish that forges alliances, dispels hunger, and above all levels all hierarchies.
It's 3.46 am. Deccan Gymkhana. Opposite the PMPML Central Bus Stand. I've just finished doing an emergency brain surgery. The patient, a 41 year old cop who fell down at home and sustained a bad contusion( bruised and injured brain with motley haemorrhagic areas) that was really causing pressure on the central portions of the brain- the brain stem.
The surgery went off well barring the routine irritations of having a rather junior scrub nurse who was in awe of assisting a brain surgery. She was a bit dumbstruck by the proceedings, and irked me by her confused state of mind. Anyways I finish my job on hand and after a safe decompression, I ask my junior to do the honours of suturing up the incision.
I have a word with the anxious relatives, groping for equivalent terms to explain abstruse concepts and colloquial terminology for the rather unpredictable and idiosyncratic organ and the equally intangible pathologies that I have to deal with . After attempting to answer all the rational and irrational queries that even touch philosophy, destiny etc, I look at the watch and its 3.30. I crank up my pickup and head homeward. As I take the first turn , I see this handcart, a very rustic mini foodtruck if you please. I had a frugal meal the previous night and the hunger asserts itself by a sudden, audible peristaltic rumbling. I pull the pickup to one side and make my way to the handcart laden with yummy steaming hot "Pohe".
I park myself in a quiet corner after ordering a plate of Pohe. Ther guy very deftly plunges a serving spoon into that heap of golden yellow Pohe garnished with fried peanuts. He scoops out a couple of servings which he fills up in a small plate. He generously sprinkles it with Shev and tells me to help myself to some pungent spicy Sambar that's looking angry red and fuming in a container.
I reach out for a serving of that sambar and let it trickle gently on the Pohe. This dish called Pohe has traditionally been the preparation, served in the "Boy meets girl" episode of arranged matrimony. A rather innocuous looking simple recipe that inveritably sealed the fates of prospective brides and grooms. I shovel a heaped spoonfull of pohe marinated in that insanely spiced curry into my mouth and the taste buds explode with culinary ecstasy. As I'm indulging in shameless gluttony, my gastronomic lust is rudely intruded by a rather irritating query from a newly arrived 25 something guy. " Sir do you eat at this place regularly?" I turn to look at him in the pitch black darkness of the wee morning hours. And to my chagrin, it's the relative of the patient whom I had just operated.
I feel very uncomfortable and embarrassed as my mouth was almost in a transcendental state and I hurriedly gulped down the partially ruminated Pohe. I think seeing me, the divine " Saviour" of his brother in a very modest human form, eating street food just as the rickshaw driver standing next to me was a paradox. I was a far cry from the high flying blue collared professional Neurosurgeon. I decided to make the most of the situation and earn a few brownie points for myself and my noble profession.
I tell him rather apologetically, that I had not had proper dinner and the surgery had really made my hunger uncontrollable. I try in vain to restore some divinity to this rather banal and mundane indulgence.
Actually, I'm as much or probably much more vulnerable and anxious than he was since I had no one to ask questions and had to only provide answers.
Answers and accountability to every question hurled at me by the relatives. As he orders a cup of tea and looks hungrily at the dish of Pohe being served to him, I start back towards my pickup throwing a last glance at the heap of Pohe. A dish that forges alliances, dispels hunger, and above all levels all hierarchies.
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