A thriller unleashed in Malgudi

A thriller unleashed in Malgudi

Reading is the cheapest ticket to travel.  As a child growing up in Chatsworth’s Bangladesh market district, I was a quite a thriller.  My vivid imagination even had me baffled.  For a considerable time I made up stories about my reincarnation.

In one past life I was an English nobleman with a small castle and a multi-storey library.  Evidence that Chatsworth was the stately home of the Duke of Devonshire surely helped.  In another, I was a warrior in Ravana’s army as we did battle with Ram on the pages of The Ramayana.  By the age of twelve I had one of those bushy south Indian moustaches so that story was not as far-fetched.

With puberty came the toolbox of charm.  Dictionaries and phrase books in the Victoria Street library helped with words in French and Italian.  And thus was born the myth that I was once a Casanova.  I even took to wearing shirts with frills down the front and sported gold chains.

I told stories of stylish yachts moored in Monte Carlo, romantic sunsets over Kanyakumari, puffing the hookah on silk-laden caravans wading through the Sahara and the billowing manes of the horses on the Camargue.  Girls with an appetite for fantasy listened attentively.

In truth, the furthest I had ever travelled by then was to Tongaat third-class on the steam train armed with two pairs of Nu-shop underpants in a brown cardboard suitcase and tepid milky tea in a newspaper-wrapped Smirnoff nip bottle.

Books were my ticket to dream.  My literary itinerary included the hilarious RK Narayan.  I picked up his Under the Banyan Tree and A Tiger for Malgudi for a few bob in a second-hand bookshop at the weekend and quickly devoured them.

Some years ago I read his outstanding Swami and Friends. The Guide was prescribed for us in high school.  Narayan had a stellar imagination.  Malgudi, the fictional south Indian town that features in much of his work was a raucous place.

In a 2001 obituary in the Independent his genius was described as, “It was Narayan’s unique achievement  … to make small town India as vivid to Western readers as their own backyard … his writing remained as affectionate , clear-eyed and above all, comic, as when (Graham) Greene first fell for it in the 1930s.”

In the introduction to Tiger, Narayan writes of being inspired by the hermit who arrives at the Kumbh Mela festival, which recurs every twelve years, accompanied by a tiger that is neither on a leash nor does it scare or hurt anyone.  With the tiger constantly on his mind, he chances upon a cardboard bookmark with a picture of a young tiger pleading, “I’d love to get into a good book.”  And so he promised that the tiger would get into his book but he could not promise the goodness of the book.

Nowadays I travel stretched out business class with a real ticket and tweet about it.  Sometimes I have one of those wide-eyed beauties alongside me but mostly I have a book for company.

Rusty Nails

The harsh black tea tasted of rusty nails. Aunty Polly was the kindest most generous woman blessed with heart and warmth of spirit that would have made her a sister to Mother Teresa. But her tea was awful. It was boiled so many times over that the tea leaves were reduced to a slimy pulp. It was the habit of Chatsworth people to have tea at the ready. One never entered a home simply to pass through. Whatever the time of time or day you were offered a cup of tea and a meal. You ate whatever was offered. Polite refusals were brushed aside as the hosted literally forced it down your throat. Aunty Polly was consumed by a bottomless poverty. From having been dispossessed of her family's land and farm and relocated after marriage from the Magazine Barracks her life steadily got more impoverished year on year. That didn't  stop her warming up the rice in a battered aluminium pot and frying you an egg. It was a meal to rival a Michelin chef.  The tea however was something to quickly swallow or toss into the potted plant when she was not looking.

Big Luck Gravy Soakers

I pretend to know a lot about wine. Winemakers. Estates. Fine vintages. You could say I have an educated palate. My medical condition not withstanding. I know my Cape from my South of France to the New World. I keep successive editions of the Platters and salivate over the uber connoisseur Yegas Naidoo. But that's just snobbery. I have been deceived by Odd Bins and Château de Box, even the kraaitjie papsak.  Not so with potatoes. Being a native of my beloved Chatsworth I consider myself the Britannica of the humble tuber. I know my Cape Douglas from my UTD. I know my Big Lucks, my Gravy Soakers and my Melting Moments. No mutton, live fowl or cornish curry is complete without just the right potatoes. It must be soft and soaked right through. Hard potatoes or water potatoes will perish a cook's reputation forever. Forget the harm to reputation. The fella that sold the potatoes in Bangladesh or the early morning market in town will be in for a really good hiding. It's not unlikely that the cook will carry the rest of the offending pocket back to the market and throw it right back at him. That's no mean feat carrying the pocket back to the market. Once the pockets were 15kg in a tough brown paper bag. If you were shy on wrapping paper for school books you could use the unprinted inner layer. The Chatsworth dagga merchants still use the inner for wrapping their kaitjies.  Nowadays the pockets have slinked down to 10kg and more commonly 7kg. Even so, marketing the potatoes is aggressive business with vendors shouting prices and purported qualities at the top of their voices. Interest in a pocket will likely have the vendor snappily tip the pocket into a huge plastic dish.  In a glance the buyer could gauge the quality right through and confirm that no rotten potatoes lie hidden in the bag. A "taste and buy" principle applies to most items in the market.  Not uncommon to walk past a display of grapes at a stall and pop a few in the mouth. Vendors often peel a naartjie and offer segments or slice pieces of ripe mango. Admittedly it is more difficult with raw potatoes. My friend of forty odd years Neville does his mother's weekly shopping at Bangladesh. I will have to find out the latest on potato buying techniques. One thing for sure though - like Ken's Mercedes buying habits you don't change brands midway. If it's Cape Douglas it's Cape Douglas all the way. Even a blind man can tell one cook's curry from another through the texture of the potatoes and the taste of the gravy. I have become quite partial to Sam's cornish.  I have resisted a glass of wine to go with the cornish. On account on my medical condition, you understand.

The baked beans chow

It's Ken's birthday. August 23. He shares it with my niece Cherne who turns 21. More about her later. Ken is a towering personality. Since the early eighties he has been our  undisputed leader.  Our being the drainrats styled as the Glenover Class of 85.  Quite how he succeeded in that feat I cannot quite fathom. Suffice to use Veena's eloquent Unit 3 adage, "Park dom, live long."  Ken has always played dom. Parked in the shadows. Concealed under that veneer is a Minora sharp wit. Minora being the blade we had our first shaves with in our native Chatsworth. In Budgie's case half a shave because he was interrupted. I'll have to tell that story another time.  On the phone to Maggie in Bangkok last night Ken was uppermost in our conversation. We marvelled at just how clever he was.  In both Ken and my books, Maggie is something of an aristocrat. Her opinion matters, on every subject. We agree that she is the most most accomplished woman we know yet as simple as a garden twig. Maggie set up a WhatsApp group for our little club. The exchanges are raucous. No one is spared. I don't want to give too much away. Ken might yet craft that into a bestseller. I am his publicist so be assured it will fly off the shelves. The last five days were dedicated to a countdown to Ken's birthday.  The loop was Hong Kong, Melbourne, Kyoto, Bangkok, Durban and Jozi. I kid you not. Once Chatsworth was our universe. Now the whole world is our oyster. Veena will get that one. She's a clever girl too. Reduces the complexities of the world to song lyrics. Ken even made a video a few minutes to midnight bowing to his friends. That video went viral. Well Ken is a migrant. He moved from Glenover High School  7D to 8A. That would be 1983. 8A was the premier league.  Ken came with Theron.  Theron was one of the three kulumanses. Since Sam is a social science professor and a Scrabble master she can unpack that in a Chatsworth dictionary. From that moment Ken became our leader. He introduced us into the bowels of Bangladesh. It's drugs, it's gangs,  it's women, the generosity of its heart and spirit. He watched over us steering us away from the roughest stuff and letting everyone know that we enjoyed his personal protection. Our base was Ken's flat. Block 31 Bangladesh.  Well the flat actually belonged to his aunt Loretta and her husband Rogers.  While they were out at work or away we had the run of the place. Drinking, fornicating and cooking. It's the cooking that is my best memory. Ken cooked the best baked beans chow in the world. Our daily routine was hustling a few bobs wherever we could for the chow. Elaine was a frequent contributor to the fund and whenever we were short we could tap Pam.  Ken had a way with his fundraising. He could charm the panties off a nun. We bought the can of baked beans  from Narsais,  Ismails or Shaiks in the unit 3 shopping centre. Along with half a loaf of bread we had all the ingredients for a good chow. If the funds were more we made it two cans and a whole  loaf. If the hungry (hongeras) were greater in number than the funds then Ken just added more of Loretta 's  tomatoes to the brew.  If we managed to tap Thavan then we got him to buy baked beans with Viennas. Coupled with Loretta's curry powder,  the baked beans bunny was Michelin star  stuff. Good enough to scoop off the floor. Ken will remember that. Better still if we had a dop and hilarious when we could get Babyface Clive drunk. We never succeeded in teaching Neville to drink. Now Ken is a good cook. Not as good as Manogaree but he is sharp. He can rustle a solid chow in minutes.  In every other matter he is deliberate and slow.  The handsome Moodley twins Mutt and Jeff, Trevor and Ravi christened him Speedy alternatively known as Sputnik .  The twins are not to be confused with the handsomest of the crew Seelan who was going to be the designated driver of the fast Datsun, Ken bought to take us to the matric dance. That car never made it out of the pit stop. Nowadays Ken owns  a Mercedes Benz E  class!  He might be sharp but he is still slow. Which brings me back to my niece Cherne.  In  few weeks she will leave to train with the Russian Air  Force as a commissioned officer of the South African Air Force . Extraordinary at 21! Brings tears to my eyes as we are Chatsworth people scaling the the tallest frontiers.   No doubt she will be flying from one of the bases that launched Sputnik and flying some of the world fastest fighter jets.. Happy birthday to them both.

Grandmother

I brim with pride
I brim with anger
This has been no easy ride
Ever present is the danger
That we will turn on each other
Rather than to one another
Ready we must
To build a nation robust
My grandmothers
And theirs
Were forced to the soil
Not the soil of their mothers to toil
But the land the gallant Zulu reign
Usurped by the Teutonic queen vain
Indenture in name
Shamesless slavery in popular refrain
Profit they did
Englishmen,  Scotsmen, Welshmen sordid
Trafficking in human cargo
Nary a thought for the devastation below
Below deck on slaveships they wept
From ancient ancestral villages swept
From Madras,  Veloor,  Bihar and Kanyakumari
Ripped, hungry,  sweating and weary
To the land of iLembe they were made hurry
To turn green to gold under whips and ropes scary
To sugarcane, tea, coffee, coalmines, railways and domestic service
Went potters, poets, scholars, jewellers, landowners, gravediggers and sex workers
The punters in London and Glasgow rolled in glee
Imaliyavuza!
My grandmothers
Are long gone
Their memory I honour
I brim with pride
I brim with anger
But my energies I must direct
To the nation we must build with no refrain
Or 154 years would have been in vain.

My roots are here

My roots are here*

Kiru Naidoo

My roots are here

Deep in African soil

It’s a story I tell

Tell to myself

Tell to my children

Tell to theirs

It’s a question I am asked

Asked sometimes, asked often

A question I don’t mind

That I can answer with my chest filled with pride

My roots are here

Deep in African soil

Does a leopard have to confirm its spots?

I don’t know any leopards to ask

But ask me and I will tell you

I am an African

My roots are here

Deep in African soil

A question I don’t mind

That I can answer with my chest filled with pride

Don’t TELL me I am an Indian!

Your’s is no right to give an answer

Or a tag or a label or to assume or to taunt

I am because of Phyllis Naidoo, of Archie Gumede, of Albertina Sisulu, of Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela

I am because of Helen Joseph, of Dorothy Nyembe, of Billy Nair, of Marimuthu Pregalathan Naicker

I am because of Joe Slovo, of Albert Christopher, of Walter Sisulu, of Nomzamo Winnifred Mandela

I am because of Dulcie September, of OR Tambo, of Monty Naicker, of Ahmed Mohammed Kathrada

I am of many more and their uncompromising non-racialism

Lest you think there was only one GPS to South African freedom

I am also because of Steve Biko, of Sonny Venkatrathnam, of Robert Mangaliso Sobukwe

My roots are here

Deep in African soil

I am of many more and their uncompromising non-racialism

We proudly claim twenty years of freedom

We are because of them

My roots are here

Deep in African soil

Mayibuye, iAfrika!

*Inspired by Omeshnie Naidoo’s words, “my roots are here”.

Vadas rule the roost

Vadas rule the roost


Kiru Naidoo

(Published in the Sunday Times Extra - Johannesburg, 24 November 2013)


Hot out the oil, golden crisp and crunchy. The real treat of the afternoon “flesh” prayers was my granny’s vadas. Speckled with red and green chillies, she deep-fried them in a wok-type cast iron kadai. The cooking ritual is etched in my memory and the pride of my lineage. 

My paternal grandmother, Kanniamma Govindarajulu, was a matriarch of silent majesty. Barely four feet ten and of the same navy blue complexion she bequeathed me, she rarely let anyone near the kadai. Her sari hitched and gathered between her thighs, she sat on her haunches over the leaping fire in our  Chatsworth backyard. 

In one hand she held a little square of banana leaf. In the other she balled the pungent wet mixture of stoneground dried peas, onions, chillies, coriander, cumin and a host of other spices. 

Everything was hand ground on a block of heirloom granite, the revered ammikal. The  spicy ball was slapped onto the banana leaf to be flattened into a plump little disc. The final flourish

was sticking her ring finger into the centre to poke a hole right through. The delicate formation was  then slid off the banana leaf into the crackling oil. As half dozen batches cooked they were theatrically scooped out with an enamel sieve-type ladle to form a growing mountain in a dish
alongside. 

Not even the favoured grandchildren were allowed to touch until the vada had been offered to the Goddess in the afternoon prayers. The morning ritual was the “pouring” of the sour porridge along with vegetable curries to honour the Mother Goddess who had rescued the faithful from a smallpox plague. 

The prancing roosters we slaughtered as offerings to the Mother were cooked for hours on open fires for the afternoon feast. The vada however occupied centre stage.

The crispiness outside gave way to a moist core bursting with a spicy, nutty, salty sensational crumbliness that overwhelmed the eager mouth. The matter of the hole still stokes fiery debate.

Some put it down to religious, ethnic or even sexual symbolism. (The hole is distinguished from other clans who use a three closed fingers indentation similar to the forehead ash markings of Saivites.) 

In my unlettered granny’s greater wisdom I suspect that it served only to cook the vada right through like the hole in a doughnut. 

The one mannerism where the Govindarajulu bloodline easily stands out is that the vada is eaten pressed by thumb and two fingers against a fried globe of sweet flour paste we call oorinda or to use my mother’s tongue, goolgoola. It’s our version of the sweet and sour. 

The vada also appears on other occasions like Purtassi, Kavady, when we pay homage to our ancestors and sometimes even Deepavali. Now and then it is doled out on cold winter afternoons with piping hot tea. Compliments have always poured in for my granny’s vadas.

The Govindarajulu’s freely share the recipe - minus a few ingredients of course.


Granny’s recipe from my sister, Ravathy Naidoo’s recollection (the five year old in the middle of the picture)

1kg dried split pea dhal soaked overnight

1 bunch dhania (chopped)

5 green chillies (finely chopped)

5 red chillies (finely chopped)

1 bunch spring onions (finely chopped)

2 onions (finely chopped)

2 tablespoons salt

1 tablespoon jeera

Sunflower oil


Method

Grind dhal on a stone to a rough pulp. (A food processor will do but it won’t make for a good story!) Fold the rest of the ingredients into the dhal and grind further without getting the mixture too fine. Extract in golf ball sizes and pat into a small disc on a square of banana leaf. Fry in batches in deep, moderately hot oil until golden brown and crisp. For best results use a cast iron kadai and open fire. Serve hot on a platter lined with paper towel. Quantity obtained depends on the temperament and generosity of the cook. Recommendation to serve with goolgoolas for which a vetkoek recipe should do the trick. Mainstay optional.