Ranga. That was his name.
The white of his eyes were yellowing. “Like milk gone bad.” He said, his Hindi carrying a thick South Indian accent. He wore shorts and loose shirts. His legs were the colour of dark, dark chocolate. He never wore chappals. He performed a little dance inadvertently trying to balance a big steel tub on his small head. The tub was lined with glossy newspapers. The newspapers covered the best south Indian food I have eaten.
You haven’t eaten idlis until you’ve eaten the ones Ranga makes. They swim in a sea of gold, sambar and chillis. There is a red chutney that he makes, and I am convinced there is magic involved because well, it’s just that good. It’s thick and strong and will clear up any cold that comes its way.
Last year, on a very memorable day, the rain lashed out at the city, white angry sheets beating down on every little thing. Ranga was covered in a sheet of plastic, shielding his food with a big blue tarpaulin sheet. He handed us idlis in paper plates, running up and down the stairs to the awning where we were standing protecting our tiny important heads from the rain. I lost count of how much food we ate that day, because we were cold and hungry and Ranga was our little God, outdoing himself in both his food and enthusiasm. My friend handed him two hundred rupee notes when we left. It didn’t matter what the bill was, he had more than earned the money.
We shifted offices after that. But everytime I eat an idli, I think of this day and of Ranga. The food suddenly turns tasteless, failing miserably in front of the mere thought of Ranga’s food.
The white of his eyes were yellowing. “Like milk gone bad.” He said, his Hindi carrying a thick South Indian accent. He wore shorts and loose shirts. His legs were the colour of dark, dark chocolate. He never wore chappals. He performed a little dance inadvertently trying to balance a big steel tub on his small head. The tub was lined with glossy newspapers. The newspapers covered the best south Indian food I have eaten.
You haven’t eaten idlis until you’ve eaten the ones Ranga makes. They swim in a sea of gold, sambar and chillis. There is a red chutney that he makes, and I am convinced there is magic involved because well, it’s just that good. It’s thick and strong and will clear up any cold that comes its way.
Last year, on a very memorable day, the rain lashed out at the city, white angry sheets beating down on every little thing. Ranga was covered in a sheet of plastic, shielding his food with a big blue tarpaulin sheet. He handed us idlis in paper plates, running up and down the stairs to the awning where we were standing protecting our tiny important heads from the rain. I lost count of how much food we ate that day, because we were cold and hungry and Ranga was our little God, outdoing himself in both his food and enthusiasm. My friend handed him two hundred rupee notes when we left. It didn’t matter what the bill was, he had more than earned the money.
We shifted offices after that. But everytime I eat an idli, I think of this day and of Ranga. The food suddenly turns tasteless, failing miserably in front of the mere thought of Ranga’s food.
No comments:
Post a Comment