An old man takes his grandson on a morning walk. The grandson is visiting his grandparents from a faraway land and the grandfather is excited to show this little boy his native town – somewhere in Southern India. The little boy is excited to walk with his grandfather. Swinging his arms, basking the 7 am tender rays and seeing the vibrant colours of an Indian Market the grandson is having a unique experience, something that he had never done before.
As they’re strolling through these planned market and yet haphazard streets, the old man makes his first stop – a vegetable shop. Here, he picks up a few eggplants in his hand, inspects them one at a time, and puts it into the weighing basket. Then he picks up some carrots, beans, shallots, a small pumpkin, and as he’s doing that he’s giving his grandson the tips and tricks in picking the right vegetable. The old man also tells him how much a particular vegetable should be ripened or raw depending on the dish it will be used in. Then they head to pick some fruits and repeats the routine of checking and inspecting each item before it is qualified to go into his carry bag.
On seeing that his grandfather knows many shopkeepers in the market, the boy asks, “Ajja, do you come here every day?” He continues, “Why don’t you pick these fruits and vegetables once every weekend, like my parents do? Why aren’t the vegetables packed neatly in the bag, but are laid on these dirty gunny bags?” To these, and many more frantic questions that followed, the grandfather smiled and replied, “this is how it always has been…” Seemingly unconvinced but still excited to walk along with his grandfather, the kid tags along.
“Why don’t you pick these fruits and vegetables once every weekend, like my parents do? Why aren’t the vegetables packed neatly in the bag, but are laid on these dirty gunny bags?”
As they’re walking, the grandfather shows him a variety of places, mostly small shops, and explains to him what each shop sells. Pointing at one particular shop, a little general store, the grandfather says that it has been there since his childhood, and that once upon a time he walked here with his grandfather. Another one, a garland shop, he says, we always buy our flowers for the poojas from here. And, then around the corner, they hit a small canteen.
As the boy anticipates of paying this a visit to eat something, the grandfather tugs him inside. Over the counter, the grandfather orders something. Pointing at a table with two chairs, the grandfather then asks the little boy to sit there and wait for him to come. And then he gets them two plates of piping hot idlis.
As he extends the plate to his grandson, the old man says, “the recipe here hasn’t changed for a hundred years”. Not that the old man himself has witnessed this but it’s a hearsay that he has been exposed to, which he proudly reiterates.
“the recipe here hasn’t changed for a hundred years”. Not that the old man himself has witnessed this but it’s a hearsay that he has been exposed to, which he proudly reiterates.
“This recipe has never been written, the chefs have changed several times in the course of over the span of ten decades of this canteen’s existence of seven generations and yet the recipe for the idli is the same”, proudly announces the old man to his little boy.
As he makes that delighted statement on the lineage of this canteen, the old man thinks to himself suspecting that the taste, texture and the consistency of this plate of idli has seen its own variations...
As he makes that delighted statement on the lineage of this canteen, the old man thinks to himself suspecting that the taste, texture and the consistency of this plate of idli has seen its own variations, and nobody can really verify that. Even the canteen owner. However, he thinks and is also quite sure that what has remained consistent throughout the place’s history is the tradition and its customer base that roots for its flavours. The culture and its essence is intact in the same way, if not for the seven generations, but certainly through his own life. As he thinks this, the old man has a smile on his face. The piping hot idlis blossom the connection between the grandson and his grandfather…
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