Article on Chennai and the Art of Eating Idlis

Advertisements

All eyes are on a small pile of gunpowder. And a tiny rivulet of ghee snaking through it,threatening to flood over the edge of the banana leaf.It is my meal. But I am staring transfixed, not very sure what I do next. The elderly woman sitting next to me is staring too. As is the man, her husband, sitting opposite her. They are grinning.I am somewhat mortified. But my usually unerring instincts are in hibernation. My gallant companion sitting across me - and till now politely trying to smother his smile and gently egg me on to mix it with my forefinger - finally reaches out and does it for me. Just stopping the spill on the very edge.

I can almost feel the urge in everyone around to applaud. I would certainly want to if I were not busy trying to hide in a single room about 15 feet by 15 feet and crammed with tables and chairs and people filling them faster than they get empty. There is no place to hide.
The elderly couple -  the woman resplendent in a bright silk sari and gold ornaments, the man in a simple white cotton shirt - are delighted. They have clearly lost interest in their meal of vadas, dosas and idlis as they wait for the next episode in a North Indian woman's attempts to eat idlis in Chennai.