BackChicken ‘khausa’ and Sosyo at Rander
Nothing like the overrated, garam masala suffused with north Indian Muslim fare which the Chagatai Turk would have totally rejected as being Mughlai
Premium
And so, home to Surat to finish my new book on India—Low Trust Society—whose arguments Mint Lounge readers will be familiar with. The hopping flight from Bangalore empties at Mumbai and fills up, I observe,with plain-looking, badly dressed people.
The Surti can be wealthy as Croesus but you cannot tell it from the way he eats, looks, dresses and behaves. There is something of sobriety and modesty about the rich Gujarati (treat the outrageous Antilia as an exception) that the Punjabi will never be able to approach.
My father is there to pick me up and we drive home. The city has lovely roads and is supplied electricity jointly by Torrent Power and the Gujarat Electricity Board (GEB). My father’s flat has fallen in the bit powered by GEB, which is run by the government with its usual efficiency. And so there are outages almost daily, including some 8 hours long every week or so. Ah, the delights of good governance. But I must not bleat on about this.
In one of his many triumphant speeches of 16 May (“a date that will live in infamy"), while swatting at his critics, the Prime Minister said with irritation, “And now you’ve begun writing on electricity in Gujarat?" I swear to you I thought he was speaking to me.
Meanwhile on Athwalines, think of it as Surat’s Peddar Road, a flyover section collapsed last month, a day after it was inspected. It remains unfixed, a happy grin with a broken tooth. I hope the prodigy’s move to New Delhi doesn’t result in orphaned Gujarat coming apart.
In other local news my mother is now armed with an iPad Mini with which to terrorize relatives, near and distant, on Facebook, creation of the devil.
I’m not on Facebook myself, of course, being sensible about such things. In buying her the device and teaching her how to use it I have at one fell swoop avenged myself on snooping aunts and irritating second cousins (“we boat new motel"). And I have deflected my mother’s attentions away from me. Except, that is, for her incessant questions: “Why is this not opening?" “What is ‘unfriend’?"—go away, I have a book to finish.
Unfortunately, having quickly figured out how the Internet racket works, she has ordered me to bookmark my columns, there being no Mint edition in Surat, and will finally assess these meagre scratchings.
I hadn’t anticipated this while bringing the sword of vengeance down on the near and dear. I’m done for (“You mean they pay you for this?!").
My family will compare me, unfavourably of course, to the columnists they are familiar with—Tarak Mehta, Gunvant Shah, Chandrakant Bakshi, Vinod Bhatt, Nagindas Sanghavi, Ashwini Bhatt, Kanti Bhatt. Why are all Gujju writers Baniyas and Brahmins? I demand to know (actually I do know).
Further down Athwalines, Surat finally has a Crossword book store. I stroll over to inspect it, and the Gujarati non-fiction shelves are full of the writers named above. I also notice a copy of the late Morarji Desai’s autobiography in Gujarati. A couple of years ago his great-grandson Madhukeshwar wrote to me to ask if I could get the English version, long out of print, republished. I tried and failed, and read later in the papers that Madhukeshwar had joined the Bharatiya Janata Party. Wonder what the old man would have thought of that.
Anyway, off to Rander, the ancient Muslim suburb on the other side of the Tapi river. We reach a new neighbourhood, one of whose crossroads has buildings, eight or so storeys high, on three sides. It warms me to see such relative prosperity. “Mian-bhaiyo no Nariman Point," my schoolmate Mubin Tapali describes it. We giggle and I will leave that untranslated.
Rander has the best Ramzan food in Gujarat—an open challenge to Amdavad and Baroda (not that they will be interested in taking this particular one up). It is peopled mainly by the mercantile Sunni Vohras who made their fortunes in Burma trading in teak. Narendra Modi enthusiast Zafar Sareshwala (the fellow who looks like a mullah in a suit) and fired Deoband rector Ghulam Vastanvi are Sunni Vohras (noticed the pragmatic streak?).
The family goes to Rander for lunch and all the restaurants are shut for the fast, of course, except for one little place called Nakhuda Nasta Centre. It serves a Rander speciality called khausa, a soupy thing in a coconut sauce with noodles, chicken and veggies topped with crunchies.
Alert readers will have identified the dish as the Burmese Khow Suey, which the Sunni Vohras brought back with them from Rangoon.
“Chicken Khausa ma lasan hase to chalse (is garlic fine in your chicken khausa)?" the waiter asks. This is for the benefit of Jains who want to eat chicken without breaking with their traditional abstinence from onion and garlic. Yes, chalse. It is absolutely delicious, not particularly rich and served in small (Gujarati-sized) portions.
The bill is ₹ 250 for five of us, including bottles of the fabulous and world-famous Surat cola, Sosyo. Rander’s Muslims also make an ice cream made of durian. Unfortunately, it will only be available at iftar. Rander is, as you will have discerned, a most civilized place. Ramzan food is actually a joy here. Nothing like the overrated, garam masala suffused north Indian Muslim fare which the Chagatai Turk would have totally rejected as being Mughlai or, truth be told, as food. Why is Gujarat so fantastic and superior in every way? It’s a puzzling thing and needs Sherlockian investigation.
And so off to meet the classmates (class X batch of 1986) from Sir JJ English School. The road to the institution is through Muglisara, a word that always struck me as strange till I learnt that it was a perfectly ordinary Hindustani name—Mughal Sarai—mangled by Gujaratis, like they did “Amdavad". Muglisara hosted the oldest red-light area in India, set up for Mughals waiting for their Haj ships to depart, till it was dismantled a few years ago by Modiarty, clapped on by moral Gujaratis.
At the hip and upmarket Surat chain Coffee Culture, pure veg, naturally, the classmates meet. One of them says I should use my perch as media grandee (it not taking much to impress Surat) to get prohibition lifted.
Ha ha, yes, I say, in the middle of another television debate on the budget or Amit Shah I’ll put up my hand to say: “But Arnab, what about those suffering under prohibition in Gujarat?" Ha ha.
It turns out he is serious. I say that the reason prohibition will not go is that the majority of Gujaratis demand it. Including drinkers, I add.
Quickly the group divides itself into those who noisily demand its lifting and those opposed.
Almost all are drinkers, mind you, so it is a fascinating debate to observe. Those in favour of prohibition (the more successful, serious, front-bencher types) carry the day, of course. Those opposed sulk for a minute but soon are reconciled, as schoolmates are wont to do.
The meeting then adjourns for drinks.
Unlock a world of Benefits! From insightful newsletters to real-time stock tracking, breaking news and a personalized newsfeed – it's all here, just a click away! Login Now!
