Captain Cook
© by ๐พ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ฎ๐๐๐๐๐๐
by Ms Chai "Cookie" Patti, Tall Tales Inc.
[A fictional caricature blend of several hard-working mess-workers from NH (Nehru Hall, IIT Kgp) in the late 70s-early 80s]
In 1976 I arrived at the Institute Dedicated to the Service of the Nation along with many other callow youths eager to conquer the world. We learned that our motto was Yogah Karmasu Kaushalam (เคฏोเคः เคเคฐ्เคฎเคธु เคौเคถเคฒเคฎ्, from Bhagwad Gita, loosely "Perform your Duties with Competence.") No connection to YKK zippers, this motto would ring there daily in unexpected ways as we performed dutifully to the best of our gastro-intestinal fortitude in the Mess. The concept of food seemed like an afterthought, clearly designed by a committee of well-meaning, world renowned experts in STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering and Math) and approved by seasoned bureaucrats. All of them probably had only passing acquaintance to human health, nutrition or toxicology fields.
For us, the denizens of the Halls of Residence dotting the Scholars Avenue, it would be a five-year long experiment of human endurance. Every meal arrived with the air of challenge, a vague aura of risk rather than a promise. The daal / sambar / rasam accompanying all lunches and dinners exhibited both liquid / solid singularity, forced together but refusing to mingle like fighting siblings. The seasonal veggies had surrendered all color and ambition sometime during preparation, and the chapatis, both burnt and uncooked, often displayed structural properties of industrial materials. As a vegetarian then, I personally cannot comment on the non-veg options but others recount that there was often an unresolved debate as to whether it was of piscine, biped or quadriped in origin. Every concoction-du-jour seemed to contain the latest formulation from the advanced laboratory of the Institute's internationally famous Chem. Engg. department.
For the residents, eating there became an extended Real World trial of Response, Resilience & Reliability. I later learned the proper acronym, HALT / HAST (Highly Accelerated Life Test / Stress Test) for the eventual certification of complex systems. Surviving breakfast qualified one for lunch-time testing; surviving lunch built confidence for dinnertime testing. By graduation, we emerged not only with degrees but with gastrointestinal systems that had been stress-tested under conditions no degreasing facility would be able to scrub. Many alumni would later face very demanding and difficult situations, including but not limited to howling blizzards, pompous professors, bumbling bosses, clueless co-workers, Human Resource trolls, toddler tantrums, teenage drama and stormy spouses. We would scoff... nothing in adult life quite matched the character-building experience of the Nehru Hall mess at mealtime. We were ready.
The mess workers at NH operated with the calm confidence of people who knew there wasn't much competition within biking distance. In any case, most of us had already exhausted our meagre allowances for the semester within the first couple of weeks at Waldies, Far East, Nair's or Anark's already. The next semester's allowance was... several long months away. NH mess staff dished out the daily slop on the rectangular divided steel trays with the zest of bored assembly line workers. Questions about flavor were treated as philosophical inquiries beyond the scope of their duties, referred to the manager, elderly Ghosh babu. He listened impatiently with a disappointed look of a parent facing a rebellious teen. One moved on, nibbling around Schrรถdinger's rotis, both burned and raw at the same time, dreaming of next feasts when the discretionary funds had been replenished for the next semester.
There was the toothless and grumbling Chinaiyya, one called Rajaiah, and several other XXXaiah's. Sadly I can recall no more names now, just some blurry faces and their fading legends. Then there was Gangarao.
Gangarao is not the kind of man who enters any narrative history accidentally. He crashes into it wielding a cast iron tawa causing scorch marks on half burned rotis while leaving random parts raw. Rotis of vaguely elliptical shape and random sizes, which are still scarring some of our minds, still causing incontinence in at least four continents. Much younger than the toothless legend Chinaiyya, the man could set our tongues aflame every meal.
Long before this gig though, even before his last most recent rickshaw wala gig, there was this Saudi Arabia venture, according to loud whispers. Ah yes. Saudi. Not Southie. The land across the sea where Gangarao allegedly went “for work,” which is exactly how any dangerous Telugu "once upon a time" saga begins. Nobody knows what that actual job was. Depending on whom you ask, he was a palace cook, or, an AC mechanic, a camel driver, a procurement specialist, or “culinary consultant,” which all sound fake enough to be plausible.
But all versions agree on one thing. Gangarao somehow ended up deep inside the very core of the estate of a terrifyingly rich Sheikh. Allegedly, the Sheikh had seven marble fountains, fourteen fancy cars, forty-two falcons, a caravan of camels and numerous wives in billowing harem pants. A place so heavily guarded that even sunlight needed daily permission to enter.
Now understand this clearly: normal men survive such jobs by keeping their heads down. Gangarao was not a normal man. Within two weeks, the palace kitchens had transformed into a full Andhra operation. The air smelled of desi ghee, curry leaves, roasted green chilies, and danger. The Filipino servants flipped out in confusion. The Lebanese chefs were offended, their lebaneh refused to curdle any more. The Sheikh himself reportedly sneezed for three straight days after encountering proper gunpowder karam.
Then came that fateful evening. One version says Gangarao introduced the Sheikh’s wives to mirchi bajji during a private garden gathering. Using his own extra-spicy mirchi. Another says he made some improper pesarattu-upma combination at midnight and changed their understanding of happiness forever. A third version, the one I personally believe, claims Gangarao taught them how to eat pickle using both hands while crooning love ballads like Telugu action movie beauties.
Apparently the royal women became obsessed. The palace changed overnight. The wives stopped asking for French pastries. They demanded onion pakodas during sandstorms. Imported cheeses were ignored. One royal lady allegedly screamed at the Sheikh in her boudoir, “C'MERE MY LITTLE PEANUT CHUTNEY MAN!”
Disaster! Soon the wives were sneaking into the kitchen after midnight while Gangarao stood there at ready to wield his personal jhanjhra (or jhanjri, the frying ladle) like a swashbuckling culinary pirate with a cutlass, frying mirchi bajjis under golden chandeliers while secretly explaining the greatness of NTR dialogs. One wife reportedly asked him, “Gangarao… why does your pickle make me emotional?” To which he replied: “Madam, that is not just any old gherkin. That is Vijayawada soul.”
Fatal answer. Because unfortunately, one evening the Sheikh himself strolled in unexpectedly and discovered three wives happily devouring Andhra pickle. One wife crying from chili spice but refusing to stop. Telugu songs played softly from a cassette recorder, and Gangarao in full glory in his rolled-up lungi.
Silence. The kind of silence where even ceiling fans become nervous. The Sheikh stared at the scene in horror that turned into fury. One wife, still chewing on the mirchi, apparently pointed at Gangarao and declared: “His is much better than any royal mirchi.”
This was not diplomacy. This was war. What happened next depends on the storyteller. Some say guards were summoned immediately. Some say the Sheikh challenged Gangarao to a duel in the courtyard at high noon involving scimitars to settle matters of culinary pride. Gangarao was now in quite a pickle. One drunk unkill swears that Gangarao escaped, hiding inside a cucumber crate consignment for Croatia.
But all stories end the same way: Gangarao deserted the desert overnight. No farewell. No customary two-week notice period. No final settlement. Only one missing lungi and several emotionally compromised royal wives staring longingly into the ensuing ghubaar (desert wind) wondering when or if ever they would again taste proper coconut chutney.
Weeks later he resurfaced in Chhota Tengra as if nothing had happened. NH mess management, desperate to staff up, hired this bounder “all-rounder.” Understatement of the century. The man could make puris so greasy, the freshers squeezed it to recover the midnight oil to burn in our paper chase. His sambar caused much political upheaval both sides of our digestive system. His sabji caused traffic jams, literally, janta trying to escape the mess hall through the the narrow doors.
Yet nobody knew what he actually did outside his cooking. Every afternoon at exactly 2:17 PM, Gangarao vanished. Gone. Like an undercover agent sponsored by R&AW. He returned smelling of diesel fumes, incense, phoren parfum and lipstick after his confidential meetings. “Where were you?” I once asked. “International affairs,” he replied, chopping onions nonchalantly, with the calmness of a man who had already catered to the cravings in an inner sanctum off-campus.
After five long years in the penal colony, I left Kgp. Gangarao is since reputed to have drifted into Oueshtbengal politics like a cyclone entering warm coastal waters. Last I heard, he dons a orange veshti with white dhuti and green scarf now, representing the leadership of the KGP KJP (Katsaridaphobic JP). People still run away in terror wherever he offers food. Some call him “anna.” Others, "char anna" that he used to earn pulling rickshaw in 1980s. Uncharitably.
But to me? He will always be the fugitive palace cook who nearly destabilized a Arabian royal household using his charisma and his dangerous Andhra pickle.
