Bite-Sized Thoughts: Biryani

Biriyani: Indian mixed rice dish with its origins among the muslims of the Indian subcontinent. It is popular throughout the subcontinent and among the diaspora from the region. It is generally made with spices, rice and meat. Wikepedia.

I don't really remember the first biriyani I ever ate, but do remember it was contraband. I was living with my grandparents, my mum and my then-baby brother, and we had a shrine in our house. So non-vegetarian food could not be brought in. I believe it was Eid, and a lot of my grandfather's patients would offer biriyani which had to be turned away. One particular lady was especially persistent and made the smart move of appealing to the ever-hungry grandchild. I remember Karthyani, our house-help, smuggling in the large banana-leaf wrapped parcel. Gorgeous, masala-ed chicken biriyani that scented the entire room when it was opened.  And I sat in the outside kitchen and ate it. I have no idea what it tasted like. In fact, I am pretty sure it didn't taste as great as it smelled. But I still remember its orangey spiced glow in the dim light of the kerosene lamp, and the feeling of getting a very special, forbidden treat.

It was during my M.A studies that biriyani transformed from special treat to staple diet. Being in Hyderabad had something to do with it. The traditional Hyderabadi Biriyani, in my opinion, is tame and limpid in comparison to the tawny thalapakkatu biriyani of Chennai, or the bright and feisty achari biriyani of Delhi, or the deceptively delicate Malabar/ Thalassery biriyani. It was the other, more primal Hyderabadi biriyani--the kalyani-- that appealed to me. She was the raunchy, foul-mouthed, full-bodied heroine of the biriyani scene-- hot, dynamic, and usually way more than one person can handle. The proprietors of the Superstar, a local eatery, had perfected the kalyani biriyani to create an unforgettable palate experience.  Sorry for the digression, but it needed to be said. However, the best M.A biriyani memory starred a far more docile protagonist. Hyderabad House supplied a non-descript but tasty Hyderabadi biriyani. The biriyani was a gentle and comforting fare, and had rescued us from hunger on multiple occasions. You see, HH delivered affordable food long after other establishments decided to call it a day. It is one such occasion that comes to mind whenever I think of the beloved dish.

Second semester at Uni was a companionable pandemonium. For starters, the university was renovating the hostels. Consequently we were living with construction noise 24/7 and opening windows turned your living quarters into the first half of  'Interstellar'.  In a Hyderabad summer, this meant we were being baked alive in our rooms. Secondly, we thought we had finally figured out the cafeteria system, and foolishly bitten off more than we can chew. The general chaos of a full course load was heightened by one particular course 'The Early Cantos of Ezra Pound' taught by the amazing but exacting Prof.R (It literally cost a batchmate her right arm to finish the course. And she still did not receive an O grade). Those who had avoided this Scylla fell to the Charybdis of another course titled 'Aesthetics', whose succinct title should have given them a clue. In six months, we had picnicked at the edge of despair, practiced echoes in the gaping void, and had had staring matches with the abyss. And all this had made us closer. Misery loves company, after all.

During the month of the submissions, the hostel took on the appearance of a post-apocalyptic, art film.  The entire floor had taken to working in the relatively cooler corridors. Consequently, if you walked in, you would see rows of bleary eyed, haggard women hunched over laptops between piles of books and laundry wracks, stirring only to slap away mosquitoes or shoo away the errant dog. Sleep-deprivation was compounded by round the clock construction work, bloodthirsty mosquitoes, and the fevered knowledge that the deadline was fast approaching (and in some cases, too long past to pretend a technical glitch with emails). We lost track of meals, surroundings-- never time, because that slipped from between our typing fingers too quickly.

One step away from a psychotic break, someone had the sense to suggest food. By then of course the mess had shut its doors. What place would deliver at this time? Hyderabad House! Let's eat biriyani tonight! This baton of hope was passed along with the tube of odomos to each student in the corridor. Miraculously, a phone with balance, charge, and network was located! A mass order was placed and our flagging spirits gained some buoyancy. We typed furiously on our term papers counting the minutes and the word count.
No man had ever received as warm a welcome as that surprised delivery man. Cheers and cries of appreciation filled the air. The biriyani is here! The biriyani is here! As the delivery man stumbled off in a pink haze of female gratitude, we proceeded to distribute the bounty. And the unthinkable happened.
Two packets were missing.

Note to anyone who values their good health: Never enrage a hungry woman.

The miraculous phone was retrieved from where it had been tossed in happiness. Angry fingers jabbed out the number and people took turns berating/lecturing/ guilt tripping/ abusing the receiver until he finally begged them to stop so that he could deliver the biriyanis again. In a great show of solidarity, no one ate until the missing biriyanis arrived. An outsider might ask, why didn't you just share. No. There is a principle to these things. It's like the Alexander the Great and the bowl of water story. Besides, who shares biriyani, dude!

When all the parcels finally arrived, we made the delivery man wait, gave him a lecture as well and then sent him off. Biriyanis in hand, we gathered together in a reasonably cooler room, planted ourselves in whatever space was available and opened our fragrant parcels. An uncharacteristic silence fell upon the group as each of us savoured our individual treats.

Like that once upon a time biriyani, I don't remember how this one tasted either. But I remember the image of all of us sitting on the floor, shadows under our eyes, books all around and smiles on our faces. We were so happy with our small mercies.We were  so young, so ready, so sure that all it took was hard work, and that all we needed was a plate of hot food at the end of the day.

Some guy said, "In small measures life may perfect be.". I think he meant plates.

Dogged Doggies-II

Chaka

It's a dog's life indeed.
Is it not enough that we miserable inmates of the hostel residences spent the first year of our M.Adness dodging the puddles and myriad other foibles of you furry fiends? Is it not enough that we are routinely assaulted by your panting presence cemented to our shins and, in some truly disturbing cases, to parts of the anatomy that should never have to come anywhere near canines of any sort? Is it not enough that you dog our footsteps like the dogged doggies that you are, renderings us unable to take a step without encountering your pungent presence?

Apparently not.

It was a fine day-One of the last days of our bondage within the academic shackles of the third semester. Exhausted by several nights and days of too little sleep and too much assignmenting, the author sunk into an exhausted stupor in the cool sanctuary of her room, savoring that "...still,unravished bride of quiteness..." (forgive me, Keats), sweet sleep. The room-mate, good soul that she is, recognized snoriasis when she saw it and left the slumbering mortal alone,thoughtfully leaving the door open in the unlikely event that the aforementioned slumbering mortal would wake up in the next 12hrs.

Had this is been a marginally fair world, this rosy picture would have played out to its logical conclusion. However, as we are regularly reminded,life rejoices in being perfectly Machiavellian.

A few inadequate hours later, the author was resummoned into the land of the living by something unpleasantly wet being applied to her flung forearm. Amazed at her room-mate's desperation that she should be moved to using water to rouse the sleeper, the author reluctantly cracked open one of her bleary eyes. And flew out of bed in a leap that put mankind to shame! For you see, the sight that greeted the author's poor shocked eyes was not the benign countenance of her very comely room-mate, but the grinning, drool-dripping face of Chaka the doggy demon!The creature had crept into the room when no one was looking and clambered over the bed to loom over the author's sleeping head, deciding that the prone form was an apt petredish for drool samples.

While the author's ravings brought people from other rooms running to her doorstep, it had no effect whatsoever on the lolloping limpet-like mutt squatting on her bed grinning unrepentantly, tongue lolling. Apparently in Chaka-tongue yelling and screaming is a sign of bonhomie and love. Why else would she take the writer's raging roars to be a signal to lie down on the evacuated bed and furthermore proceed to rub herself all over the author's poor precious bedsheet? And the fact that the dog smelt like an open drain and had obviously been frolicking one too, did not do much to reduce the disgust her actions inspired. It was bad enough that Chaka had parked herself on my pillow and then went on to mambo on my mattress, but the red began to seep into the vision when she started for the blessed blanket. Something about the raised arm must have raised an alarm in her dim doggy brain, for she scooted off the bed before the blow could fall. While the author fought against her restraining compatriots, heaving angry lungfuls of air now permeated with Eu de Chaka, the dratted dog gave a queenly shrug as if to say "wha'ever" in Barbie-esque nonchalance and proceeded to disembowel a few unsuspecting dustbins in the lower floors.

As the discerning reader might have surmised, clean up was a b***h. The sheets and pillowcase were washed with both detol and savlon, and then left to air for 5 days just to be on the safe side. The author spent many a happy hour dreaming of transporting Chaka off to Nagaland, where the people have a penchant for toothsome canines. The Nagas are a smart race! University has leeched me of any dog loving tendencies that I might have harbored. Never again will I coochie-coo over a conniving canine. Forever traumatised by the trauma of living with these colonising curs, I can no longer look at an adorable puppy without recalling the menace it will become.

But then again, truth be told,we are the trespassers not the dogs. After all they stay on at the University, while we are merely passing through in the long line of passages in this transit flight called life. Students may come and students may go, but the dogs go on for ever. The full-throated howls ringing through the campus at 3 am in the morning are testament to the fact that they go on and on incessantly. The author realises that in this dog eat dog world one will come across strange bedfellows: there is nothing to be done but to wait for the offending mutt to boot out and then clean the sheets. And so she will go nurse the headache that all the live howling has brought about with nary a slight against the wretched animals.

It's a dog's life, indeed.

Loo-baroo....

Bathrooms are generally considered areas of cleansing. Sadly, in a hostel, entering a bathroom entails a simultaneous feeling of increased dirtiness. Call it physical, psychological, philosophical or plain comical but the moment you set foot into a hostel sanitation area, you feel like all the plagues of Egypt descended upon you at the same time.

Consider my first hostel bathroom. It was truly posh, really. For one thing it was an actual room! (As in we had to take at least two steps to touch the opposite wall). Secondly it did not supply 'mineral' water that literally turned us into stalagmites if we stood under the flow of water for too long. (please note the use of "flow of water" as opposed to shower). But these virtues were overshadowed by the fatal hamartia of the Hanging Gardens of Underwear. Take this scenario: After a sweltering night, first thing you see when you enter the bathroom are rows of drying lingerie, this followed by the swarm of mosquitoes that the opened door stirred awake, while M.S' suprabhatam mocks you in musical amusement. I assure you such a welcome blinds one to the magic of space and decalicifying possibilities. Furthermore, the bathroom was attached- A cloaked killer that. Because you see, this meant that the person in the bed closest to the bathroom (me) bore the full brunt of the mosquitoes that were spawned in the damp reaches of the damned room. And my first hostel's bathroom was apparently the Big Apple of mosquito-dom. I am surprised I survived with any blood at all!

Times changed as did hostels, but bathrooms go on forever. Or not, considering that my in second hostel there was always a shortage or available cubicles in the morning when you desperately crave ablutions before battling the day. I made my inaugural bathroom entry with a bang: I dropped a detol bottle right in the middle of the place and it obligingly smashed into smithereens with an accompanying twash! This gained me the everlasting displeasure of most of the inmates thereafter. Well,the anus sanctum (that was the motto of the hostel, not a pun) came with luxurious effects of 4-5 bathing cubicles, even smaller toilets, 'mineral water' baths, live music (neighbouring bathroomers) and the eternal "excitement" regarding the fickleness of water supply. This last quality, by the way, is a constant in every hostel.

Some of the most awkward and hilarious (on hindsight) situations arise when the water stops halfway through whatever sanitary activity you are indulging in. Following such a misfortune the hapless individual will embark upon a series of hollers and yowls imploring the staff to PLEASE TURN THE MOTOR ON! which may or may not be heard (ignored) by the implorees. Tis a terrible fate indeed to be stuck in a waterless bathroom. Worse still if the bathroom in question already induces nausea and is rather claustrophobic to add to it. Funny in the future perhaps, but when you're you are marooned in a bathroom caked with soap and with merely a millimeter of water left in your bucket, nothing can be farther from humor. Another hostel bathroom constant is darkness. All the hostel bathrooms I have been exposed to have suffered from light shortage at some period or the other. And in the case of the Old Women's Hostel, we were perennially in the dark regarding whether there will ever be light. In many ways it is a blessing - at least you don't have to see what you might see. But it is rather funny considering it gives a whole new twist to the phrase "dark doings". Couple that with groping in the dark for the tap and you have a comic scene worthy of Laurel and Hardy.

There's nothing new about the New Women's Hostel's bathrooms. Same old water problems, same old faulty locks, same old dysfunctional light bulbs. But what is different is that the users love to leave behind memories of their presence in the form of shampoo sachets, plastic covers, newspapers and often rather vile things I'd rather not defile the blog by naming. As the law abiding pacifist proletariat we went to the authorities and got zilch. Which is when, in true University spirit,the the posters went up. The revolutionary literature was posted on bathroom doors in eloquent terms running along the lines of " Pull the flush!" and "Get toilet trained!" Surprisingly enough the posters did have an effect. For a while. Sigh.

I remember telling my mother that I wanted to take pictures of the bathrooms at home, just so I can remember that clean, pretty bathrooms do exist and the parryware ads aren't full of s***t. This declaration was greeted with incredulous laughter, of course. Either way, I am sure that this is a memorable experience. And I'm pretty sure it has inured me to a great deal of trauma. At some point of time when I am stranded in the slums of Sumatra, I wont be challenged by the terrifying toilets. So I guess there's no harm done. If nothing else the bad bathrooms have become an investment in mirth: so it's all worth it. :D

Hostel Humbug-II: Return of the Plaintive

In my long career as a hostelite, I have learned that every hopeful rookie must expect to have to go through “tests” and interviews prior to admission. Most of these tests usually involved the wardens of these esteemed sanctuaries interrogating me on the values of values, the inflexible nature of the rules of the institution (which often seemed to resemble particularly limber gymnasts) and stern threats of eviction and other dire consequences if one so much as put a sliver of the toe-nail of your littlest toe out of line (which meant displease Her Majesty, the Warden.) The rookie’s job is to look like a complying doormat – contrite and vaguely guilty for being dirty.

With experiences like these to contend with, it was not surprising that I found the University Hostels’ lack of such procedure dubious, to say the least. Un peu disconcerting. All that built up adrenalin for nothing. Or so I thought. Within a fleeting minute of stepping through the peeling portals of The Old Women’s Hostel, the deceptively docile reception morphed into monstrous hydra. Ok may be not so much. It suffices to say that our experiences in the Old Women’s Hostel aged us considerably. Four months of freedom later we, “the stragglers in the desert”, to borrow a phrase from the great Ezra Pound who consumed the greater part of our minds and our collective sanity during the past semester, straggled back to the University and its questionable charms.

The glaring construction pits and sand scabs that scarred the face of the campus faded in the glow of the million megawatt smiles adorning reunited comrades and collective happiness. Of course the lights dimmed drastically when we faced our prospective quarters. The New Women’s Hostel, magnificent in its towering facade should by all rights have been a step up from our Old days. However the step up was several storeys up in this case. Pair this with gargantuan luggage that needed to be transported up three flights, minus the benevolent charity of an elevator, and we have a winner for spontaneous hyper-tension. While all this was manageable - given the efficient training dealt out by the Old Women's Hostel - trudging three flights on a sweltering monsoon day, tugging about 5kgs worth of luggage; only to find a locked room because the squatter who was assigned to your room happily scooted off with the only key, pushed the author clean off the edge of sanity. Several minutes of screaming later the rest of the luggage was herded, by which time the author was too exhausted to commit murder (which explains the presence of aforementioned squatter in good health).

Given such an...interesting entry, it is only natural that the future would bear similar fruit. The New Women’s Hostel comes with its own background music- drills and construction work noises, accentuated by the screams of hapless inmates skidding down the permanently wet bathroom floors followed by the inevitable crash. You see, ever since the University began employing the supremely intelligent scheme of filling every square inch of destroyable land with building, sunlight and ventilation have become scarce entities. And for the same reason, any drenched surface has all possibility of remaining that way for a very, very long time. But the New L.H is technologically empowered! It has three non-functioning fridges and one sort of working washing machine! Plus, because any movement to the Outside will require a battle with the killer stairs, students naturally gravitate towards rest and never leave the room at all for fear of converting all that potential energy into something else. The New L.H is also the preferred abode of the Doggy Matriarch in training, Chaka; who is all set to take over the mantle from Sundari. We have yet again taken to locking our rooms at all times so as to avoid canine visitors.

Be that as it may, the New L.H is not a hell-hole. For one thing it offers us the unimaginable luxury of only two to a room. Similarly, it is also equipped with Godrej Cupboards, as opposed to pokey little fake-wood whatnot that used to adorn our Older abode. And all said and done it is truly palatial in comparison to the ghettos in which our male brethren reside. After all, how can one find fault with our lovely living quarters when our comrades live four to a two-seater and have liquids of dubious nature dripping into their domestic area. The University takes trouble to teach its students the value of perspective. And they are not averse to making their students susceptible to diseases with and without names in the pursuit of this greater goal. Ah what an enlightened batch we are, that we have the good fortune of living through such times where the contractor can ‘forget’ to build bathrooms in the Boy’s Hostel and the management brings out the innovative suggestion of ‘mobile toilets’ – a scenario that most sentient beings would shy away from in horror. With such training, we will forever appreciate the little things in life. Like sanitation. Or silence, for that matter. After all we are alive.

For how long and how sane, is the question.

For those interested in the prequel, here is the link

Dogged doggies

This post was inspired by the inimitable Gunther, who jump started my blogger-blocked mind and diverted it to frolicking Fluffies. Many thanks comrade.

If you would recall, gentle reader, my hostel-besides providing a venue for impromptu thepla parties, chocolate cake and guitar evenings- is also a congregation ground for a variety of canines.The dogs(the four legged varieties) of the University vie with the students for top demographic position. And,it seems, for amenities as well. If it's not Frisky the too frisky frisking into your room,or Tyson(who ought to be renamed 'Hyperion'- or better still, 'High'perion.)chasing after your harmlessly hanging hand,then it's Sundari the doggy matriarch lounging in bathing areas.

But I over reach myself.

Welcome dear readers into the doggy world of the University hostels.Yours truly, ensconced in the Old Women's Hostel, ( well... they took one look at me and knew where I belonged ;P)found this out the hard way. The sun rose on the cluttered face of the hostel and the sweet melody of morning groans spilled into the moist morning air.The author rises from her cramped bed and moves towards the bathing cubicles with the happy hope of starting the day clean. With sweet thoughts of soap running through my mind I opened the cubicle door- and almost stepped on the gargantuan backside of Sundari the dog. Now Sundari, dear readers, is not your average dog. In fact, she is about the size of three average dogs put together. And perhaps for the same reason- immovable. What began with coaxing pleas to the dozing dog escalated to reverberating "Sundari OUT!"s and "SHOO DOG!"s : all of which proved completely useless- she continued to sleep undeterred. Soon these measures disintegrated into all out abuses.A particularly loud bout of swearing finally had the sleeping Sundari open one single bleary eye. Apparently what she saw didn't impress her at all because she merely shifted a bit and went back to sleep. Rage has a way of making the world get a wee reddish around the edges. Thankfully- the venue being the bathroom and all- there were no sharp objects at hand to apply on that thick furry hide. More fortunately the lady in the adjacent cubicle finally got out. It's probably because of that I didn't get hauled up by PETA. Now several weeks veteran to the ways of the Old Women's hostel, I have learnt that Sundari's apathy and dismissive attitude wasn't a unique case. Indeed, it is conjectured that even an earthquake wouldn't cause her to move her fat arse. In fact the only thing that gets a rise out of her is the sight of Frisky who she obviously can't stand. Which brings us to Frisky.

Frisky, unlike Sundari, is emaciated to the point of scary. But he makes up for that scariness with the studied application of Puppy-eyes whenever he wants to get his way. Frisky gets his name from his thorough frisking of the dustbins in the evening. (Sundari probably got her name through some weird joke- there is nothing beautiful about her)This must,of course, follow hierarchy- Frisky can frisk for dinner only after Sundari does- other wise Sundari would have him for dinner. Frisky wouldn't have been such a pain if it weren't for his terrible habit of barging into your rooms and refusing to leave. Just when you raise your slipper armed arm to render a stinging blow, Frisky looks up at you with those sad you-will-hurt-me?- you're-so-mean eyes and the earth shaking blow you were planning to render turns into a wimpy half-pat. And then we have to resort to literally shoving him out- and avoid eye contact. Frisky is the scapegoat in the campus- every dog has taken it upon themselves to make his life hell. The makes you feel even more like Cruella De Vil each time you attempt to whack him or kick him out. Especially since he just stands there and seems to invite hurt. He seriously ought to take lessons from his campus partner Tyson who never stands still.

For the record, Tyson does not have an ear fetish.(His palate turns towards other body parts, to which we will come to shortly)Why he is named this is beyond me. Maybe it's the whole 'crazy feet' thing, because Tyson can't stand still. Not to mention, he is absolutely bonkers!I cannot stress the point enough- he is completely,irrevocably nuts! I thought the whole theory of dogs chasing after nothing was mere fiction until I came across this particular specimen. Most people tend to swing their arms while walking. But we learned soon enough to keep our hands out of sight when Tyson is around. For some weird reason, Tyson seems to believe all free-hanging hands contain goodies. He refuses to eat biscuits unless they are dangling from your fingers. This trait has lead to the stupid dog happily snapping on somebody's lit cigarette. That must have been a hot snack.Another favorite trick of his is to run break neck at you and apply the brakes a couple of millimeters away from your toes. Not the best way to enjoy your evening stroll.

These are the key players in our little menagerie. They aren't that bad, really. They're amazing entertainment in all truth- though it takes you a while to see the humor in the situation.Especially when you are dying for a bath and have to concede to a fat dog, or would kill for sleep and end up spending several precious minute trying to get the dratted mutt out of the room and then be forced to keep the door closed all the time... But life in the Old Women's Hostel wouldn't be the same without them. We love the doggies :)

Hostel Humbug I: Bootcamp

Class didn't happen. Couldn't find it. Hence I am now basking in the benevolent light of internet availabitlity. And that results in another post. Read on soldier-

Hostel is a significant part of student existence. They teach the untried to survive-provide us with the necessary arsenal to face the harsh world ahead. The author has had the questionable good fortune of having spent her Under Graduate life in two exemplary examples of the educational hostels and now spends her P.G life in an equally interesting abode.

The first one was a study in community closeness. We hostel dwellers were very close-literally. We were all crammed together in a manner that made canned sardines seem comfortably housed. The hostel was actually a medium size house converted into a hostel. And the conversion was a bad idea. Approximately forty women were clogged together in a four bedroom house.The "dorm" was located in the corridor and housed some 20 girls. Each room (which, by the way, hadn’t much room to go by) was packed with six girls. This was achieved through judicious use of bunk beds. Which were another bane. Being an unsuspecting rookie, the author was thrilled with the prospect of getting the upper bunk. Only after the first night there did she realise what she had got herself into. The bed was situated in such a way that the hapless sleeper in the upper bunk got niether the air from the pedestal fan nor the cieling fan. And this was during a Chennai July. Explaination is unecessary. Several months of waitng and drenching before sleeping later- the author finally got the bed below the "hotseat". This one turned out to be a hotbed for mosquitoes. Several mosquito families owed their upkeep to the author. This great establishment not only taught us the value of space but also how to tackle encroachment, eviction and other such evils. We’d make admirable quotation gundas after the training we got here. Besides this, we also learnt the fungal nature of squalor. A perfectly neat corner will be filled with rubbish from nothing more than the mere proximity of a group of people.

Following first year, the author escaped from this institution- which probably accounts for what little sanity she had left. The next establishment was much better-for one thing it was clean and didn't house more than two people in a room. Of course the rooms were tiny, had no plug points and may seem, as Ms.Shinyhair loves to put it,"like a concentration camp cell". But they came with a great location and good ventilation (the fans worked!). Of course electricity was switched off from 10 am to 1 pm. and the lights were switched off at the main at 10 pm... But those were all minor in comparison to the water problem. We hostelites would scrounge up every bottle in sight to store water. For you see,most mornings saw the hostel bathrooms waterless. Forget bathing, brushing your teeth was a shifty possibility if you haven't stocked your bottles. Hair washing,especially,was a very dicey business. God help you if,at a weak moment,you decided to oil your hair overnight. But then again,considering the amount of salt in the water it would be advisable to leave the mane untouched. Truth be told- a cannibal would not have to add extra seasoning to you if s/he chances upon you after your bath.

U.G days have passed by. and now the author finds herself in the world of the University. And residenceless. Several weeks of nail-biting suspense later, she finally managed to infiltrate the hostel. And there raged a war for possesion(s) as never seen before.Furniture needed protection from marauding bedless/cupboardless/shelfless bandits. Meanwhile beds needed to be strategically acquired before other conquering souls swooped upon them and marked them with baggage.Constant information must travel between you and your allies to see that you are sufficiently guarded and your supplies untouched. Much like the ancient battles for supremacy, space and territory were coveted with a vengeance. It is at these trying moments that one's territorial nature is awakened. May be it is some kind of weird allegory that the hostel premices are populated with a variety of dogs- them being fiercely territorial and all.

A new hostel saga has begun. Heroes will be born. Legends will told. But all that will have to wait. I need to get to class. Forward march!

Messy Tactics

Here are a few Hostel Mess tactics to make your Mess experince less messy.

Our hostel mess is a good one.Their sambar does not resemble a dirty swimming pool. The rice does not stink. And- wonder of wonders!- their non-veg fare, though limited, does not leave the eater with stomach cramps!

The food is simple but good and shows some thought to nutrition, the addition of a fruit is evidence of this. However this fruit is a point of contention between the serving staff and the hostelites. Th fruit in question is a banana. Or something that looks very much like a banana- you can't really say, it's size and shape give rise to doubt. And Muthu anna's distribution runs along the motto of ascending squashiness. Give a squashed one and then,if some audacious soul requested; a squashier one.It's generally a squashy mess.Be sure to carry some tissue. And then there are the Appalam/Pappadam Treaties. In the goody starved world of the hostelite the crunch of a pappadam is like the music of the orbs. Acquisitions of these wondrous items are of utmost value:a pappadam in hand is worth a cup of curds in the bush. Of course the fact that these prized pappadams are more like handkerchiefs is irrelevant. They are pappadams. The non-pappadamers,who generally give their's away, are greatly valued at the table for this reason and must take precautions to not get mobbed. And it's not just pappadams that create a mad rush. Curds is next in the list. In the barter system ruling the Mess world the ownership of pickles or similar delicacies is excellent leverage. So bring on the vadumaanga.

An item that one must never miss in the mess is the Special Meals. These are occassions are momentous in the monotony of sambarsadam and poriyal. Watchout for the Sunday special chicken curry, and be sure to be around some pretty girl. Ah yes the Pretty Girl Tactic.It is always advisable to keep one or two of these specimens near you at the table. The wonderful thng about these species is that they generally get what they ask for. And the service staff, being men, are highly...susceptible. And being near the beauteous belles casts yourself in the glow of benevolence. Of course you must be fast and demand while the gla-effect is still in the system. Strike at the right moment and the number of extra ice-creams, bigger pieces of chicken and less squashy bananas coming your way will surprise to say the least. The author is an old hand at this.The Pretty Girl Tactic is applicable in any scenario.

A never-fail method for a better mess experience is to pattao the warden an mess in charge- this helps for easy acquisition of coupons, extra goodies etc. Always get the authorities in your pocket.

Please remember that Messes are messy businesses. It is necessary to exercise discretion.If the gourmet hostelite ever peeked into the Mess kitchen,it would be the end of her appetite for all time. Hence- never venture there. Why invite trauma? Just eat and don't ask questions. If you find a hair in the sambar- throw it out and continue shovelling it down. If the oil dripping off the evening "snack" has definite overtones of the fried onions that featured in yesterday's menu- keep munching. The best way to enjoy the creations of a hostel Mess is with blind faith. And plain blindness most of the time.

Always carry a ready strip of gelusil or the like. A stock of bread and jam is also advisable for the hard days.

These are some off-the-cuff tips for a happy Mess. The author hopes that it will serve the reader well in times of need. However,the author is not responsible for mishaps arising from following these guidelines. Happy hogging.