Domain Maximus

Now this lab is the sort of place that would make an ideal setting for a merry Ruskin Bond novel. If Bond was an engineer he would have loved the people there. For one there was the two Tamilian brothers who ran the place. The elder one was Saravana. He was sort of like the lab manager and everything, impact tests, corrosion experiments, all happened under his watchful eye. Then there was his younger brother who was a much more playful fellow who ran around and did all the cutting and polishing and chemical mixing. I do not remember his name but he plays no further part in this story and therefore I will not make up a fictional moniker for him just to prove a point.

There were two more people. One was a big, strapping firang (swedish? polish?) guy who was in charge of all the science. He knew all the tests and numbers and tricks of the trade. And he always came to work piss drunk. I mean ’second year B.Tech mallu night after last exam’ drunk. He would walk in through the doors every morning and we could smell the vodka on his breath right across the lab hall and even out to the corrosion testing trailer in the back. Even the Hydrogen Sulphide chamber out back was no match for his Stoli-drenched breath.

But of he course he was really sweet and not racist at all. Every morning he would walk in and not know who I was. “Summer Trainee” I would tell him and he would hug me and welcome me to the lab. I would then sit by the microscope waiting for the spinning of head to pass. He always brought cake and pastries for us every few days. He was a good fellow.

But the villain of this piece was the evil Irani middle management guy. (By Irani I mean a fellow who was from Iran. Mumbaikars please note.) He was the owner’s relative and had a great loathing of people from, strange this, Kerala. He hated mallus. He loved Tams. He had no issue with Saravan and (what the heck!) Thirujnanasambandham. But mallus he could not stand.

So I was a little surprised when Saravana introduced me around the place as a friend of his from Tirunelveli. Irani was more than happy to have me around. “You are from Tamil Nadu yes? Not Kerala?” Before I could answer Saravana interrupted: “Yes yes. He even wears his lungi with the ends stitched together just the way we do. Malayalis hate that.”

Before long I was part of the team. I was cutting and polishing and micrographing with them every day. I was doing well. They liked me. Even the Irani.

Then one day the Irani guy offered to take me out for dinner. I was pleased. It was a great way to learn about other cultures and lifestyles. I eagerly hopped into his SUV and he drove me out to this nice Irani place in Deira.

“The first time I saw you I thought you were malayali. I hate malayalis.” he said.

“Why dude?”

“They are evil blood-sucking parasites. They are everywhere in the gulf. Grovelling, begging and undercutting everyone else. I hate them. Tamilians are ok. They have more… dignity.”

I was getting a little uneasy. This was blatant generalization and racial profiling.

“Well they need to make a living too you know.”

“So do us Iranis. But we don’t run around stealing jobs and pushing down salaries. We live well. They… they live like animals in their labour camps.”

“Hmm… but still I know at least a few good malayalis. Nice respectable people.”

“They must be Tamilians then!” he said laughing loudly. “I will feed you nice Irani chicken and rice. You will like it.”

Off we went to this cozy little Irani restaurant run by a middle-aged woman who cooked everything herself. The chicken and rice was remarkably tasty. The poultry was cooked with little oil or spice but the flesh fell off the bones effortlessly. The rice too was light and blended with a divine green herb that looked a little like coriander.

Now at this point I may look like a ninny. Why did I not stand up for my race? Why did not I tell him that he was an ignorant idiot who had the intellect of a lion-tailed macaque? Why did I not tell him forcefully that generalization was the device of the weak and narrow-minded?

Did I fall for the chicken and rice? Did I set aside my mallu pride for a full FREE meal and some dessert?

Now that is a tough… burp… question to answer.

For one thing I didn’t care what he thought. He was a stupid imbecile who worked with me. What he did or did not think did not affect me or any other proud mallu. He clearly had issues and history that he had not revealed. That sort of generalized scorn always has a reason that is never justified. Would anything I have told him changed that? I would doubt it. As long his beliefs remained in the crap-lined confines of his crummy cranium I did not give two hoots.

I let him be.

A month, and another three chicken and rice dinners later, I was done with my stint and we had a little going away party. I was gifted with a pair of light blue workmen overalls and gloves and a little cake from everyone at the lab. It was a nice touching moment. I went around thanking everyone and finally went to speak to my friend the Irani.

“Off I go sir. Good to have met you.”

“You too. Maybe if I come to Tamil Nadu sometime I visit your house.”

“Oh you must come home. This is my address.”

I wrote my Thrissur address down on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

“Thanks for all the dinners dude. It was great fun. You take care of yourself yeah…”

As I walked out of the lab, past the polishing machines and impact tester, I could hear my friend the Irani screaming out what sounded like prose his mom would have got miffed and sent him to bed without chicken and rice for.

I confess I gloated just a little bit.

***

“Man. That is some story. Was the chicken and rice good at the restaurant?” the missus asked me, perched on the arm of the sofa.

“Oh it was excellent. We must get that recipe from somewhere.”

“Is it better than my rajma chawal?”

“What are you saying? Of course not. Your rajma chawal is better than stupid Irani food any day.”

She relaxed her forearms, smiled and picked up the newspaper.

Punjabis are scary.

And that is NOT racial profiling.

Revenge! - Not bad eh?

P.S. The wife says hi!

“Somewhere in SantaCruz. I think.”
“Dude the sugar-giving will be done in ten minutes and then we have to leave for the church. How long does it take to decorate the car…”
“I had to pick up the wedding cake too remember?”
“Err… I don’t… but hurry. Grandpa is going hyper…”
“Is this the one who drove the policeman outside the airport crazy…”
“Yes yes yes… hurry…” Beep.

According to an age-old catholic mallu tradition the groom (and bride actually, but at her place) undergo a little ceremony just before they leave home for the church. They are seated in front of the assembled crowd of dozens of relatives and a hooded light that looks like it runs on controlled fusion, and are made to drink a stiff drink of fresh, drawn-at-dawn palm liquour with crisply fried mackerel on the side.

Sigh. No not really.

Though most of you would agree that the concept is most becoming of a nice mallu catholic boy. (Mone oru small adichu palli poovan nokkeda!) No actually what happens is a senior male relative steps forward with a plate of sugar and asks the assembled crowd if he may feed the groom some of the grainy white stuff. This must be done three times and each time, provided the crowd shouts “aye” in mallu, the groom picks up a pinch of sugar and places it on the tip of the tongue.

In my case the male relative in question, ignorant of the way of the native mallu, ceremoniously shoved three handfuls of sweet into my mouth. It was graceless. And it is on video.

Ugh.

Wait a minute there. Why did we do that? What is with all these pre-wedding shenanigans? Now I am not complaining, the missus went through a whole host of functions and ceremonies and things before marriage while I just had to ingest sugar, but I sit and wonder what could be the magical and romantic backgrounds to these rituals we often do without thinking.

As I sat there in my suit, slowly cooking ’skin inwards’ under the halogen camera lamp, I wondered. Perhaps it was to send away the groom from the home with a final sweet memory and taste in the mouth. Perhaps it was a discreet way to make sure that no member of society had objection to the impending marriage. Perhaps the nay sayer would shout out “No!” when the sugar plate was raised. Kerala was never a rich or prosperous place. Perhaps sugar was the most valuable item in the kitchen and the family was sending their child away with a small gift of their most precious commodity.

As we walked out to the gates, in slow motion so the camera could get enough footage, I nudged a maternal uncle in the ribs gently with my Reid & Taylor elbow. “Why this sugar thing uncle?” I outlined my theories to him. No, he said, it is not one final delicious farewell. And no, it was not so that there was a final opportunity for opposing voices. And sugar was not the most precious thing at home.

“Then why pray tell why do I consume of this sickly sweet substance?” I said in chaste malayalam.

” I dunno. I guess its because lots of guys get piss drunk the night before and the sugar revives them a bit to stay awake during the wedding service. It happens you know.”

I nodded solemnly, praising the wisdom of my forefathers.