Sadya at Illangur

Illangoor is a place where bird song and the lowing of cows wander into the air as naturally as breath, a village folded seven kilometers inside the Manjeri wilderness, far away from any civlization of the world. It was here, at my cousin’s veli in the ancestral illam, where the banana leaf lay before me, glossy and green, its surface soon taken over by small mounds of dishes. 

And at the top edge of the leaf three pickles: lemon sharp enough to wake the dead, cut mango bold as a street fighter, and puli inchi all sweet sour arrogance lined up like a trio of gatekeepers at the edge of the leaf. Kootucurry sat with the sternness of a matriarch, refusing to yield an inch of space. Near by avial, stately and composed, settled herself gracefully, while cabbage thoran crackled with coconut mischief. 

And then there was olan, unassuming, almost too modest to notice. White translucent ash gourd pieces floated gently in a thin pool of viscous water, with just a glimmer of raw coconut oil shining on top. It whispered rather than shouted, a dish that looked almost too subdued to my eyes but somehow demanded a second glance.

Rice arrived, and with it, sambar burst forth loud and confident, impossible to ignore. Rasam marched in after him, all fire and sharpness, the drama queen of the lot. As I dove in, my fingers churned rice with samar, avial, and thoran, staging my own Palazhi Madhanam that involved a furious whirlpool of flavors that raged for 45 seconds before collapsing into a single mound of divine amritam.

It was at that moment Keshavammavan, ninety years old and sharper than a village crow, leaned toward me. He had the mischief of a boy and the wisdome of a sage, and he caught me just as I ate greedily, possessed by hunger, as if racing against my own appetite. He chuckled, “Anandaa, if Abhimanyu had only half-knowledge of the Chakravyuham, you, my boy, have less than that about sadya balance. The world needs its Olans.” His words landed with a playful sting, and I grinned, undeterred, my spicy amritam too irresistible to pause

I muttered something about sambar being king, my loyalty as unshakable as temple granite. But Keshavammavan wasn’t done. Pointing to the olan, he declared with quiet reverence, “You see this is nothing but cooked ash gourd with a smearing of raw coconut oil. No coconut milk. That’s the classic olan. This dish holds dear memories of my childhood.” His voice carried such emotional weight that I paused, mid-bite, to study the pale mound with newfound respect. It seemed to embody a delicate tension with its simplicity daring to stand beside the boldness of sambar and rasam, its quiet strength holding its own

“Vishnuu!” Keshavammavan called, turning to his geandson serving the feast. “Why are you so miserly with the olan? Anandan’s leaf should be visceral, joyous!” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I hope to reform those who treat a sadya like a buffalo race!,” he said, pointing at me with the certainty of a judge.

“Don’t ‘Vishnu’ me in that tone, muthassaa!” Vishnu shot back, feigning offense. “There should be a cut-off age for men giving lectures!” He turned to me with a grin. “Anandetta, all the very best!” His tone carried a mock concern for my culinary fate.

“Despite what you assume, I’m not six hundred years old, Vishnu!” Keshavammavan retorted, eyes sparkling. “And you’re fired!” He sat beside me, gesturing to my chaotic leaf. “Anandaa, this looks like a crime scene in hysterics. It’s a crime not to taste this olan.”

“Is my dharmam totally brashted if I skip it?” I teased, chewing another spicy urulla of my amritam.

 Keshavammavan shook his head, dipping into his olan with deliberate grace. “You young generations,” he sympahetically expressed, “always running with the fast crowd, going for only the bold, the fiery, the colorful and the unapologetic choices. Olan is restraint, it cools the fire, it steadies the hand. Without it, the leaf is only noise.” 

Just then Vishnu, ever the peacemaker, returned and served me with two generous spoonfuls of olan. “Congratulations, Vishnu! You’re rehired!” Keshavammavan boomed, then whispered to me, “Classics never get old. This olan is true to our Eranadu-Valluvanadu tradition. It retains your soul.”

I paused, skeptical. “Should I mix it with the rice?”

“No!” he said firmly. “Don’t mix it with anything. And don’t pounce on it like a crow swooping on a rice offering! Scoop it gently and place it in your mouth.”

So I did. And oh, the relief was immense. The olan carried a spirit of simplicity and quiet confidence, its subtle depth unfolding with each bite. The birds sang on, the cows mooed in encouragement, and I realized this dish had a life of its own. Nothing went unnoticed when the olan was this good. As Keshavammavan said, classics are hard to beat. Truly phenomenal food.

For years, I’d mocked olan as bland, dismissed it as an afterthought. But that afternoon in Illangoor, under the hum of village life, I understood: olan wasn’t an absence of taste—it was the keeper of balance, the quiet force holding the feast together. When I rose from my leaf, my stomach was content, but my heart carried something more. I’d come for a wedding, but I left with an inheritance—not land or gold, but the gentle wisdom of olan, passed from uncle to nephew, like a secret finally revealed.

How I Ate My Way to Fame in the Idli Circle

When the top two buttons of my shirt started socially distancing from their buttonholes, I knew it was time to start dieting. Not the casual “no sugar in tea” type, but something dramatic enough to undo years of late-night biryani damage. So I chose the one-day-meal plan(scientifically proven to make you lose weight, friends, and patience, in that order.)

Since my family was out of town, I decided to skip dinner, skip the next breakfast, and save all my strength for one glorious lunch at Arya Nivas, Trivandrum. After 27 gruelling hours of surviving on oxygen and regret, my excitement reached festival levels. My stomach began making strange gargling noises: the kind you hear from someone's stomach trying to think nothing but all about food for straight 27 hours.

Arya Nivas idlis don’t just feed your stomach; they negotiate directly with your soul. They embody purity, beauty, and grace. Their life-giving presence could make you believe in world peace. The waiter placed them before me with the gentle care of a nurse handing over newborn triplets. Then came the sacred entourage: golden colored sambar, white coconut chutney, green mint chutney, red tomato chutney, and the legendary black mulagai podi in mustard oil.

The idlis were so hot, soft, and fluffy that I felt certain I would float out of the restaurant a kilo lighter. I mixed the podi into the idli, and my eyes watered  partly from spice, mostly from happiness. I savoured the vada with sambar and chutney, while the mint chutney sent so much oxygen to my lungs I felt I could run a marathon.

When I ordered more idlis, the waiter gave me a serious look.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“You’re into your tewelth idli. I’ve only seen people with acute depression eat like this. Hope everything’s fine with your family.” 

“Tewelth?” My eyebrows tried to climb off my forehead. “There must be some mistake. I think this is my fifth. I can bet my life on it.”

“No, sir,” he said with the solemnity of a judge delivering a life sentence. “It’s your tewelth. I can show you the CCTV footage. High definition, multiple angles, if you want proof.” His eyes lit up like a man who had just cracked a major crime. “Also, you had a couple of vadas.”

Another waiter joined in, like a backup detective arriving at a crime scene with fresh evidence. “One idli weighs around 80 grams,” he announced, consulting an imaginary case file. “You’ve already had eleven. That’s about 700 grams. Add the vadas and you’re just shy of a full kilo.” He looked at me the way a forensic expert might look at an escaped convict.

It took all my willpower not to scoop up the tomato chutney mid-interrogation. A small part of me hoped the idlis would stay warm until I was done wading through this ocean of unwanted, heart dropping youtube-wisdom. Ignorantly I began mixing my twelth idli with sambar, coconut chutney, and mulagai podi, and I swear it looked like a concrete mixture. The spotlight was now so firmly on me, it felt as if the Idli committee was conducting a public inquiry.

“This is my one-day-meal experiment,” I explained, feeling oddly proud. “I’ve been without food for 32 hours.” In reality, it was 27 hours, but I swear: this was the first time I’d ever felt honourable while lying. I sounded like my own lawyer defending a hopeless case, pleading for leniency.

The surprise in their eyes was obvious. Guilt replaced judgment.

"Sorry, sir,” the first waiter said softly. “I thought either you had some family issue or acute depression.”

Moments later, they returned with two more idlis, a vada, and a special spicy chutney. I ate them with all the guilt I could suppress. The chutney had a whiff of Rajasthani folk song. I left the restaurant happy, and only mildly guilty of having consumed more than a kilogram of food in one sitting.

Confession of an idli lover: I didn’t lose any weight that night, but I did lose the respect of two waiters. And possibly my shirt buttons forever.

 I stood outside Cyber Prism, the computer institute in Ernakulam where my cousin Ranjith Varma—Kunjumon to us—taught, my palms clammy and my shy nature choking my words. Two years my elder, Kunjumon was the bold one, while I was the cousin who overthought every sentence. I’d come to ask about job openings in the software industry, but the thought of bringing it up felt like scaling a cliff. What if he thought I was desperate? What if there were no leads? My mind churned as I stepped inside, the hum of computers and clicking keyboards buzzing around me.

Kunjumon spotted me instantly, his face breaking into a grin like I was the guest of honor. “Look who’s here!” he boomed, striding over with his signature swagger. Before I could summon the courage to mention jobs, he was introducing me to his student, the brother of Lalu Alex, the actor. “This guy’s brother is famous!” he said, beaming as if he’d handed me a backstage pass to a movie set. I nodded, my shyness tying my tongue, but Kunjumon was in his element, proud as ever. I wanted to ask about software firms, but the words stayed stuck.

Then came the inevitable. “Let’s celebrate!” Kunjumon declared, eyes twinkling with mischief. “There’s a bar nearby.” My nerves screamed for a pint, and his enthusiasm was contagious, so off we went, trading the institute’s fluorescent lights for the dim glow of a local bar. Kunjumon insisted on paying—“My treat!”—and ordered beers with the speed of a man on a mission. I sipped mine cautiously, still rehearsing my job question, but Kunjumon had grander plans. “You know,” he said, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin, “I could get you into movies. Lalu Alex’s brother? I’ll talk to him. You’ve got… something.” He squinted, then roared with laughter. “Okay, maybe the camera won’t love your face, but we’ll fix that!”

I laughed, the beer loosening me up, and in a rare burst of boldness, I challenged him to a drinking contest. “Let’s see who can down a pint!” I said, feeling briefly invincible. Kunjumon’s eyes lit up, and we clinked glasses, gulping like we were in a goofy college flick. The night blurred with his stories—of teaching, his students, and his wild plan to make me a star. I thought I was keeping up, pint for pint, but when the bill arrived, reality hit: Kunjumon had downed twice as many beers as me, his empty glasses outnumbering mine like an army. “Lightweight,” he teased, slapping my back as he paid with a flourish, unfazed by the dent in his wallet or the toll on his liver.

That wasn’t the only time Kunjumon’s zest for life—and alcohol—swept me along. Another memory takes me to a chaotic Bangalore trip with Kunjumon and our cousin Kishore. We piled into my 14-year-old Maruti Esteem, rattling off from Manjeri with high spirits and zero foresight. Halfway there, the car coughed and died—engine failure, the mechanical equivalent of a diva storming offstage. We dragged it to three Maruti dealers—two in Bangalore, one in Mysore—and not one could figure out why it quit. I was a wreck, picturing my car stranded forever, but Kunjumon and Kishore? They treated it like a grand adventure, laughing like kids on a field trip.

While I obsessed over the car, they discovered Bangalore’s happy hour scene—buy one beer, get one free. They dove in, racking up free beers like they were collecting trophies. Kunjumon, with his unquenchable thirst, led the charge, his laughter bouncing through the pubs. “Free beer doesn’t count as drinking!” he’d joke, raising another glass. Kishore and I, clueless about how dire his condition was, got caught up in his energy, matching his drinks and egging him on. His witty one-liners—half-slurred, half-genius—kept us in stitches. For three days, we hopped pubs, belted bad karaoke, and ignored the ticking clock of his health. My only worry was getting the car back to Manjeri, not the fact that we were enabling a habit that was killing him.

Those moments—the bar in Ernakulam, the Bangalore misadventure—were pure Kunjumon: larger than life, funny as hell, and drowning in alcohol. Back in our school days in Kannur, he, Kishore, and I were thick as thieves, sharing dreams and laughs. But after he started working at Cyber Prism, living in Tripunithura and teaching in Ernakulam, alcohol stole him away. For 25 to 30 years, I have no memory of a sober conversation, his drinking a wall between us. We only reconnected when his liver began failing, and doctors banned alcohol. By then, he was vomiting blood, a brutal sign of the end. He cut back but couldn’t quit, and he refused a liver transplant—partly, I think, because he distrusted a doctor he felt was after money, and partly because he’d accepted a life without alcohol wasn’t one he wanted.

Kunjumon’s laughter still echoes, but it’s bittersweet. He left behind his wife and two daughters, 17 and 21, whose voices, renowned in our community, carry his spirit in every note. His story isn’t just ours—it’s a warning. In Kerala, alcohol is a menace ripping families apart. Four of my 23 school classmates are caught in its grip, their lives fraying like Kunjumon’s. Those nights of free beers and movie-star dreams were fun, but they masked a tragedy that cost us Kunjumon and left his daughters without a father. His memory urges us to fight this demon before it claims more.

Achan

In October 1989, Achan and I boarded the train for Punjab, my heart heavy against my wishes. As the wheels pulled away from Kottayam station, my beautiful world—my home, friends, the park, the club, CMS College—faded like a distant dream, slipping into a haze of memory. Achan’s calming presence, usually my anchor, couldn’t steer away the fear and anxiety gnawing at me about four years of hostel life in a Punjabi world. The two-day journey dragged on, the wheels of time slowing until they froze when we stepped onto Jalandhar railway station’s platform. Little did I know, this marked the end of my Kottayam chapter, and Achan, with his quiet strength, was guiding me toward an uncharted beginning.

My heart churned as we reached my college, a fortress of engineering brilliance. Just outside the hostel, I spotted an ancient sardar selling tea, his long, pristine white mustache and beard flowing like a river, so old it seemed I’d been born 200 years ago and dead for a century. His samosas and pakodas lay like neglected orphans, forgotten and desolate. Achan paused, serene as ever. “Your tea warms many, sir?” he asked gently. “Hundreds, daily,” the sardar replied, eyes bright. “Then you fuel futures,” Achan said, a quiet nod tying wisdom to simplicity, his brilliance flickering in few words. I clung to his calm, my fears of the unknown still swirling.

The hostel’s long corridor assaulted my senses: a sting of alcohol and urine, a bhajan clashing with chaos. To my left, a sardar with a mustache curled and waxed to knifepoints led a ragging session, his booming laugh terrifying a junior, stark and unreasonable panic lining the boy’s face. Tears welled up; I hugged Achan, silently begging not to be left alone in this alien India, so far from Kerala’s gentle embrace. Seniors eyed us, one calling, “New boy from the south?” Achan smiled softly. “He carries roots, grows wings here,” he said, his calm words disarming them, a senior nodding, “He’ll fit in, uncle.” His subtle insight steadied me, a shield against the storm.

At room 306, cluttered and cobwebby, a mirror to my apprehensive yet wondrous soul, I sat, shaken. Achan’s hand rested on my shoulder, firm and tender. “This hostel will be your true school,” he said, his voice low, a beacon of courage cutting through my dread. His silent confidence, a quiet force, urged me forward with a faint smile. Achan was a soft, silent man, speaking only when needed—scoldings, affection, anguish, and stress all melted into his stillness, a gentle authority guiding me true. When he spoke, his clarity sliced my confusion, a gift of his vast mind. “Write often, son,” he added, embracing me briefly before stepping away, leaving me to face the future.

Two months later, December 1989 stole Achan from me, a loss that carved a void only his memory could fill. At college, I faced four years of chaos—ragging, cultural clashes, late nights—yet his wisdom lingered, a compass in the storm. Time, like a four-legged creature, stood at room 306, hind legs in Kottayam’s fading dreams, front legs in hopes I’d build. This hostel, a warm place with no memory, became my forge, just as Achan foresaw. He didn’t just leave me at room 306; his quiet brilliance—his trust in my spirit—lit my path, teaching me to embrace the unknown and honor his legacy through every step.

On June 1st, 2025, Achan’s birthday, I sat with my memories, tears tracing paths down my cheeks as I wrote. I am a man on a journey, its destination veiled, but my heart holds fast to hope. I hope Achan rests on the other side, his spirit as warm and wise as I dream him to be. I hope to find him there, to fold him in my arms, his love mending my heart as mine mends his. I thank him for my brother, a mirror of his strength, a guide I cherish daily, and for Amma, whom we hold close with care, as he’d wish. When we meet, I’ll ask, “Achan, did I make you proud?”—a question only his voice can answer, waiting beyond the horizon of time.