Has China invaded Chennai?

One of the weekly rituals that the wife and I indulge in is to give the old cooker a break and head out to eat at London's finest. Well, finest within reason of course. The old pockets are rather dusty, shallow and unlined at this point. Finest with a budget. Budget finese. One gets the drift. One of the places we frequent is a nice little Indian restaurant called Tulsi. Unlike other 'Indian' restaurants in the UK, this one actually serves Indian food. None of its dishes are named Madras. Or Curry. Or Chicken Vindaloo.

So it is that when the mind desires north Indian food, the mind directs the legs in the direction of Tulsi. During one such visit, an item on the menu caught our attention. It was catchily named Idli Manchurian.

While at school, I was famous for one thing, being bad at history and well, pretty much every subject that called itself a science. However, even I know that an idli has never been involved with China. Heck, only in the last 30-40 years has the humble idli had the guts to go beyond the borders of South India. In much the same way that it is well documented that is not possible for idlies to have visited Manchuria and gotten romantically involved with local dishes, it is well documented that Indo-China relations have, at best, been strained. So even if an idli managed to sneak across the borders, this unholy matrimony could have never happened.

I suppose the same argument can be given for almost every other Chinese dish, such as 'Gobi Manchurian' and 'Mushroom Manchurian'. However, one can also argue that 'Gobi' is simply Hindi for a cauliflower and a cauliflower is something that is global, so Gobi Manchurian could very well be a desi name for cauliflower made in Manchuria. The same goes for mushroom manchurian. It's not particularly hard to envision a cook in China picking up a mushroom and plonking it in a wok of manchurian sauce just to see how it tastes. However, an idli is an idli in any language and I am sure ingredients that go into idli batter are not the same ones that go into rice pancakes.

While I have analysed and ruled out the possibility that an idli made it to Manchuria, there is a school of thought that considers the reverse to be possible. After all, China is the de facto supplier to the world. Everything is manufactured in China now. So, is it possible that in this global invasion, China surreptitiously slipped some of Manchuria's finest into South India on a covert mission to covert South Indians to their way of eating? It is a distinct possibility.

It remains unclear how and where this fusion of the Chinese staple and South Indian staple happened. However, one thing is clear; it was created by a genius. The spongy idli perfectly soaks in flavours, juices and manchurian sauce and the resulting taste stays inside the idli until the last bite. Unlike gobi manchurian, which has fried cauliflower with flavour around it, the flavour resides inside the idli. Delicious. I cannot help but wholeheartedly endorse the alliance. Long live the idli manchurian.

Democracy...

Almost everyone outside of the US of A and I'm sure several hundred people within the US (those who are actually aware that the US is not the only country in the world) will be aware of the elections that just went by in the UK. The same people would also know that the next government does not have absolute majority and all that good stuff.

For me, this election was a first in a couple of areas:

- I voted for the first time in my life
- In the 6 years I have been out of India, this is the first election I have been a part of.

In true essay style, I will now elaborate on each of the above.

My first vote...

In donkey's years, I'm more than 2.5. I have been in the voting age group for give or take 9 years. Until yesterday, I had never set foot inside a voting booth. I know that statement probably comes across as an incredibly irresponsible and undemocratic statement and I only ask that you hold off on passing judgement until I set out my defence. I may have reached the wizened age of 18 many moons ago, but I have spent a six of the 9 years since then outside India, 3 of which were in the UAE, where the words election and democracy would hurt the sentiments and beliefs of the people of that country. From there, the story moves to the UK, where for some reason unknown to me, the government lasted until now. Strange then, that my first experience of voting is in a country I am not yet a citizen of, have no cultural ties to and the only common aspect between said country and me is that the forefathers of the citizens of this country ruled over the forefathers of my country! While in India, I wasn't allowed to vote because I didn't have a voter's identity card and for some reason, the people who manned the election booths thought my general appearance was, let's say, suspicious. Therefore, I was promptly turned away from the booth.

So it was that I trooped into the election booth at St Joseph's recreation centre in Wembley, all eager and enthusiastic to cast my vote and decide the fate of the UK for the next 5 years. I cast my vote alright, no 11th hour hesitations or nervousness. I was the picture of confidence all through. I did have a major gripe though: nobody placed a mark of identification on my index finger to prove I had voted. One of the things I had most eagerly looked forward to was to showing off the little dot that is usually placed on the right index finger to prove that one had actually voted. No such thing in the UK I'm afraid. They are a trusting bunch of blokes. I could have confidently walked in there and voted all over again and they wouldn't have batted an eyelid.

Obviously, being the honest bloke that I am, I didn't.

My first election outside India...

Until last month, I thought elections in any democratic country would be the same. A huge exercise involving thousands of people to rally the masses, huge campaigns, riots, posters, advertisements, riots, heavy security, leaders travelling the length and breath of the country seeking votes, riots, mudslinging and did I mention riots?

Much like the British attitude to driving, there was none of that here. There were 2 pages dedicated to election coverage (which focussed only on the three main Prime Ministerial candidates plus little titbits of information on other goons in the race) and 24X7 coverage of election campaigns on the news channels, which one cannot watch for more than 30 minutes. Not because they are uninteresting, no no no no no, it's because after 30 minutes, the remaining 23 hours and 30 minutes of programming is one endless loop of the first 30 minutes.

There were a few banners, but none of them in places where you wouldn't find any other advertisements. So, while driving along, you would see an awful advertisement asking you to the 'cool' thing and buy a can of Coke and the next one would be one asking you if you wanted the crooks of Labour party to loot you again. I missed not seeing every available wall in the country painted with party graffiti. I missed seeing posters upon posted lined up on every wall that did not have graffiti on it. There were no election rallies, hundreds of thousands of drunk people did not congregate to listen to one leader bad mouth another (gives me the impression that the only time hundreds of thousands of drunk people congregate here is to watch football, but I could be wrong). Instead, leaders here went to visit old age homes and schools. Hardly the target market, if you ask me. None of the annoying features of an Indian election were present here and I missed that, only because, I think an election should be as feverish and celebrated as a world cup, since it only comes every 5 years!

The came Election Day. Can't say it dawned bright and sunny for it rarely dawns that way in this country. It dawned alright. Life went on. No indication of an election under way. Police were conspicuous in their absence. There were no queues anywhere and even when I went around to cast my vote at 8:30 PM, there were around 20 people in the booth (including the booth officials I might add). Voting itself was a simple affair, no identity card needed. Walk up, give your address and if your name is there on a list, you can vote. So I could have voted as James Pandurangan and no one would have batted an eyelid, as long as there is a James Pandurangan in the neighbourhood.

On the whole, I went into election season expecting fireworks, loud fireworks and I all I got was a soggy pop, from a soda can. Don't care though, I got to vote - lack of an identification mark notwithstanding!