Father calls me a sucker and always says that shopkeepers rejoice to see me coming, since they can sell me almost anything. While I have to admit that I do buy things that perhaps many would not, this is not arbitrary shopping. I do pick and choose from the array that I am shown and I generally know what I am getting, or what I want to try and do with what I take away with me. And, don't forget, in me are the genes of that redoubtable woman who bought everything from feminine hygiene products to cocoa powder to plastic brooms from women who came to our door selling these products, more because "Poor things, they looked as if they needed the money!" than because any of these purchases were required in our house. Mother passed these qualities - to call them 'virtues' would be perhaps inappropriate - on to me, her daughter, and though I do not entertain door-to-door salespeople, I am, admittedly, rather a sucker for a sob story. But, as I never fail to stress, especially to those who would make fun of my shopping habits, what I buy almost always is useful. And when they remind me about the kurta that melted in the wash, the pillow cases that never fit anything and the jam that was more synthetic than a nylon sari, I quickly change the subject. No, I am not looking furtive, let me assure you.
Today I spent some time at the market, going through what they had at one of my favourite stores. 'Favourite' because it stocks stuff that I have little use for and have rarely ever come across, mostly because it is all hardcore traditional South Indian, which is a genre that is unfamiliar, exotic and very interesting indeed. Like puttu mix, for one - I often joke that I like being half Malayali, but that is mainly for the food and the saris, I insist. Never having been to Kerala and not having eaten much of the region's cuisine - apart from standards like adai, avial and beef chilli fry - to me it seems like the land to explore, to enjoy. And the closest I can get is the food. But, as I always tell the man who serves customers at this particular shop in the heart of the South Indian enclave in the city, I cannot make it unless I know what it should be like in its authentic version. Puttu has been described to me as a kind of polenta, or a dirty grey goo that can be used to seal tiles in a bathroom, by different people, of course, but neither gives me an idea of what the stuff tastes like. So while I eye the packet of puttu powder carefully from a distance and wonder aloud to my friend at the store, I have never yet found the courage to buy it and try it. Anyway it takes a special contraption to cook it in, Father tells me.
There is so much more at just this shop that has caught my fancy. From string hoppers to stuff made with ragi (our equivalent of rye, I think), dried fry-ables to fresh sweets with a ghee-coconut aura, interesting little packets of powders and other perishables...I am slowly working my way through the stock. Today I got some puliinchi, a spicy pickle-like sauce that I have been wondering about for a few years now. What it will taste like will determine what I do with it. AT best, I can store it to use every now and then in various avatars; at worst, some friend who likes culinary exotica will inherit it.
And so the story goes with all that is new and acquired...
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