A “Rockstar”, who didn’t exist!

By Zico Ghosh

Foreword:

Vipul and I were supposed to do a review of the movie 'Rockstar' , but it did not work out. However, our friend Zico (Sankhayan Ghosh) has written a review for the same. So, here it goes!

In “Rockstar”, there is a clear reference to birds (a bird or a group of birds). Not just in the self-explanatory songs or dialogues and props (the "Wings of fire" concert or the big, black eagle-winged Gibson guitar) but in spirit too. And this is a film that is more about spirit than standard cinematic norms. It is the divisive kind that can polarize opinions and I am a little scared about our audience-intellect and hence worried, that a film like this might not be received the way it should be. But if you are a cinema-romantic who is more moved by intense passion-plays than designed-boxes of entertainment then this is a film for you.

“Rockstar” is a slightly difficult film to critique, because it kind of disobeys the structural parameters, but heck, does it really matter all the time? This heavily layered film is like an untamable beautiful beast with a big heart whose dreamy, haphazard madness keeps you coming back to it from various existential points.

The film revolves around a germ of an idea- an aspiring musician seeks tragedy in life in quest of artistic empowerment, when he learns that only a broken heart can provide him with the outlet that he is looking for. Janardhan Jakhar- a Jatt from Delhi’s Pitampura doesn’t quite wear those uber-cool black Rock-band tees. He idolizes Jim Morrison though. He wears hand knit brown sweaters and tight jeans that aren’t particularly fashionable. As the Delhi winter falls, he also occasionally wears that shabby mustard-colored jumper with “Rockstar” emblazoned on it, and goes to Hindu College.

And it doesn’t become a rags-to-rich or an underdog story from here. There is no competition to win, no proving himself, nothing. His transition to a bonafide Rockstar is almost magic realism (the spiritual transformation at the Nizamuddin dargah and the eventual “miracle”), except that we know that this lad has got musical talent.

The transition and the journey that he set out for, to seek music, suddenly becomes sidetracked, because Janardhan (who by that time has become Jordan), almost unknowingly, has started a journey of his own- a journey that of love. His music starts becoming secondary, and all that jazz is just incidental! Our wannabe Rockstar has been kissed by love and nothing else, now, matter to him. His journey becomes his destination, and we suddenly find that all this while, we were being fooled, because this is some crazy, epic, love story that is going on and not any heart shattered musician’s journey of catharsis. And the greatest trick that the devil here pulls is convincing the world that this “Rockstar” existed. It is as if a silent duel between music and love were being played, and that, music had to bow down. When finally in love, it makes a ridiculous mockery out of his “Rockstar dreams”-the guitar burns in front of his eyes as he lies in the bathtub and he throws up on the concert-red carpet. But the movie is as much about soul, as it is about love. And our Jordan is blessed with an untamed sufi soul that can’t be caged, “Yeh bada Jaanwar hain Dhingra sahab, yeh aapke chhote pinjre mein qaid nahin rahega”, Shammi Kapoor, with godlike wisdom and compassion tells the record label owner.

Rockstar is actually layered with so many shades, that he is too much to be real. In fact he is not real at all! His world is shown to have people who are more caricatures than human beings. That Dhingra Sahab of Platinum Records has all the attributes that we attach a stereotyped Hindi pop-music mogul with. And for that matter, even a musician’s most prized possession-his fans (here they constitute that near-perfect “Rockstar-fan-frenzy”), the media- as if all are card board cut outs. They have no depth, no empathy, nothing. And Ali silently plays with them the way a master puppeteer does with string-marionette. They help build the world around Jordan. He feels disconnected to all this. There are few genuine things in his life and few people who are able to touch him. Heer (Nargis Fakhri), their meeting place beneath the snow-white bed sheet in the hotel room at McLeod Ganj, and maybe Khatana bhai and his sister. And the bird (or the soul) that takes flight in Phir Se Udd chala perhaps talks about the same too.

“Shehar ek se Gaaon ek se, Log ek se Naam ek.”- The bird has taken flight in search of a never land of spiritual peace and as he looks back at the world that he leaves behind he finds it meaningless. They all look and sound the same.

And to carry a film like this, you need something more than a written piece of paper. The lyrical, free-flowing verses breathe through AR Rahman’s music. And clearly, you aren’t in a position to appreciate the film unless you have read the music. I wonder, what we have come to, and how we have nearly forgotten to read a film by its songs (thanks to “Bollywood”). Here, the effect of the lyrics, music, and the imagery helps create that ethereal atmosphere around the film. And also contribute tremendously are Editor Aarti Bajaj and Cinematographer Anil Mehta. Bajaj’s extraordinary editing almost shapes the film and Mehta shoots like a dream. From the snowcapped Kashmir to the dreamy concert sequences, he does his job astonishingly well.

This brings us to the performances, which means now we talk about Ranbir Kapoor. Much has been said about it already. He oozes such infectious presence on screen that you don’t feel to nitpick anyway and here with a damn good acting performance he makes Jordan alive on screen. Nargis Fakhri is less pathetic than I thought she would be, and she has a presence. However all hell breaks loose once she opens her mouth and she, probably is one of the weak links of this film. And Shammi Kapoor (as Ustaad Jamil Khan) warms up the screen, for one last time, with his gentle aura and dignity; almost as if an invisible halo blesses his godly presence.

Perhaps one of the biggest achievements of “Rockstar” is that it consciously creates a kind of anti-thesis of the clichés that we would normally associate it with, and it’s steeped deeply in Sufi-jatt sensibilities that lend the film its unique flavour. He doesn’t take drugs, doesn’t smoke. Not an alcoholic and he refuse sex even when it is offered. His only cure is love- the ironic twist to a Rockstar identity. Several Sufi philosophies bind the force of the film. The mythological references to Heer-Ranjha and the surreal finale make “Rockstar” this crazy, unreal beauty. Those who question the practicality of the final concert scene, which takes place in a European arena amidst earth shattering fanfare, are clearly missing the point here. It’s to show as if, finally, on the night of his most spectacular feat in the cosmos of music, arrives the terrible tragedy. The circle is completed-the circle of the dichotomy of life. And the hapless soul takes refuge in that never-land in the mystic poetry of Rumi, beyond the realms of all wrong doings and right doings.

As I said, all this doesn't happen in real world. Somewhere it represents a part of all of us, who like Jordan, don’t fit into the civilization. We always somehow manage to adjust and constantly try to fit in. We are trained to be civilized in a certain way, and thus trapped in ourselves. The miracle that happens at the dargah that night in the surrounding of fakirs is after his plea to the almighty- kar de mujhe mujh se hi riha-that’s the juncture of magic realism. From there, the film becomes a fantasy, a protest. And a middle finger to that civilization. He is a symbol of Rumi, Kabir, Khusrao, Hazrat Nizamuddin- a free spirited Nadaan Parindey who once had to leave home because civilization was being built and who never quite returned after that. He is that voice. That spirit. It is a frame of mind that never gets an outlet in real life. Only once in a while, they find catharsis in a film like "Rockstar".

No barriers of Time and Place.....

VINAYA PATIL

A human wall as a singing and dancing chorus along with being the actors of the play was something rarely introduced in plays. But Vijay Tendulkar does so; and tides against the current almost like always. Ghashiram Kotwal, a Marathi play by playwright Vijay Tendulkar was made long back in 1972. It was first staged in Pune and after being banned by the Progressive Dramatic Association, was re-staged by its actors through the Theatre Academy, in the year 1974.

One would most certainly wonder why a play this old is being written and spoken about today. But as Mr Tendulkar puts it “Ghashiram knows no barriers of time and place.” The play refers to the political class of Pune in those days. It was dominated by the clichéd religious Brahmins and Tendulkar tries to bring out the irony of this very fact through the theme of sexual lust against the desire for power.

Ghashiram Savaldas is a Brahmin from Kannauj and comes to Pune with his wife and daughter to make a living. But he is looked down upon by the Brahmins of Pune and is accused of a theft. He is tried in spite of not having committed the crime. Ghashiram gives up after his failed attempts at conveying innocence. This triggers his anger at the Brahmins and their attitude. The idea of revenge takes birth here. Ghashiram decides to teach the city and its inhabitants a bitter lesson by taking charge of things.

The deputy of the Peshwas (who are themselves the deputy of the King), Nana Phadnavis, is in-charge of the city and is himself a womanizer, playing out Tendulkar’s idea of irony. He falls for Ghashiram’s daughter and develops an insatiable lust for the girl’s youth and body. Ghashiram makes use of this opportunity to gain power. Nana makes him the kotwal (a police chief-like position) of Pune. The city is under the kotwal’s control. He tightens the strings of all the Brahmins in the city by imposing extremely draconian rules and restrictions on the citizens; soaking in the sadistic pleasure of taking revenge, while Nana was busy enjoying his daughter’s youth.

The play revolves around this theme, breaking into music and dance at short intervals and the Sutradhar (narrator) narrating the story along with being a part of it, keeping the audience in sync with the story. The characters of the Brahmins and other side actors are played by the very people who are a part of the human wall and the dance-music sequences. They have the perfect timing and brilliant acting skills to pull the audience into an era that has long gone past.

Tendulkar’s Ghashiram could easily be related to the present day politicians, villains and a number of such other ironical figures in power and the ones aspiring to be in power. The play therefore does not seem to become an antic; it just gets a renewed meaning every time it is enacted or screened. One tends to relate it to the present day scenario in his/her perception. This is how Tendulkar likes to play with his audience’s minds and he does it in an unpredictable fashion every other time.

Boulevard of broken dreams..

Sudarshan N

April 5, 2009, was just another day for me. But Mahatma Gandhi Road, now popularly called MG Road and South Parade in pre-independence times, was set to lose one of its last remnants of history.

The Indian Coffee House, which stood as a mute spectator since 1959 to many significant changes in MG Road’s landscape, was catering to its customers for one last time in an ambience as serene as ever. For old-timers like my father it was a sad end to a glorious chapter.

Bangalore has always been a city that attracted migrants, its weather the single biggest factor. First, it was the turn of Tamilians who settled in Halasuru, an area off MG Road. Then came the British. The cosmopolitan aura reflects in the areas in and around MG Road. These were part of the cantonment area of Bangalore (other being the ‘city’), which stretched to twelve and a half square miles, established by the British Military Garrison.

Lord Cornwallis is said to have led his army through present day MG Road in the 1780s when he attacked Tipu Sultan’s fort in Kalasipalyam. The British managed to defeat Tipu in 1799. But they were driven out of Srirangapatnam by mosquitoes and they took refuge in Bangalore’s Cantonment. Trinity Church, located at the start of MG Road, was constructed for the garrisoned soldiers.

In complete contrast to the other side of Bangalore (Malleshwaram, Chamarajpet and Basavanagudi), which was conservative to the core and swore by idli vada and by-two coffee, the landscape in the cantonment area was dotted by bars, pubs, discotheques and movie theatres that screened ‘English movies’ and restaurants that served fancy food.

For someone like me, who has lived his entire life in Bangalore, one for whom ‘home’ is speaking in Kannada and munching authentic South-Indian food, MG Road was completely out of bounds. It was an alien territory, as much as London or Paris.

Girls draped in western wear, smoking cigars and having a drink or two were commonplace. New Year’s Eve and Christmas parties at the ‘Hard Rock Café’ found audience among the ‘Generation Next.’ It was, by far, the most ‘happening’ place for new-age Bangaloreans.

Despite this, it is MG Road which settlers, old and new, orthodox and liberal have always associated and identified Bangalore with. Its beautiful green canopy, boulevard with arched bougainvillea that ran the length of the road, theatres like Plaza and Galaxy and the Indian Coffee House were the main attractions.

Bangalore is the only city where exotic varieties of flowers and trees bloom for almost nine months a year. Shades of this are still evident in Cubbon Park, which lies at one end of MG Road with flora and fauna sprawling over 100 acres.

A walk along the boulevard, filter coffee at Indian Coffee House, smelling sandalwood sculptures at Cauvery Emporium and a late night movie at plaza; the MG Road of today offers none of these.

With the exception of one or two, most of the older buildings have been razed. In their place stand multi-storey buildings, corporate offices and malls with glitzy glass exteriors. The Barton Center and the Utility building, perhaps the last showcases of colonial times, no longer have those small little restaurants on the terrace.

Gone are the morning walkers, evening joggers and shopkeepers on the pavements. A giant flyover-like structure right at the centre of the road on which Bangalore’s ‘Namma Metro’ runs has reduced the erstwhile boulevard to rubble.

However, the Indian Coffee House was reinstated last year, albeit at a different location. On Church Street, parallel to MG Road. The aroma of the filter coffee, the taste of the masala dosa and the red-turbaned waiters, are all still the same. But the spirit just doesn’t seem to be there any more; it gives way to a wave of nostalgia that sweeps over people.

In May this year, a high-value commercial space, close to Barton Centre and a few hundred yards away from the earlier location of the Indian Coffee House, was leased to Café Coffee Day. “A lot can happen over a cup of coffee.” A lot can happen, indeed.

3-Iron

Smita Magar

Korean Filmmaker Kim-Ki-Duk is applauded worldwide for his eccentric cinema-house. He tells the most unusual stories with precision and charm of a master magician. But, as much as he is admired for filmmaking he is equally infamous for violence in his films. "3-Iron" (2004) though does not have a cruel, grisly hardcore violence as in filmmaker's previous movies like "The Isle," "Crocodile," it is not without its own dips into viciousness.

In "3-Iron"s case violence comes in three forms: with a sense of entitlement - a man’s repeatedly beating his younger wife; a guard’s repeatedly beating a young prisoner who everyone knows is innocent of the crime; and assaults with hard-driven golf balls. Yet, overall, this really is a gentler film by Kim, its style Bressonian, especially with its elliptical nature and its emphasis on sounds puncturing silence. He has used some of the techniques of horror - sudden jolts, suspenseful set-pieces, enigmatic point-of-view shots - to relate a touching and improbable love story.

Tae-suk (Jae Hee), the hero of Kim's remarkable film "3-Iron" aka Bin-Jip (Empty House) has a strange air of quiet, contemplative contentment. A beautiful young man with a new BMW motorcycle, he does not participate in the ordinary hustle and bustle of contemporary life. Instead, he goes from door to door of stranger's homes, putting flyers in the keyholes, and then, later, breaks into the homes where the flyer has not been removed. He exists peacefully in the shadows of other people's lives, cooking himself simple meals, taking long baths, and watching television.

He is not a thief. Quite the opposite, while residing in these temporarily vacated homes, he does the tenant's laundry and repairs broken items. This way of life seems to work well, but becomes complicated when he encounters an abused married woman Sun-hwa (Seung-yeon Lee) in a luxurious house he had broken into. She is clearly in need of healing, and Tae-Suk is a fine caretaker. He dresses his prodigy in innocent, child-like pink, cuts her hair and prepares her food. But before long, we discover that he is not nearly the carefree man he first appeared to be. First, he uses '3-Iron' golf club to smash gulf balls into the sunken chest of Sun-hwa's abusive husband. Later, he rigs a golf ball to a wire, and hits the ball round and around a tree. Never before has the golf stroke revealed itself to be an act of unadulterated hate and violence.

The most amazing aspect of Kim's film is that neither of the central characters talk. They acknowledge each-other's existence, fall in love wordlessly, and it absolutely works. Never does this unusual plot device ring false-- perhaps because other characters do, in fact, converse. Tae-Suk and Sun-hwa's faces are so expressive, their gestures perfect, their performance so flawless that the absence of talk almost seems to prove the richness of their love. When Sun-hwa finally speaks, her word does not disappoint.

"3-Iron" is mesmerizing with a finely detailed and familiar world even as they are governed by sometimes enchanted, sometimes sinister dream logic. Director/Producer/Writer/Editor Kim, for his part, engages in a similarly tricky sleight of hand that nonetheless feels like magic. It won him international critics’ prizes at Venice and San Sebastián, and the best film prize at Valladolid.

Director: Kim Ki-duk

Cast: Lee Seung-yeon, Jae Hee, Kwon Hyuk-ho, Joo Jin-mo, Choi Jeong-ho

Language/Subtitle: Korean/English

Running time: 87 minutes

Kannadigas and their world through cinema

In a pioneering book titled “Bipolar identity – Region, Nation and Kannada language film” noted film critic M. K. Raghavendra has attempted to study social trends in Karnataka through movies. The book, launched by Oxford University Press has been eagerly awaited by film buffs in the state as Mr. Raghavendra is a noted Kannada film critic.

The book studies the experiences of people from the rural areas of the state when they come to Bengaluru to find jobs. Bengaluru finds itself in a strange position where it is the capital of the state but the people of the state still view Mysore as the capital. Mr. Raghavendra’s studies conventions of the people of the erstwhile Mysore princely state because, he says, these were the conventions which continue to influence Kannada cinema even today.

Dr. Raj Kumar, the first superstar of the industry, gets significant coverage as he came to play a crucial role popularising the industry. The choice of films also highlighted the cultural consciousness of the state. Bollywood cinema only spoke of the national aspirations of the people of the country as a whole and this is where regional language cinema became prominent. Their uniqueness was that they were to cater to the audience of the particular states. In doing this they were able to tap markets within their regions which Bollywood could not.

Thus the cinema of any region became concerned with that region alone. In Karnataka this meant that the popular cinema in the state reflected the religious concerns of the state. In this it was following a historical process started by the Bhakti movement poets like Akkamahadevi. He states in the introduction that the non-Brahmin character of Kannada cinema of the pre-independence era is due to the influence of the Bhakti movement. Since the caste of Veerashaivas/Lingayats form a majority in the state their anti-Brahmin orientation is felt in the films.

The author also lays emphasis on the fact that the state of Mysore had reached some level of modernisation during the rule of Nalvadi Krishnaraja Wodeyar, the Maharaja of Mysore (1902--1940). As for example the author says Dr. Raj Kumar’s portrayal of James Bond-like roles is due to this modernization as people of the state could understand even such western concepts.

Mythology, Mr. Raghavendra says, is a key motif in Kannada movies not just of the pre-independence but also of those which came after independence. For example, he writes, the ‘Husband-as-lord’ motif is not as pronounced in Hindi films as it is movies like Gunasagari in Kannada. The author attributes this phenomenon to the development of Mysore as a princely state. Mysore, as stated above, had developed more than other states. Mysore state was the first in the country to have its own university. As a result of this the Indian National Congress did not believe in attacking it as Mysore was an example of good administration by Indians. Hindi films at the same time spoke of such concerns as women’s liberation whereas Kannada films reflected the Indian woman as a traditional sacrificing woman whose ‘dharma’ was to stand by her husband.

The main emphasis of the author’s argument is, however, that the popular films have highlighted the dilemma of the people of Karnataka in their allegiance to their nation and their state. In movies like ‘Nagara Haavu’ the photos of Sir M. Visveswaraya adorn the walls of local leaders which the author claims signifies the assertion of Kannada modernity which came much before Indian modernity. The same movie shows the college professor’s office as having a photo of Pt. J. Nehru, signifying Indian modernity as ushered in by him.

Mr. Raghavendra, however, does not read into the rich tradition of ‘Art’ cinema in the state. This, he says, is due to its universality. Art movies in Kannada he says have a pan-Indian appeal which is why they are chosen as the Indian entry for international festivals. He says that apart from movies like Vamshavriksha and Kaadu most of them are not very different from Bengali or Marathi art movies.

Then he comes to recent movies, when he analyses the peculiar phenomenon of the Kannada super hit movie Jogi. The movie started a trend of sorts, of movies which speak about the state capital as the theatre of struggle of rural folk. The movie follows the protagonist, a typical villager who comes to the big city only to be roughed up by the underworld in the city. This, the author says, represents the disillusionment of villagers with the city of Bengaluru. The rural masses see the capital as being hijacked by people from other states. They see the IT boom in the state which does not seem to affect them in a large way. Thus, he concludes that the people of the state have been in a constant dilemma with regard to their allegiance to the state and the country.

The book is very well-researched and displays the scholarship of Mr. Raghavendra who has been writing on the film industry for some time now. It will hopefully pave the way for similar such studies into popular cinema all over the country.

Why this instant rage?

What does it take for a song to become an instant rage?

Some murderous rage, it seems. So when, debutant music director Anirudh Ravichander’s song, ‘Why this Kolaveri Di’ got leaked, it instantly went viral.

And surprise surprise!

This song from Dhanush’s upcoming movie 3, has found more fans up north than in Tamil Nadu.

One such fan is Amitabh Bachchan who managed to find time to tweet about it amidst celebrations of becoming a grandfather.

It’s not as if for the first time the non-Tamil speaking crowd has taken a liking to a song originating in this southernmost state of India. The 1990’s saw people all over India crooning and tapping their feet to Tamil songs thanks to AR Rahman’s enchanting music and Prabhu Deva’s unconventional choreography. However, most of these songs became popular after their translation for the Hindi-speaking audiences.

Even ‘Why this Kolaveri Di’ has been able to achieve this feat because of its Tanglish (read Tamil-English) lyrics. If reports are to be believed, Dhanush came up with it in less than 20 minutes. The song has surpassed the popularity of another quirky export from Tamil Nadu in recent times, Wilbur Sargunaraj, whose music single ‘Love Marriage’ became a huge hit last year.

With nearly three million views of its official video on Youtube within just a week, it has surprised everyone. While it is trending on Twitter, the Facebook walls are full of status messages about it; some raving it while others wondering the reason behind this sudden craze. Nonetheless, each ‘share’ on these social networking sites is adding to the song's popularity.

To a puritan the lyrics might sound as a concoction of some English words stringed together with a Tamil accent but for the fans this very experiment is the USP of the song.

And that’s how Dhanush, who is also the enthralling voice behind the song, has unknowingly hit the bull’s eye.

He calls it a ‘soup song’ dedicated to all men rebuffed in love. In the song, a rejected suitor is asking his ladylove the reason behind her ‘murderous rage’ upon being proposed.

But rather than this empathising theme, it is the catchy tune of the song that is making the listeners hum it non-stop. For this the credit goes to 21-year old Anirudh. The use of varied instruments, like shehnai, acoustic guitar, drums, dhol and trumpet, makes it even more foot-tapping.

In a very short time, the song has attained a near-cult status. So next time Jayalalithaa ditches some project initiated by DMK government, don’t be surprised to hear Karunanidhi crooning, “Why this kolaveri kolaveri kolaveri di…. Pa pa pa ppaan pa pa pa ppaan!”

-Vipul Grover

A hillock and its culinary delights

By Subin Paul

As one travels from Virjapet to Gonikoppa, somewhere near the Harthur junction emerges a hillock on the right side; this hillock is known as Kunda Betta or Kundath Bottu in local parlance. I saw this hill for the first time from the window of a state-transport bus, when I was travelling to a friend’s place in Coorg, the smallest district of Karnataka.

During the sojourn at my friend’s place, I got ample time to savour the views of Kundath Bottu, sometimes partly hidden in the morning mist, and sometimes clear enough to create a sense of nearness. Nonetheless, I decided to trek this hill.

Kundath Bottu is not a huge or steep hill. I realised this once I reached the summit. In fact, at the end of the trek I wondered what made it a ‘hillock’ for so it appeared from the bus-window or my friend’s homestead. But perhaps, this is the case with all the other hillocks too - I am not very sure.

A large portion of the Kundath Bottu was used for growing coffee and cardamom. These terraced plantations extended almost all the way to the top before they were replaced by huge bamboos growing so densely that they eclipsed the sunlight. A bunch of bamboos on one side was in the process of flowering. Some of the flowers that sprouted were oblong, white, and bore a faint smell. Interestingly, flowering in bamboo is a rare phenomenon. Bamboos have an almost cometic lifecycle, typically flowering once in 50 years!

New shoots come out from those bamboos which don’t flower. And it is from these shoots that bamboo shoot curry, a local delicacy in Coorg, is made. Yeravas, a small tribal community living on the foothills of Kundath Bottu are experts in dealing with bamboo which is also known as “poor man's timber”.

Yeravas are precisely aware which types of bamboo reeds make good timber. For culinary purposes, these are the stunted shoots, which are not likely to produce good quality bamboo for use in construction.

The bamboo shoots are cut and sliced into 45-60 cm-long shoots with sickles. Next, their sheaths are removed. Since raw bamboo shoots are poisonous, they are immersed in large water containers for about two days after the end of which they are washed thoroughly. Yeravas then hawk the washed bamboo shoots on the roadsides and from there it comes to the kitchens.

My friend’s mother was generous enough to make bamboo shoot curry for her guest from Bangalore. Of course, there exist several recipes for the bamboo shoot curry. The one that follows is what is mostly followed by Coorgs.

Ingredients:

½ kg sliced bamboo shoot

2 tablespoon rice flour

2 sliced onions

6-8 garlic flakes cut-up

1 tablespoon coriander powder

½ teaspoon jeera powder

2-3 tablespoon ground coconut

2 red chillies

¼ teaspoon mustard seed

3-4 curry leaves

2-3 tablespoon cooking oil

Method:

Heat oil in a deep pan.

Put mustard seeds and curry leaves to splutter in hot oil.

Add garlic and red chillies.

Add onions and keep frying.

Put the rice flour and mix with the rest of the masala in oil.

Fry the masala for a little longer on medium heat before.

Add the bamboo shoots.

Add the ground coconut and mix well.

Add 1-2 glasses of water, mix and cover for few minutes.

Remove the cover and cook for a little longer, till the gravy is slightly thick.

Check for salt and pungency.

The tradition in Coorg is to eat bamboo shoot curry with Kadamputtu or steamed rice balls. Though the curry doesn’t smell all that great, it goes well with rice, otti and bread, but is best eaten with Kadamputtu. Bamboo shoot curry is a seasonal dish as the shoots are available only during the pre-monsoon period. The curry is prepared on a regular basis in Coorg as well as on specific occasions such as housewarming ceremonies and marriages.

A year later, I had another chance to eat bamboo shoot curry. This time, the setting was a grand restaurant in Bangalore which served the curry as part of its much-touted ‘Malnad Week’ celebrations. Apart from the bamboo shoot curry, there were other dishes too: conical kadubus, akki roti, benne dosa, medu dosa, neer dosa and various kinds of chutneys. But bamboo shoot curry was at the centre of the menu. Amidst the growing fanfare of the presumptuous city-foodies, I tasted a mouthful of curry with akki roti, and quite understandably, it turned out to be a far cry from the real thing.