In memoriam: Bal Mundkur - Slogans, spice and a bite of ‘song’

The personal side of Bal Mundkur – offbeat, eclectic and a tad spicy.

“Bal Mundkur has passed away.” It seemed an impossible thing to believe, but the fell hand had indeed taken him, on the morning of January 7, 2012.

It was on a winter day many years ago when I first met Bal Mundkur at his home, Surya, on the banks of the river Mandovi in Goa. He was, of course, a legend and I trembled inwardly at actually meeting him, albeit in a personal capacity.

His career as a naval officer and aviator had been followed by an illustrious innings in advertising, which he had famously given up to retire in Goa. ‘Retire’ was only figurative, because he proceeded to put his unrelenting energy into designing and building his house, and then lending his prodigious talent to projects which he felt would benefit society, including restoration of a fort and setting up of a museum. He even found his way into an offbeat little film (http://wn.com/rare_indie_goa,_ma_cherie_part_1) which is quintessentially ‘Bal’.

For the Royal Society for Asian Affairs, where he contributed an article on ‘Incredible India: The Inconvenient Truth’, he described himself “as neither an activist nor a frustrated journalist but as a dispassionate commentator”.

People in Goa looked on him with awe, and he was known as a man of exacting standards and uncompromising expectations. Even my “Hello”, I felt, would be subjected to scrutiny. But he was delighted to meet a fellow Konkani, and dwelt pleasurably on the joys of Konkani food, much of which he was not allowed to eat by then. Pickle, chutney and spicy food was out of bounds, but Uncle Bal, as I called him, managed to sneak teekha stuff onto his plate now and then. When he discovered that I can cook, he extracted from me a solemn promise to make him some standard Konkani dishes, among them potato ‘song’ – a simple dish of cubed potatoes cooked in well-sauteed onions, tamarind and a lot of chilli. I made a mental note to tone down the chilli for Uncle Bal, who of course read my mind and said, “Don’t forget, lots of chilli!”

But Uncle Bal had so much else on his plate that he never did find the time to come over for a Konkani meal. With time and circumstances, I didn’t meet him again for some years. But being in the business of media news meant, inevitably, that our paths would cross professionally. When I rang him up after a long interval, to ask for an interview on Ulka’s anniversary, he remembered the long-promised ‘song’, and once again we assured each other that I would cook and he would eat, one day.

As always, however, Uncle Bal had too much going on in his life. One never knew where he would be next – dashing between Goa and Mumbai, scooting off to Europe or South-East Asia or somewhere else – or what project he would take up. Perhaps fittingly, his last offering was the history of Indian advertising, Ad Katha, which was released at Ad Asia 2011 in New Delhi.

But those who know him, know that he would not have rested after this. That fertile brain would have been working on something else, and he would have been ringing people up with exhortations to participate, to donate, to sponsor. His zeal was unwavering and his passion, perpetual. Somewhere he might even have found time to stop for a bite of ‘song’.

We will all remember Bal Mundkur in different ways. I’ll recollect him with a dash of spice.

Originally published on MxMIndia.com.

Can you write about rice-lentil cakes?

Born of an online debate about authenticity, Indian writing in English, etc... It got too much at one point and instead of bursting into song, I burst into prose. Two vignettes:


Idlis 1

My mother would make idlis at home, soak the rice and the dal, grind it into batter, leave it to ferment overnight. When I went into the kitchen for a glass of water before going to bed there would be the gentle, slightly sour hint of the next day's delights - idlis fresh out of their cups in the copper steamer, just-ground chutney with coconut and coriander, or perhaps a different chutney, with garlic and dry red chillies in the coconut. And golden sambar, unmatched, into which to dunk the idlis. It was a heavenly breakfast.

Whose mother whips up the batter for these bucketloads of idlis, I wonder. Do these people eating them remember the kitchens of their childhood, remember for a brief moment the long-ago whiff of fermenting idli batter, and do they perhaps console themselves with mass-produced chutney?


Idlis 2

The cafe was dark, as always. Light came from the bulbs, hanging overhead in ancient holders that had given their original enamel up to a patina of grime which, in a way, lent a sort of uniformity to the otherwise anachronistic decor, if that is the word, of the place. Dada's aunt had - once upon a time - chosen the paint and finishings but her son had taken issue with her choice and changed things around, and then after he died she changed some stuff around again, and by the time Dada had come to run the place it didn't have very much to say for itself in terms of character. That came with time, though. Time, and the small band of regulars who argued, thumped the tables, drank the tea, criticised the bhajiyas, chose a new government, but never made so much noise that they had to be hushed.

Sunita didn't know any of this, of course, when she walked in looking for a refuge from the afternoon sun. Neither did she know that she was to become more intimate with that little wayside cafe than she would ever have thought possible.

She saw a plate of idlis with sambar and chutney being served at another table and so that is what she ordered. But it was an illusion, as she realised when the idlis arrived before her. Where they should have been fluffy, or at least yielding, they were crumbly and almost hard. Not just that they were cold, they had also not been made with any sort of care. She tried dunking a piece into the sambar but the idli batter had obviously been specially treated to resist absorbing anything. Had it been ground in haste, left too coarse? Not fermented enough? Had it been made ages ago, and did it lose its youth in the refrigerator? Perhaps everything that could be done wrong to an idli had been done, here.

Should I say something to the guy, she thought. Or should I just forget it - it's a little chai shop in the back of beyond in Goa, how could I expect nice idlis here anyway? I might as well just have the tea and go. I'm not even staying here, I'm just waiting for my bus. What was I thinking, asking for idlis? I should have gone for pakoras instead. No, too oily. Maybe bhaaji-pao. Dip the pao into the tea.





(First posted on anothersubcontinent.com.)