I swear I’ll take a bullet for my Chennai writer friends – provided it’s a blank and I’m wearing the leather jacket that belonged to my maternal aunt – but when I attend their book dos, I have to confess there is a bit of an ulterior motive. While 51 per cent of me goes to cheer them and threaten people with my finger gun into buying several copies of their book, the remaining 49 drooly-tongued, rumble-stomached bit goes for the epic vegetable bondas and snow-white coconut chutney (followed by sweet and filter coffee, obviously), that have come to define these soirées.


The preface

I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me begin at the beginning. It has come to be that no book worth its spot lamination by a Chennai writer is considered truly launched unless it is launched by the Chennai Literary Forum. Period. In fact, my own debut book had to be given their helping hand before it became something of a cult classic among my mother-in-law’s friends. And no Chennai Literary Forum do is complete without the vegetable bondas they serve before the proceedings.

CLF came into being about a quarter-century ago. Its original intention was providing the sorely required platform for book lovers, both readers and writers, to meet and ponder all things literary in our city. And it did. Until a well-meaning five-star hotel came into the picture to support their cause by providing a venue and refreshments at subsidised rates.

Then, right before the horrified eyes of the good folk who began this organisation, CLF grew from a modest half-a-dozen-attendee garage operation where obscure poets and sporadic writers read tentatively from their oeuvre to a two-fifty-strong gladiatorial affair of octogenarians fighting unto death for the last bonda in the confines of an air-conditioned hall as the hapless writer looked on from the dais.

Here are the proceedings of the last CLF book event I attended.

The build-up

While the script-style font on the invite requested our elegant presence at 6.30 pm, I could read the invisible subtitles quite clearly. If CLF proceedings of late were anything to go by, I knew my presence by 5.30 pm at the very latest – with abdomen guard and Krav Maga defence moves firmly in place – was mandatory. If I hoped to get my hands on even a couple of those deep-fried balls of Tam-Brahm heaven, that is.

As I rushed up the staircase that led to the hall at precisely 5.29, sound effects not dissimilar to the ones in the Amar Chitra Katha comics of my childhood, signalling the tearing down of fort gates, emanated from upstairs.

At the landing, my worst fears were confirmed. A dementia of senior citizens was pounding steadily on the colonial-style doors of the hall. A spry eighty-year-old, revving his motorized wheelchair to get the required burst of velocity to mow through his compatriots, paused to clear my doubts.

“I hear it’s two varieties of bonda today,” he yelled to make himself heard over the rhythmic thump-creak-thump-creak of a door fighting for its life. Then, wheels skidding on the wooden floor, he was gone. Sixteen grandmothers in resplendent Kanjeevarams and flying jasmine followed in his wake through the unhinged doors with surprising agility.

The conflict

The distended lobby area of a moment ago was now emptier than a publisher’s promise. If you didn’t count the writer of the day, that is. He was still there, getting up and dolefully dusting the foot marks off his new Fabindia kurta. Having been there before, I gave him a sympathetic shrug.

He pointed to the large pile of press-fresh copies of his new book. There was a familiar look on his face. I wondered where I’d seen it before. Then it came to me: on Kamal Haasan’s face in the death-of-his-son scene in Nayagan.

“So ... congrats,” I said.

“And you are...?” he said.

I told him. Mentioning my name and profession but leaving out the medication I was on because of it.

“And I am?”

“You’re ... well... um,” I said, trying to look at the invite as discreetly as possible. “So-and-so. Author of such-and-such book.”

“Oh, yes ... I remember now,” he said.

“Nervous?” I said. “You know, with the stage, reading and all?”

“Tell me, and don’t lie,” he said. “My book ... is it fiction or non-fiction?”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Whichever one it is, the other one is better.”

“That’s a relief,” he said.

The crisis

Meanwhile, inside, the buffet counter had turned into Gangs of New York meets On Golden Pond. The air was rent with the thwack of walking sticks and gnash of bared dentures. My wheelchair friend was already into his second round of bondas, one foot firmly stuck out to ward off interlopers. The hotel staff maintained a good ten feet between themselves and the counter of steamy contents to prevent third-degree burns.

I hadn’t come this far to be outdone by a decay of dodderers. Invoking the God of Fried Snacks in our pantheon one last time, I jumped into the melee. I was welcomed by a silken doyenne stepping on my toes with her Size 12 Reeboks. I ignored the motherfrying pain, bit back a girlish scream, and squashed my way into the queue. I tried not to pay attention to a waiter being repeatedly bitten by an eighty-year-old who had taken out his dentures and was using them like a stapler.

“Bonda. Bonda!” – the only thought in my head.

I was at the counter now, plate in hand. All that separated me from the rapidly disappearing snack was a couple who would’ve known Rajaraja Chola personally if you combined their ages. I saw a gap between their wrinkly profiles and shoved in my hand triumphantly. Bondas, at last!

But the waiter gave me a look and shook his head. Because that’s all I had – a hand. No plate. An elf-sized Mama emerged from under my splayed legs with the contraband, gave me the Mylapore version of a Bronx Cheer, covered me in coconut-flavoured spittle and harpooned the last four bondas that had my name on them onto my plate.

The resolution

That night, as I tossed about on my bed, my bonda-less belly burbling in protest, the words of the emcee rang in my ears.

“Ladies and gentlemen, from the next meeting onwards, on account of the bonda situation getting somewhat out of hand, we have decided to number them using permitted food colouring. Also, hereinafter, kindly bring your ID cards for all sessions. The hotel has informed us that there will be a slight change in bonda distribution. Henceforth, members will have to display their cards. Only then will they will be handed a plastic packet containing two bondas and a sachet of chutney. There will be no seconds. One stainless steel drumload of coffee is all that will be available to wash down the bondas. No more. We request our members not to use fake IDs. Or steal cups and spoons belonging to the hotel out of spite. Or bite unsuspecting staff members ... even with fake teeth. The management has informed us that they are not beyond introducing frisking, bouncers, retinal scans...”

The afterword

My last thought before I succumbed to spasmodic slumber was of the writer. Standing all by himself next to his largely untouched pile of books, swatting away the acrid odour of an in-your-face bonda burp from a gassy geriatric.

“So, good show, man,” I’d said.

“You think?” he’d said.

“Now all you have to do is wait for the reviews,” I’d said.

“Good one, man. Good one.”

Krishna Shastri Devulapalli has written two novels (Ice Boys in Bell-Bottoms, Jump Cut) and a play (Dear Anita). He is currently recovering in a multispecialty hospital from bonda-related injuries.