Have you ever wondered if the person who cooks for you might have previously worked for a large scale stationery manufacturing unit? Has it ever hit you hard in the gut that your eating, if spotted by others might relatively resemble a cow's? Have you ever been amazed how they could so meticulously make Natraj Rubber in the form of a perfect circle, adorn it with intricate striations and put it on a plate and give it with 'kuruma'? If yes, then you might be in the vicinity of the ever-glorious S.S.N boy's hostel mess. Welcome to my world! I'm not a hosteler. I perennially strive not to be one. But situations force me into residing there frequently, They make 'parotas' for dinner, or so they claim. I walk in, pick up their stainless steel plate, which has S.S.N triumphantly embossed on it, sparkles so brightly like those Vim commercials, you could look at your image on it and slick back your hair with pride, and a friend goes 'It's parotas today. Good luck!'. The 'Good Luck' part more or less spoke for itself. I should have realized I was going to have a dinner I'd never forget as long as my veins pumped blood into my arteries.
They serve Natraj Rubber. Correction! Natraj Rubber with salt! It didn't taste that bad. It just didn't taste. I cant deny the fact that I'm not that well built. But with ten slender fingers if you're not able to pull off a piece from a wholly circular parota, you're either under malnutrition or this must be the literal sense of explaining 'food for thought'! It doesn't come off, and the circumference is too large to pop the whole thing into your mouth. Even if you employed your muscular friends to pull off a piece, the chances of you chewing it down your oesophagus is one per thirteen million. Good luck with it. The kuruma is just fuel to the fire. Half-cooked vegetables straight from the shredder, boiled and dropped into masala water. That is the recipe yes, but copybook fashion doesn't work here. The kuruma warrants criticism. If there was some syndrome to nullify your sense of taste, perhaps then you might give this three stars. Sanity might just pop the finger. I stay in the hostel only because of basketball practice. If not for my passion for the sport, so endorsed by my previous post, I would be at one of those mobile consumer courts now.
They have a menu. They serve different dishes every day. Maybe they thought showing variety to garbage might entice the consumers. Their full course meals are a delicacy I must say. Their buttermilk, its sheer class. Here's how it works. Open the tap and show a spoonful of curd every 6.7 seconds, and Voila! Buttermilk in a cup. Oh, and if you have time, please find out if there is any company in southern Tamilnadu that makes 'Sriram bread'. Or 'Real' mix-fruit jam. Though their coffee is some consolation, expecting humans to survive eight hours of Engineering jargon on a cup of coffee is a little too taxing. The mess staff are opportunist too. I don't blame them. They are forced to eat their own food. Amul butter - The one branded item that is there on their shelves, and they stock it. See, we know Amul. It's the taste of India. Yet they stock that and give us 'Real' jam instead.
They don't let us into their kitchens. They guard their trade secrets with their lives. The mess meetings don't make a difference either. When you are a little happy that the new caterers seem to be making palatable food, some God-forsaken loser picks a fight with some worker and out of sheer emergency, they bring back the old guys. Its the same old 'A coffee a day keeps your senses at bay' life again. Imagine living a life where you slog it out on the court for four hours at a stretch to come back and eat something that resembles your pant for dinner. Its worse when your mother's a brilliant cook and you a foodaholic. It is by no means fun, having your eyes closed and using the other side of your spoon to push the food down your throat, so it doesn't touch your tongue. Crocin should be after food or before food, not the food itself. This is a blow to all human obesity. If you are trying to cut back on the finance, yet you want to knock off that little extra fat around your pot-belly, Fitness One isn't always the call. There are economical options around. Give this a shot. Visible changes in seventeen days guaranteed, or we sponsor your medical expenditure. Hostel Mess - The taste numbs you. Literally.
-Supermur.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
I had a Ball!..
Old men with pathetic knowledge about the sport come up with such beautiful phenomena sometimes. This septuagenarian relative of mine with his hair so nearly white, it would stand apart in the dark, once told my dad "This basketball is such a stupid game. I mean, why would you want two teams to go put it in two different baskets when one will do for one ball. They should either reduce the number of baskets or provide another ball. Why, football's worse. When they struggle so hard to bring the ball all the way with their feet, they put the darned goal outside the boundary line!" My poor dad had a tough time explaining the obvious, but coming to think of it. sport sure is demanding. Having dedicated half my life to sport, I seem to realize that, if I had saved all that time and energy I could have completed all my tasks with ease and had spare time go roam the world hunting for golden geese!
S.S.N College of Engineering does not boast of a brilliant basketball team. It doesn't have to. Others know that's the truth. See, we run by modesty! We are a strict no-no to endorsements. But we would appreciate it if you sang ballads in our praise. Maybe come up with witty nicknames like S.S.N.B.A ( You know, its the .. well .. the combo of S.S.N and N.B.A and the like. What's all that gray matter stagnating for? Knock up that top floor and come up with innovative stuff, people!) I mean, all this being voluntarily done by you. We don't ask you to. Practice being at at a fifteen to six in the morning, when the dogs still are asleep with their tails tucked in, waiting to snap at any object that moves, their ears pricking, their noses scanning for fresh ready-to-be-dug-into meat, players jog, jump, roll and sprint with dogged determination. And with sleeveless jerseys that let the cold air seep in and eat out your warmth, bring goosebumps all over your skin and make your fingers go numb, and with shorts so small, had they been any shorter you might not have much of garments on you, basketball players have a grueling, devastating time on the court. To come garnish our woes, it will rain at half past six.
Maybe its all by chance or Mr.Varun and The Madras Meteorological Department had some tie-up I do not know. But at half past six sharp, the showers come down and they sure come down with all the might they can muster. The cold pricks and the water runs down our backs chilling us and we go all 'Brrrr' yet we run. We run not because our college wants us to, not because we were born Olympic Athletes, not remotely because we could outrun the rain, but we run because its in us to run, it takes something to be a sportsman and we have scooped it up, and we shall hold it aloft , be it rain or shine. It does sound more or less like Rocky, I know. Why, with a little of Bill Conti and a backdrop of the Lincoln Memorial, this would be Rocky too. Difference is, we'd be around twelve to thirteen semi-naked 'Rocky's with S.S.N on our chests, signs of sleep in our minds and rabid dogs for security.
Coming to think of it, S.S.N came runners at Hindustan and got third at Crescent and at Rameswaram. Basketball sure does have its share of fun. So what if it means eating masala plastic for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and taking bath under gushing water from crevices in Corporation taps in the wide open, and sleeping in rooms with fans with a blade missing, and lights that work like lightning. Like lightning in the sense, they never stabilize. They just keep flashing like lightning and you eventually land up switching them off and playing 'Who's hitting who' in the dark. That's a fun game actually. You can go hit whomsoever you want and run around aimlessly. Nobody would ever know who has hit who. That is unless they don't catch hold of your hand or your watch or something. If that happens, you can just pray to the holy almighty that the sun never rises again for the rest of human existence. But in the larger perspective we get to play basketball for our college, get to go to class once every four weeks, and roam the world with not a care for all valuable education, and dedicate all that we have to sport, sport and sport alone. All Hail Rocky!
-Supermur.
S.S.N College of Engineering does not boast of a brilliant basketball team. It doesn't have to. Others know that's the truth. See, we run by modesty! We are a strict no-no to endorsements. But we would appreciate it if you sang ballads in our praise. Maybe come up with witty nicknames like S.S.N.B.A ( You know, its the .. well .. the combo of S.S.N and N.B.A and the like. What's all that gray matter stagnating for? Knock up that top floor and come up with innovative stuff, people!) I mean, all this being voluntarily done by you. We don't ask you to. Practice being at at a fifteen to six in the morning, when the dogs still are asleep with their tails tucked in, waiting to snap at any object that moves, their ears pricking, their noses scanning for fresh ready-to-be-dug-into meat, players jog, jump, roll and sprint with dogged determination. And with sleeveless jerseys that let the cold air seep in and eat out your warmth, bring goosebumps all over your skin and make your fingers go numb, and with shorts so small, had they been any shorter you might not have much of garments on you, basketball players have a grueling, devastating time on the court. To come garnish our woes, it will rain at half past six.
Maybe its all by chance or Mr.Varun and The Madras Meteorological Department had some tie-up I do not know. But at half past six sharp, the showers come down and they sure come down with all the might they can muster. The cold pricks and the water runs down our backs chilling us and we go all 'Brrrr' yet we run. We run not because our college wants us to, not because we were born Olympic Athletes, not remotely because we could outrun the rain, but we run because its in us to run, it takes something to be a sportsman and we have scooped it up, and we shall hold it aloft , be it rain or shine. It does sound more or less like Rocky, I know. Why, with a little of Bill Conti and a backdrop of the Lincoln Memorial, this would be Rocky too. Difference is, we'd be around twelve to thirteen semi-naked 'Rocky's with S.S.N on our chests, signs of sleep in our minds and rabid dogs for security.
Coming to think of it, S.S.N came runners at Hindustan and got third at Crescent and at Rameswaram. Basketball sure does have its share of fun. So what if it means eating masala plastic for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and taking bath under gushing water from crevices in Corporation taps in the wide open, and sleeping in rooms with fans with a blade missing, and lights that work like lightning. Like lightning in the sense, they never stabilize. They just keep flashing like lightning and you eventually land up switching them off and playing 'Who's hitting who' in the dark. That's a fun game actually. You can go hit whomsoever you want and run around aimlessly. Nobody would ever know who has hit who. That is unless they don't catch hold of your hand or your watch or something. If that happens, you can just pray to the holy almighty that the sun never rises again for the rest of human existence. But in the larger perspective we get to play basketball for our college, get to go to class once every four weeks, and roam the world with not a care for all valuable education, and dedicate all that we have to sport, sport and sport alone. All Hail Rocky!
-Supermur.
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