JOIN USI was meeting Balakrishna (Bala) after a long, long time. We were colleagues once, but he moved out for a better pasture and is now doing well. We phoned each other once in a while and exchanged emails occasionally, but there was no face-to-face contact. Finally it materialised.
We shook hands and exchanged pleasantries at a workshop in Mangaluru. I went there from Bengaluru and he came from Manjeshwar.
After the workshop, while taking leave, Bala fished out a packet and handed it over to me. ‘This is patrode. I got it made at my house just for you,” he was all smiles. I was touched. But where would I eat it? “Can I take it home tomorrow and then eat?” I asked. I was leaving for Bengaluru only the next day. Would the patrode last till then? “No, sir, better eat it by this evening, and don’t forget to warm it up,” he added.
I didn’t have the heart to say no to him, so I accepted the packet. Now I had a problem called patrode. There was no way I could eat it all, because I was staying in a hotel. I thought over and took an on-the-spot decision to hand over the packet to my friend Bhuvana, who was also participating in the workshop. She was reluctant because she knew it was meant for me, but I persuaded her to accept it. My relief was short-lived.
What would I tell Bala if he later enquired about its taste? It would be imprudent if I did tell him the truth. He had brought it with genuine affection. The obvious choice for me was to tell him a (white?) lie that it was tasty. So I mentally rehearsed it.
In the meanwhile, Bhuvana took the packet home, of course reluctantly, to share it with her daughter. Back in the hotel room, I discovered that a vital document that Bhuvana had given me was missing. I couldn’t find it anywhere. Now I had to contact her!
I rang her up and explained the situation. She checked her papers and found it. I hurried in an auto and reached her home, some 6 km away. She opened the door and, even before I stepped in, said, “You are destined to eat that patrode”. How right! As I munched on the heated patrode, my mobile cackled. And lo! It was Bala on the line. “Sir, did you eat the patrode? How is the taste?” he enquired.Now I had no hesitation in telling him that it was tasty. Did he know that I was with Bhuvana? No, he didn’t.
As I travelled back to the hotel with that missing document and the lingering taste of the patrode, I was reminded of the philosophical Hindi saying: Daane daane me likha hai khanewale ka naam (On every grain is written the name of the eater).