Redeeming our society’s honour from its shame

In the “good old days”, before our post- terrorism civilization began to set in, the law was feared by the average citizen. Not because we were criminals, but because something of the awful majesty we only hear about these days was still extant “back then”. I still remember the trembling anticipation which ran through the neighbourhood “at the time” when it was announced that a thief and a robber were to be paraded by the coppers along a residential thoroughfare as part of their punishment for disturbing the peace of a well- patrolled borough.

Of course we were naïve and innocent in “those days”, and may have seen the local constabulary through rose-tinted glasses. Police brutality may have been as much par of the course in “that day” as it is today. But at least there was a black and white distinction between the good guys and the bad guys; and even if it was not the case that the twain shall never meet, that incidence was a rare occurrence.

Today, the boot is demonstrably on the other foot. Take an abuse, rape, or murder case at random (they are cropping up like crooked coppers at a rogues’ convention) – and you will be bound to find the finger of public suspicion pointed at a cover up by the guardians of the law.

The custodians of our citizenry not only aid and abet the influential and well- connected perpetrators of crime, they disabuse common or garden citizens of any notion that justice is, was, or will be done – if and when someone dares make a complaint, file legal action, or form a picketing line to protest the abuses of the law. A brave soul it is who marches into a cop shed today to lodge a formal entry against anyone in the least bit known in or recognized by society.

To be fair, the long arm of the law has been considerably foreshortened by our political culture ( the very word makes me think of creepycrawlies emerging from under an upturned crate or box). There appears to be every expectation on the part of the powers that be that the police will work hand-in- glove with the political establishment.

Those who won’t, don’t, or can’t bend over backwards to bow and scrape can expect to be rapped over the knuckles and hauled over the coals. Your average law- enforcement officer, far from being a knight in shining armour, is a lance for hire by the political aristocracy, the mercantile nobility, and the landed gentry with money to burn. Add drug barons and dukes of gambling and prostitution rings to the mix and you have the makings of a corrupt police state.

To be frank, we can’t at all blame the rank and file of a much maligned service. They are at the very bottom of a cruel, unforgiving, and irreversi- ble pecking order. Hell hath no fury like a two- bit politico with high- up political connections scorned. Gone may be the days when recalcitrant PCs who refused to cooperate were deported to outer darkness, where a war raged; but there are still some transfers and assignments that can constitute a personal and professional Siberia of an extremely undesirable nature.

To be favourable, there are no doubt sterling officers who know what their stern duty is. We see some of them on the streets everyday, struggling like Norse gods against the Ragnarok of the traffic jam which they know they can never defeat and which will grind them into the dust like some ice- giant juggernaut if given half a chance.

The impenitent mock them as they roar past in those triumphant convoys, the irreverent malign them from the comfort of the luxury SLR Class Mercs, and the ignorant spare them hardly any thought as they voyage home in buses that are more like Viking longboats than public transport.

And for every police officer publicly doing his or her duty, there must be hundreds if not thousands more labouring with love (or at least the least amount of grumbling) to safeguard, serve, and protect the millions of denizens and citizens alike who make up a vast, swirling, amorphous mass of names, faces, natures, characters, and personalities.

Now as the title of this article suggests, dears, there is something that this writer thinks can be done to salvage a measure of our reputation for being an orderly society. (We agree with the president that if a woman, maiden, or girl- child cannot feel safe on our streets, there must be “something wrong somewhere”.) It is that we, the people, can take the law into our own hands.

Not in the way that flash mobs did in Angulana or organised protests did at Katunayake. But by being the fully committed law-abiding citizens that the state does not need to police. On the positive side, patrol your own practice as a citizen. On the negative side, pre- empt the temptations to petty crime we all face… drink- driving, littering, loitering with intent, and taking without consent. The idea is to put the police force out of a job. They have enough work to do to keep organised crime running in this country.

Launched in Chennai a year ago and in Colombo a month back, the façade of Navayuga is ornate, with spectacularly carved archways, doorways and pillars from a heritage Chettinad mansion. Stark interiors provide a contrast to the elaborate exterior and western classical music is inconsonant too. Brilliantly lit panels flow down the walls and feature prints of North Indian Moghul carpets overlooking tables embedded with a mat of South Indian exotica, suggesting that North and South Indian cuisines are served. Twig lamps illuminate the menu.

The restaurant is a Chennai chain, so I’m insistent on Southern fare, despite Manager Jagan Mohan’s urges that they also have a North Indian chef. My obstinacy is rewarded with Andhra drumstick and Tamil rasams, both banal and inundated with oil and salt. But the Cauliflower 65, an incredible spiced yoghurt marinade, deep-fried, incredibly traces no oil trails on the dish. Next, purportedly “Chettinad” potatoes, not distasteful but an adaptation, Mr Mohan admits. He implores we proceed with his recommendations, but no… And so I’m brought ulundu vadais of little merit. Dosas slack, spices lack, chutneys and sambar of the pedestrian smack. A plate of idli at Rs 200 seems impertinent, especially when callously textured unlike those delicate clouds that float on your plate at Sri Suryas.

Canny Mr Mohan supplements chapathis, methi parahtas, malabar parathas and paneer makhani. The melt-in-your-mouth wholewheat chapathis and methi parathas are without doubt the best I’ve had in town. Mr Mohan assures the South Indian will equal the North Indian next time.

Next time round, the South Indian starters are a sensation: avatipoo (banana flower) vadai and spice-tickled, perfectly-textured karunia (yam) chops. Paruppu vadai sequined in aniseed with studs of gravelly dhal must be Colombo’s finest. Chutneys, coconut and tomato, have dramatically, even miraculously, metamorphosed since my preliminary visit. I’m then presented the South Indian chef John Kerthi, apparently absent the first time. But before I can clamour for dosas and idlis, the North Indian Chef Asharam from Utharkand manifests: today’s feast is his prerogative.

And his rajma, cooked just right, is a delicate interplay of masalas. Magnificent. Kadai vegetable impresses. Malai kofta, though sweet, is richly cashewed. However, the astounding breads

A conveniently located, less expensive alternative to certain over-priced, uninspiring neighbourhood Indian standalones, Navayuga indeed heralds a new era in Indian dining.

India is famed for the Big B. You think Amitabh Bachchan. We think the biriyani! And Navaratna becomes bounteous with biriyani from July 13-29. Chef Chauhan’s potpourri of experiences around India expresses itself in 12 distinct potted extravagances simmering with regional flavours and fragrances. “No two biriyanis are similar,” Chef establishes emphatically.

Had I anticipated uniformity and monotony -the imagination all in fancy names of dishes tasting all the same- then this biriyani bonanza distinguishes itself. Unique too is the assemblage of six vegetarian biriyanis. They aren’t just veg alterations of mutton/lamb/chicken. This is a rare, well-conceived, well-crafted promotion and not another instance where the marketing department has out-laboured the chefs.

Furthermore, Chef Chauhan garnishes his creations with a narrative, elaborating provincial provenances. He begins that rice-meat mélanges began in Persia and Afghanistan. But the biriyani is indigenous to India. Indeed, the biriyani went vegetarian to endear itself to Hindus and evolved amongst meatier Muslims too: as Muslim families expanded and finances constricted, biriyanis espoused cheaper vege-