Laxminarayan Hotel (and why Michelin stars are meaningless)

For a period of about ten years, (approximately between the ages of 5 and 15), Laxminarayan Hotel was for me the finest eating establishment in all the world. Even at the time, I was probably vaguely aware that it was a distinctly unremarkable little restaurant in a tiny corner of a small town, but this did nothing to diminish its appeal.

And so, almost every time we had guests over, I remember hoping that at some point we would make a trip to Laxminarayan. Almost inevitably, we did. And, with what now seems like alarming predictability, we would end up ordering the same food- but when all the malai koftas, mutter paneers, navratan kormas and naans arrived, I remember being so much happier than I thought vegetarian food would ever make me. It was the stuff my culinary dreams were made of.

Maybe it was because of the novelty factor of eating out, (which has obviously since worn off), but very few restaurants I've been to since then have had the same effect. While the memory of eating in a Michelin-starred restaurant may remind me of an exquisite meal, Laxminarayan Hotel will always remind me of a childhood.

Just to prove that this blog is as committed to meaningful journalism as it is to the finer details of toilet bowls (see previous post), I would like to mention that I ran into the Indian shooting team on their way home from the shooting World Cup in Spain. They were extremely friendly, and happy to stop and chat, even though it seemed like they were on the most roundabout route back to India imaginable. They were also excited that one of their team had won a silver medal.

After chatting for a few minutes, they headed off to catch their flight while I stood and watched these unsung journeymen in their blue 'India Shooting' shirts, far away from the glare of the media, with only their dreams and rifles for company.

Munich Airport, 9:30 am

All the toilets seem to have a single fly painted on them. Not sure why - perhaps a target to aim at? Or a reminder to unzip your fly before you let fly? Despite the inherent risk of dragging the standard of this blog slowly and steadily down the drain, here are some photos of the aforementioned fly.

(forgive the quality- when you’re brandishing a camera in an airport toilet, composition is not your main priority)

You know how sometimes you're stuck on a song so much that it seems to be following you around? That song is this song- a perfect soundtrack to the English summer that has now well and truly arrived.

July, as always, seems to be a month of both celebration and contemplation. Perhaps the two go hand in hand, the one inevitably giving rise to the other. Pausing to mark another personal landmark is often just what's needed for reflection about life's larger realities. 

And so today, my thoughts turn to a brother and a sister, separated by time and distance, but united by illness and age. While my grand-mother deals with her latest ailment with characteristic fortitude, her brother lies in Intensive Care in another corner of the world. I will always remember Baby Appacha (a name that encapsulates all of human existence- from infancy to old age) as an uncomplicated man. Simple, quiet and contented. These are qualities I have always admired in him and others of his generation. I have strived to be all of these things myself with varying, but ultimately disappointing, degrees of success. 

It is almost impossible to fully explain the intangible impact any one individual has on your life. And so the mind often picks out one or two snapshots that serve as pegs to hang your memory of them off. I will never forget the time Appacha, having heard of my now-legendary love of jackfruit, arranged to have one delivered to the house just for me. He then proceeded to meticulously splice it and place those yellow-honey pods onto a plate, each one gleaming in the mid-day sun. I remember sitting alongside him, in near-total silence, working our way through them and feeling completely and utterly happy. I suppose when you are twelve, it doesn't take a lot to feel that way. But when you look back at memories like those as an adult, you marvel both at how special they are, and how difficult those feelings are to recreate. 

And then there was the time when I was a lot older (but still obsessed with jackfruit- some things never change) that he heard I was in another part of Kerala and was not able to travel to meet him. While most older relatives would be at least mildly offended if you were to leave without paying them a visit, Appacha got on a bus and travelled nearly two hours to see me instead. In a bag, there were some snacks for me from the shop he owned, things he knew I enjoyed. He spent an afternoon with me and my aunt and uncle before needing to head home. Just before he left, I remember him inviting me to go back with him and I did my best to politely refuse, saying I was leaving the next day. He smiled a kind smile by way of acknowledgement, and then walked away. That will be my enduring memory of him; this kind, contented man, shuffling off into the evening sun. 

There are many people, and Appacha is top of that list, whose generosity I will never be able to directly reciprocate. A part of me knows this is how things are, and that the gifts of kindness we receive are often only fully repaid when we give to others instead. But when I think of Baby Appacha, in the twilight of his life, it makes me sad that I was never able to make him as feel as happy, or special, as he made me feel. In the ledger of life, I will forever be his debtor.