Achal Paliwal, Dosa & me!

I’m a sucker for taglines. In the 90s, I was floored by Rediffusion-coined “When You See Color, Think of Us” tagline for Jensen & Nicholson’s paint commercials and several such advertising slogans. Cafe Coffee Day’s “A Lot Can Happen Over Coffee” has also been a favorite.

Then, why should a lot happen only over coffee? Why not other stuff, say, like masala dosa? So when Achal Paliwal, Chief Executive Officer of TML Distribution Co (a fully owned subsidiary of Tata Motors), on his recent visit to the National Capital Region (Yes, Gurugram), suggested lunch together, I jumped at the invite. Food is secondary in such meets with big shots. They offer sufficient time for Q&A — more of a free and frank chat. Not typical journalistic bullying!

The automotive logistics don (grew with Maruti Suzuki, Honda Motors, and now with Tata Motors three plus decades put together), the first time noticing sporting a French beard, has been one of my go-to gurus for enlightenment on his chosen, mastered, and perfected domain. He never said ‘No.’ Thanks, Paliwal-ji! (I know he would not appreciate this ‘ji’ business).

On a cloudy Sunday afternoon, we agree to meet in Galeria Market, Gurugram, around noon. “We are eating. Don’t forget!” reminds the Tata-man over the phone while I am on my way. My co-passenger and colleague Syed Kausar Hussein, editing DRIVERS DUNIYA Hindi and Urdu segments, says: “Bahut kaliya sube se. Phir se khana?”

I can understand his predicament. It was Ramzan the previous day. After a month-long Roza (fasting), his daily food habit has changed immensely, and it takes time to switch back to the pre-Ramzan or normal routine for a practicing Muslim. We had a breakfast meeting with another logistics professional nearby where he fed us uthappam (rice pancake with a lot of diced/sliced carrot, beetroot, tomato, chilies, coriander, and whatnot. Palm size uthappams. Now, I am taking him for lunch with Paliwal!

We spot Paliwal. He al vidas someone he met inside the Tata-owned Starbucks (Tata man at a Tata coffee shop!) and exits. We ‘hello’ and he says: “How about Naivaidhyam at Vipul Square?”. I know that eatery and the building like the back of my palm. How? That’s where Vipul Nanda, the malik of Pallia Trans Logistics, runs his business empire: the movement of finished vehicle logistics. No, no, Vipul Square is NOT his property. Sheer coincidence.

Next ten minutes, we rode another Tata vehicle to the eatery, rode the elevator, and managed to occupy a corner four-seater on the second floor of Naivedyam. This restaurant is no stranger to me. I recently had partaken lunch at its Sector 63 Noida branch on one of my wedding anniversaries. Yes, typical South Indian vegetarian joint. Naivedyam means offerings to the Almighty, knowing well S/He won’t touch whatever is offered! But a tradition down South.

I recall my grandmother and mother placing all freshly made food in front of the framed gods and goddesses, shaking the brass well, sprinkling water on the food, making gestures of feeding the Almighty, lit the camphor, and finally performing a sastang (complete) namaskaram with their forehead and knees touching the ground. Of course, they recite Sanskrit shlokas. My wife follows the tradition. There’s no break.

“You are a South Indian. You order,” Paliwal suggests. I look at the dhoti-clad waiting server, asking what’s Naivedyam special. I should not have asked. He points to the menu folder kept in front of us. Got it.

How about a rava masala? I say.

Paliwal looks at the server to tell: one rava masala for him (pointing to me.).

Kausar, what about you? I ask.

He smiles. Whatever you order! Blurts out he.

Let me have a Mysore masala dosa. That’s Paliwal.

How long will it take?

10–15 minutes.

Can we have dahi vada? It will be good, they say. Paliwal again.

I interject: Not two pieces per plate. Single, single!

The server leaves.

Dahi vada and chaas (buttermilk) come quickly. We get busy, and between bites of the soft and soaked vada in a large bowl of dense dahi — a bit sweetened, too — the Q&A commences. Sorry, folks. Unwritten NDA. Got it? Good.

Time flies. We ‘attack’ our dosas, dip them in cocoanut chutney or sambar and gently transfer them to our oral cavity. It is heavenly. My rava masala is crisp. (Murugal, we say in Tamil). Paliwal stops eating in the process of responding to my hazaaron sawal. No second thoughts. No humming and hawing. Straight, clear answers on areas of mutual interest. The dam has burst. A knowledge seeker (me) and the knowledge provider (him) across the rectangular table. His handbag occupies the empty chair next to me. Kausar, a silent spectator, and Paliwal on the other side.

Suddenly I notice my chutney katara is empty, and I look around for a refill. The server returns with a big bowl of sambar to fill our respective bowls. None of us want sambar. I don’t know about them, but I want chutney. Should I demand chutney? I restrain. Like in life, you want or aspire for something always. That does not happen most of the time. Because you refuse to ASK. The same is the case with my chutney desire for chutney. No luck.

The mashed masala-ed potato with onion tucked inside the nicely folded crisp rava dosa is naked now. Why? Because I have torn and crunched the top layer. My fingers subtly and gingerly extricate the fried dal from the half-eaten masala peeping at me. The next moment, my teeth responded adroitly, crushed them into tiny bits, and helped them slide down the saliva-dripping tongue. I could sense my Adam’s apple movement, dancing gleefully. Divine!

Paliwal ignores his Mysore malasa dosa and dips into the unfinished dahi vada. Oh my God! Mine, too, remains unfinished. Does my tummy have space to accommodate the dahi vada and the rava masala? If not, what should be my priority? I opt for the former. I could not finish the rava masala, but I cleaned up the dahi vada. Did I burp? I could not remember. Possibly I may have, but due to the high decibel level of the fully packed Naivedyam on a Sunday afternoon (families in the neighborhood are eating out, perhaps, not the regular office crowd from Vipul Plaza).

Instead of water, I look for another glass of chaas and request the server, who responds, saying the additional demand is not part of the menu! Taking pity on me, Paliwal tells him to ‘bill’ the extra chaas. I get my second helping! Not chaas a but a tall glass of salted lassi.

I noticed Kausar completed his task. Paliwal too.

How about a paan? Paliwal suggests.

I nod. The server serving paan at the next table obliges us: Kausar and I. Paliwal say, ‘No.’

We are in no mood to break the conversation.

Naivedyam is not our property but a business establishment. The server twice asks if he can ‘serve’ the bill. A gentle hint to vacate the space for other waiting customers. One cannot argue on this point.

We exit Naivedyam and promise to catch up soon.

After dropping Kausar near his home, I reach mine.

“What all you ate?” asks my spouse. After 40 years of married life, I have come to accept this regular query after every single long stay away from home routine from her.

How to tell her that I had left home with two plain dosa with coconut chutney in-home early morning, and then another round of uthappam (another avatar of dosa with cocoanut chutney), and finally, rava masala dosa with coconut chutney and sambar? Dosa. Dosa. Dosa. Nothing but….

“You have driven a lot today. You must be hungry. Can I make some dosa for you?”

I was speechless.