The Mamalla BhavanEating in the Southern style

The following is an extract from the travel book A River of Life: Travels through Modern India.

After taking a few minutes to freshen up I wander the streets of Mamallapuram in search of somewhere to eat. Choice is limited. The Mamalla Bhavan seems the most promising, doing a steady if not a roaring trade. There is only one thing on the menu, thali, a staple lunch throughout India although subtly different in the South from the few I have tried in the North. It comprises a mound of rice on a big, circular silver platter - thali is, in fact, the name of the plate on which the meal is served - with several side dishes of vegetable curries poured into small bowls or indentations at the edge of the plate. On this occasion the vegetable orders consist of soggy eggplant steeped in oil, some dhal, and some rasam, a thin peppery soup. Two boys stand on hand, holding great pales with long ladles in, scuttling from table to table and refilling the small bowls. Occasionally someone will come through with a big dish of rice for anyone who wants more. There are a few poppadoms too on the side of the plate, though no chapatis as is customary in the North: the poppadoms are made from lentil and rice flour, the chapatis from wheat, and it is rice and not wheat which is the staple of the South.

There are no utensils. I ask for a fork, but the boy has no idea what I am saying. I try scooping up the rice with one of the poppadoms, but it crumbles and breaks even before the food is halfway to my mouth.

"No, no." The man across from me chides me with a wag of his rice-laden finger. "Using fingers," he says. "Feel. Is important." This is another peculiarity of the South. The texture and consistency of the food being eaten is every bit as important as its subtleties of taste.

I try to imitate what the man is doing. It doesn't go well.

"Like this," he instructs. He goes through his feeding motions, this time with exaggerated slowness. I copy what he was doing: scooping up some of the dhal, then mashing it into the rice, mashing, mashing, before wadding some up into a neat ball, bowing forwards slightly, and flicking it into the mouth. Even in slow motion, his actions are easy and artful and effortless. Mine are more ungainly, though I start to get the hang of it.

Unfortunately, for all the great value of the meal, I don't even finish my single plateful, let alone get seconds, thirds, or fourths. The South is notorious for its fiery cuisine, and despite my weeks in the country I have yet to develop any kind of tolerance for chillies and hot spices. With tears in my eyes and spicy rice gummed to my fingers, I wave the boy away as he bustles over to give me a refill.