Popular Snaks Vendors

Mor Thatha, Thiruvanmiyur Years in business: Over 16

“An A.R. Rahman photo shoot would’ve been much easier,” the photographer tells us. Ramajeyam, popularly known as Mor Thatha, is a fussy subject for the camera, especially during business hours. For, every minute is money and he wouldn’t want to waste it. Not when he and his wife have toiled over the product all day. Mor Thatha sells buttermilk at the Thiruvanmiyur beach on a bicycle.

We got the same treatment when we met him a few months ago — he spoke to us in curt, clipped sentences.

Customers thronged his cycle and he couldn’t spare even a minute to talk. That’s Mor Thatha for you — to him, business is business. But, when we visit the 53-year-old at his home in Kottivakkam Kuppam, he’s a completely different person.

He’s chopping a mound of coriander with his wife Pramila, who’s peeling cucumbers. Inside, in their small kitchen, are tubs of curd that will soon be turned into thick buttermilk. Soon, we realise what has brought about the change in his persona — his wife. She with her sing-song Tirunelveli Tamil, tired, smiling eyes and hardworking hands, created the man called Mor Thatha. In her presence, he’s relaxed and sociable; Pramila gives him a certain strength and Ramajeyam spontaneously lets his guard down when he’s with her.

Ramajeyam is from a village called Kuripankulam in Tirunelveli district. “I ran away to Chennai to make a living when I was 13,” he recalls. He did odd jobs until he married Pramila, who’s from his neighbouring village. “I’d never seen him before we got married, although we lived closeby,” she smiles and Ramajeyam chuckles into the cutting board — he knows a different version. “We initially sold tiffin items,” says Pramila. “But the business didn’t do well.” An acquaintance suggested that they try selling something cold.

That’s how it all began — the man has been selling thick buttermilk topped with cucumber/cut mango and crunchy kaara boondi for over 16 years now. The work is difficult, especially since he’s popular (he even has a Facebook page, created by a patron). “People call me up if I’m not there even for a day; so I can’t afford to take leave,” he says. The recipe is Pramila’s — she adds the juice of ginger and green chillies to the buttermilk, giving it a lovely fragrance.

The couple has two sons who help out. Since business hours are from 7 p.m. to 10 p.m. and sometimes longer, they have to start work immediately the next day for the new batch. “We hardly get to sleep,” says Pramila. “We’re content, but have to work non-stop to be that way.” Ramajeyam has his weaknesses — he’s a heavy smoker. “He had beautiful white teeth that shone when he smiled,” sighs Pramila. “They’ve changed colour since he smokes. He just won’t stop smoking.”

Mohammad Ismail sells puttu in T-Nagar Photo: R. Ravindran

Mohammad Ismail, T-Nagar Years in business: 15

There are some men whose existence doesn’t disturb a leaf. Mohammad Ismail is one such. He stands at his spot by the Usman Road Flyover with his aluminium tray of kavuni arisi (black rice) puttu, invisible to the world. Almost. People stop by, intrigued by his deep-red dish that’s flecked with coconut shavings. “Puttu,” he tells them in his voice, that’s a fraction of a decibel over a whisper.

For 15 years now, the 52-year-old has been taking the Chennai-Arakkonam suburban train every day to get to his workplace. “I spend four hours getting to work and going back home,” he says. In fact, the idea to make and sell puttu came to him when he saw an old lady sell it on a train.

He lives at Thalankuppam in Ennore. The puttu defines his identity and Ismail has grown to accept it, although deep down, he wishes he were someone else. “A tea-shop owner,” he says, his voice picking up at ‘owner’. “I want to run my own place, with two boys to assist me; and I will sit at the kalla (cash counter).”

But he doesn’t have the means or the energy to give it a try. Ismail is that kind of a person; one who just goes with the flow and prefers not to cause even the tiniest of ripples. This is perhaps because his life has always been at the mercy of the powers-that-be. The police, acting out of their sense of duty to keep a check on platform hawkers, have dismantled his shop many times; Ismail deals with them the same way he deals with life — he doesn’t argue; just begs, and keeps out of their way as much as possible.

There are certain things, apart from his dream tea-shop, that excite Ismail. Among them is food. “I love fish. We live near the beach and so my wife cooks fish almost every day. In fact, I ate the rice and meen kozhambu that she packed for lunch,” he adds, smiling ever so slightly, for the first time since he began talking.

T.A. Abdul Rahman, Triplicane Years in business: Over 50

Many years ago, there lived a man called ‘Samsa Kaarar’ in Triplicane. His house was called ‘Samsa kaara veedu’ and the neighbourhood (Pallappan Street) was identified by the man who sold samosas. This was in the 1960s. “My father Abdul Kadher came from Tirunelveli to Madras to work at Buhari,” recalls Rahman. Kadher worked there for a few years and decided to set up a small business out of making samosas, that he mastered.

He started making them at his home in Triplicane with his wife, children, and brothers. “I was a little boy then,” recalls Adbul. “Hawkers would come home to buy them in bulk to sell at cinemas, beaches, circuses, and festivals in the city. My father sold one for 10p and they would sell them for 20p.” In the late Sixties, Kadher started selling samosas on a cart near his home, and today, Adbul, his tenth son, runs it.

The cart does brisk business — Abdul sells over 2,000 samosas a day (each is priced at Rs. 2) and almost 10,000 during Ramzan. “The people in this neighbourhood are big tea drinkers; they would never drink tea without a samosa or two in the evenings,” says Abdul.

V. Krishnaraj, Broadway Years in business: Over 60

Many journalists have tried in vain to make V. Krishnaraj talk. He owns a tiny shop that sells bun-butter-jam deep inside a building in Broadway. The man bolts at the mention of ‘interview’. “Don’t take offence but I don’t want publicity,” he tells us, when we arrive at his shop, G. Gopaul Dairy on Philips Street, one afternoon. He’s run out of buns too, and we turn back dejectedly when he says, “You could give a brief outline of what we do. You’ve come all the way.” And smiles a grandfatherly smile.

The 62-year-old hails from Gobichettipalayam, that’s close to Uthukuli, the land of snow-white butter. “My grandfather Gopal Swamy sold butter from Uthukuli in Madras in the Fifties,” recalls Krishnaraj. His father Venkatraman took over the business. “He introduced bun-butter-jam, since there were a lot of schools in the neighbourhood.” Initially located at the entrance of a 96-year-old building in the area, Venkatraman’s buns sold like hotcakes.

Once Krishnaraj arrived in the picture, he sold buns, and along with it, buttermilk. Gopaul Dairy’s buns are legendary — old students from schools nearby, who grew up on the buns, come back for them when they’re in town. But the man refuses to mass-produce the delicacy. “It’s a big responsibility. And, for me, quality is most important. Buns retain their softness only for a few hours after they are baked and I don’t want to carry them over to the next day.”

It’s not uncommon for customers who turn up by 5 p.m. to go empty-handed. But Krishnaraj doesn’t mind; he’s obsessed with quality. “I’m a bit old-fashioned when it comes to business.

My motive is not just to make money. I want to give a good product; that is what matters to me.” He then walks behind a glass counter and whips out a bun.

Today’s our lucky day! He slices it into two and applies a generous cloud of creamy white butter and gooey jam; he then places the other half over it and cuts it into four. “Try it,” he says. “Sit down, and eat it slowly,” he instructs. “Don’t gobble it up.” One bite, and another, and another... we forget time and space in that tiny room in Broadway. Dt. 3/9/2016

Best dam Dum ka rot halwa at baasha halwa shop in Triplicane. Aggarwal Swwes,in Parry’s Corner, serves the best the best lassi in the world. The rasam sadham at Southern Crest Hotel in T Nagar is awesome