Aloo Parata

 College life is like a buffet: you don’t get to choose everything, but you still pile your plate high with chaos, excitement, and the occasional disaster. My second-year Allied Optional course was one of those surprise items on the menu – “Autobiography and Travelogue,” courtesy of the English department and our effervescent professor, Dr. Supriya. Supriya Ma’am had this magical ability to turn mundane assignments into something exciting. Vlogs? Done one on Mahabalipuram. Reels? We nailed it (did a reel on Higginbotham). Food exhibitions? Ah, that’s where this story begins.

Picture this: students from History, Economics, French crammed into one eclectic class. The second CIA exams were around the corner, and Ma’am decided to stir things up with a group assignment: a Food Exhibition. The rules? Unique cuisine. Showcase culture. And the killer clause: no Tamil Nadu cuisine.

My gang, the misfit squad of Ajith, Nithish, Gokul, Sanjay, Edwin, Louis, and I, huddled together for our brainstorming session. Ajith suggested Onam Sadhya, which sounded impressive but was promptly dismissed by me. “Dude, do you know how many curries that involves? Unless we’re robbing a bank, that’s out.” We shuffled through ideas like a Spotify playlist gone rogue. Local Tamil foods? Nope. North Indian dishes? Too cliché. Western cuisine? Budget killer.

And then came Sanjay, the Einstein of bad ideas. “Let’s do idli-sambar,” he said with the confidence of a guy who forgot the rule about no Tamil Nadu cuisine. My glare probably made him regret his existence.

Meanwhile, Edwin—the Casanova of our group, popular among the French department girls—was sent on a covert mission. Nithish pushed him, whispering, “Go find out what they’re making.” Edwin returned looking traumatized. “They said something in French. It sounded like a spell. I’m not going back.”

Three days passed, and we were still clueless. Every other group was in full swing. The Economics team was lugging stoves and pressure cookers, and the French girls—well, they were speaking French. My team? We were busy perfecting the art of procrastination.

On the eve of the exhibition, the team spirit hit rock bottom. “You do it,” they chorused, leaving me to carry the sinking ship solo. I stared at my room ceiling, channelling my inner Bollywood hero. “Kal kuch karna padega.” (Tomorrow, I’ll have to do something.)

In my class, there were two people from the North—one from Nagaland and the other from Uttar Pradesh. My first thought? Nagaland cuisine. Imagine the uniqueness, the cultural richness. But there was a catch—my friend Mhathung (I call him Mathukutty). Asking Mhathu for help was like asking a volcano not to erupt.

I dialled his number, my heart pounding. “Bro, I need your help,” I began.

“Chutiya,” he interrupted. “My skin is getting roasted in this Chennai heat, and you want me to cook? Forget it.”

“Bro, think of it as Vitamin D therapy,” I countered.

“Gaand marao,” he said in Hindi before hanging up.

Nagaland cuisine? Out. That left me with my last resort: Shrikant Thakur, a.k.a. Thakur Bhai, the pride of Uttar Pradesh. I braced myself for some serious Hindi gaali as I called him.

To my surprise, he was unusually calm. “Aswin, I’ll call you back,” he said.

Great, I thought. He’s just warming up for a full-fledged verbal assault. But when he called back, he had an unexpected solution.

“Bro, I’ll order Aloo Paratha for you from my tiffin service,” he said. “They make it fresh.”

“Done!” I exclaimed. “Just add some paper plates.”

“What for? Are you feeding an army?”

“No, just the judges,” I replied, grinning.

That night, I announced the plan in our WhatsApp group. “Guys, we got Aloo Paratha.”

The questions came flooding in. But one from Ajith hit me like a thunderbolt: “How are you going to present it?”

I froze. Presentation? I hadn’t even thought that far. Frantically, I Googled “History of Aloo Paratha”, only to find it originated in the 12th century.

Not helpful.

Not exactly speech material.

I texted Supriya Ma’am: “How long do we have to present?”

“Two to three minutes,” she replied.

Panic set in. I gathered the team on WhatsApp for an emergency meeting. Ajith suggested we cook up a story about the dish. “Nobody’s going to fact-check us,” Gokul assured. Reluctantly, I agreed.

The next morning, I picked up the Aloo Parathas from Thakur Bhai. “When you win, you owe me a treat,” he said, smirking.

“Haha. Hilarious,” I replied, resisting the urge to throw him into a well.

At college, we huddled together to finalize the story. Sanjay, as usual, had the worst idea.

“Let’s say it was Mahatma Gandhi’s favourite food,” he suggested.

“Bro,” I said, holding back laughter. “Gandhi barely ate. Stick to facts.”

After rejecting every other suggestion, I unveiled my masterpiece:

“Mahmud of Ghazni, the ruler of the Ghaznavid Empire, invaded India in the 11th century. During his travels, his army camped in a village where the locals, under duress, served them an early version of Aloo Paratha. Ghazni loved it so much that he took the recipe back with him. Over the years, it gained fame under the Delhi Sultanate and the Mughal Empire, eventually becoming a staple in North India.”

Was it historically accurate? Who cared? We were in it to win it.

The exhibition finally took place at Bethrem Hall. The Aloo Paratha team was ready—well, as ready as you can be with eight slices of paratha and a garnish of lemon pickle. To make it more presentable, we placed a small lemon at the centre and pickles around the edges, pretending it was some avant-garde culinary masterpiece.

I decided to take a stroll around the hall. And boy, was I unprepared. The French department girls had an entire buffet. Croissants, quiches, crêpes—you name it. I could almost hear their dishes mocking my humble paratha. The Economics guys had gone all out with roti, paneer tikka, and curries that smelled divine. They’d decorated their stall so well I half-expected them to hand out menus.

Panic set in. What if everyone laughed at us? “Aloo Paratha? That’s all you got?” I imagined the ridicule and cringed. My team tried to console me, saying, “Winning or losing doesn’t matter. At least we’re participating.” Nice sentiment, but not very helpful when your self-esteem is on life support.

And then came the bombshell. Supriya Ma’am announced that the chief invigilator would be Dr. Anuradha, HoD of the History Department. Doctorate holder. Guest lecturer at prestigious colleges. A walking, talking encyclopedia. My cooked-up Aloo Paratha history didn’t stand a chance. To make matters worse, the Aloo Paratha team vanished. They left me alone to face the storm, mumbling something like, “Good luck, Aswin. We’ll be back after your presentation.”

The tension was palpable. I’d rather have walked barefoot on hot coals. And then Supriya Ma’am dropped the second bomb: “We’ll start with the History Department.” Great. First up, I’m supposed to narrate a made-up story to a woman who’s a History expert.

“Give her a piece of paratha first,” Nithish suggested. “While she’s busy enjoying it, she won’t focus on your story.” Genius or lunatic? Hard to tell. But at that point, I was willing to try anything.

Dr Anuradha and Supriya Ma’am arrived at our stall. I plastered on a smile, introduced myself and the team and offered them paratha. While they chewed, I launched into my tale about Mahmud of Ghazni and his supposed love affair with Aloo Paratha. They listened intently, nodding occasionally. Maybe they bought it. Or maybe they were just really into the paratha. Either way, no questions about sources or references came up.

Dr. Anuradha even said, “Interesting,” she remarked. “I wasn’t aware of this connection. Thank you for sharing.”

Relief washed over me. It was over. Mission accomplished. The Aloo Paratha team reappeared, and we all breathed a collective sigh of relief.

 I went out of the hall and called Thakur Bhai to thank him. When I came back I discovered my team ate the entire paratha. Not even a pickle garnish was left. But honestly, at that moment, it didn’t matter. We’d pulled off the impossible.

The next afternoon, we shuffled into our AO class, still buzzing from the Aloo Paratha adventure. I was finally at peace, ready to move on from the chaos. Supriya Ma’am walked in with a triumphant smile and the results in hand.

She started with the overall winners. “The Commerce Department bags the first prize,” she announced. No surprises there—those guys were always the overachievers. Then came the class results.

“The third prize goes to the French department.”
What?! My jaw nearly hit the desk. The French girls had an entire culinary parade, yet they only came third? Their presentation must’ve flopped.

“Nice,” I thought. “We’re second.”

“And the second prize goes to the Economics Department.”
Now my mouth was wide open. This wasn’t just a surprise—it was a full-blown plot twist. That meant...

“And the first prize goes to the History Department.”

Our Aloo Paratha team erupted into applause like we’d just won an Olympic gold. I couldn’t believe it. “You guys did a fantastic job on the presentation,” Ma’am said, beaming. “Full marks. Keep it up!”

It took a while for the news to sink in, but when it did, all I could think was: we pulled it off. The Aloo Paratha adventure had ended in glory. And yeah, it ended very, very well.

That evening, I ran into Jeevith Sir, our Indian Independence professor (I call him professor bro). I narrated the whole ordeal, and he laughed so hard I thought he’d fall off his chair. “You’re a born salesman,” he said. “You sold a paratha with a fictional story to a history expert. Impressive!”

That night, the hostel served its speciality: watery upma. One look and my stomach revolted. I knew I couldn’t survive this, so I headed to Chooleimedu in search of edible salvation. A North Indian restaurant caught my eye, and there it was—Aloo Paratha on the menu.

It felt poetic to honour the dish that saved me. I ordered Aloo Paratha with paneer butter masala, and when it arrived, it looked like a masterpiece on a plate. The first bite? Absolute heaven. The paratha that saved the day tasted even better.

“Aloo Paratha adventure, signing off,” I thought, savouring the last bite of my victory.