The Great Veg Kuruma Mishap

 

Hostel food sucks. It’s one of those universal truths of student life. Some days, you tolerate it. Other days, your soul demands justice. That day was one of those days. The food was so bad, even my survival instincts rebelled. There was only one solution—eating outside. So, I did what any good friend would do—I dragged my best buddies, Thakur Bhai, Navaneeth, and Mhathung, out for a food mission.

Now, before I dive into the actual incident, let me introduce the main character of this story—Shrikant Thakur, aka Thakur Bhai, the undisputed pride of Uttar Pradesh. But to understand why this guy is legendary, we need to rewind a bit.

The Covid Chronicles: How It All Began

Our first year of college was nothing short of a disaster. Thanks to Covid-19, we were stuck in online classes, pretending to listen while secretly watching Netflix. Among the many courses we had, there was this one Foundational Course—basically, a glorified Moral Science class. The professor? Mr. Devasahayam, a man in his late fifties who had only one rule: Tamil or nothing.

Our batch had a small North Indian population—12 of them, to be exact. And one by one, they started disappearing. Why? Because Devasahayam Sir refused to teach in anything other than Tamil. Pleas for English lectures were ignored. A few brave souls requested him to switch to English, but Devasahayam Sir stood firm. “Tamil is a beautiful language. Learn it,” he declared, as if that would solve our problem.

The result? A mass exodus (quitted college). The North Indian population in our class shrank from twelve to two. Yes, two survivors. And who were they? None other than Shrikant Thakur (UP) and Mhathung (Nagaland). These guys were the last men standing, the ones who didn’t run. Respect.

Me? Well, I could understand Tamil, so this linguistic torture didn’t affect me much. But Thakur Bhai and Mathu? They were drowning. Every lecture was a battle, every assignment a puzzle. Eventually, they found their savior—me. I became their unofficial translator, helping with notes, assignments, and survival strategies. And just like that, our legendary friendship was born.

The Man, The Myth, The Legend

Thakur Bhai was, without a doubt, the biggest Modiji and Yogiji fan I had ever seen. If BJP needed a spokesperson, they wouldn’t have to look beyond him. He was the living, breathing embodiment of Hindutva ideology. Criticize BJP in front of him? You’d be lucky to escape alive.

Now, here’s where it got interesting. BJP has always struggled in Kerala. And me? Being a proud Malayali, I never missed a chance to rub it in. We would argue, counter-argue, and debate endlessly. He’d call Kerala’s government incompetent; I’d fire back with corruption allegations against his party. But the real fun started when we got to beef.

For Thakur Bhai, the cow was a sacred mother. For me? Well… let’s just say, in Kerala, beef is soul food. So, naturally, I loved teasing him.

“Bro, did you know Malayalis once conducted a Beef Festival to protest against the central government?” I’d say casually.

“I even participated in it! Beef fry, beef curry, beef biryani—yum yum.”

His face would turn red, his fists would clench. But he wouldn’t explode. I knew that if I had said the same thing in UP, I’d be running for my life. But Thakur Bhai? He was mature. At the end of the day, we loved mocking each other. That was our friendship. Heated debates, endless banter, and unbreakable brotherhood.

The Great Food Fiasco

Back to the main story.

That fateful evening, hunger hit us like an earthquake. The hostel food was inedible, so we planned an escape mission. Our destination? Choolaimedu—home to some of the best food joints in town.

I spotted a restaurant and pointed, “Let’s go there.”

But Thakur Bhai immediately protested. “No! It’s a non-veg restaurant.”

“Bro, so what? You order veg, we’ll eat non-veg.”

“No,” he insisted. “The non-veg surroundings will pollute me. The smell of chicken and beef curry will make me impure.”

At that moment, I seriously considered pushing him in front of a moving car. Why did I even invite him?

‘Bro, the surrounding will not pollute you, the thing going inside you will pollute you. As long as you don’t eat non-veg dishes you will not get impure.’

He thought for a second. I could see the inner battle. Logic vs. Ideology.

We entered the restaurant. Everything was going well… until we saw the guy at the next table. He was eating porotta and beef.

I felt Thakur Bhai’s anger rising. His fists clenched. His jaw tightened.

“Calm down, bro,” I whispered. “Mind your own business.”

We placed our orders. Navu, Mathu, and I went all out—chilli chicken, butter chicken, roti. Thakur Bhai, still holding on to his last shred of purity, ordered porotta and veg kuruma.

‘Bhai, don’t look at us. You enjoy your food, ignore the smell of the chicken.’

He nodded solemnly and started eating.

 The waiter placed a big bucket of curry.

Then something unexpected happened.

His face lit up. “Bro! This veg kuruma is amazing! I swear it has never tasted this good before.”

I smirked. “Enjoy, bro.”

 

Five minutes later, he got so excited that he wanted to share the joy. “Bro, you have to try this!” he said, pouring some of his ‘veg kurma’ onto my plate.

And that’s when it happened.

The moment the curry hit my plate, a single chicken piece tumbled out.

Silence.

Complete. Deadly. Silence.

The three of us—me, Navu, Mathu—stared in horror.

For the past five minutes, Thakur Bhai had been happily eating porotta with chicken gravy.

My brain stopped working. I was expecting a volcanic eruption any second.

Thakur Bhai looked down at his plate. Then at the chicken piece. His hands clenched into fists. His eyes welled up with tears.

Navu whispered urgently, “Aswin, take him out. Now. Before he sets this place on fire.”

Anger raged in Thakur Bhai’s eyes. Any second now, he was going to explode…

He banged his fist on the table. The whole restaurant went silent. Heads turned, eyes widened. The waiter, a scrawny guy in his early twenties, looked like he was ready to bolt.

Thakur Bhai’s eyes were red with rage. "Kahan hai woh chutiya waiter?!" he roared, scanning the place like a lion hunting its prey.

I kept my head down. No point adding fuel to the fire.

The waiter finally appeared, confused and clueless. Thakur Bhai blasted him in Hindi, words flying at the poor guy like bullets. But the problem? The waiter didn’t understand a word. He just stood there, blinking like an old tube light.

I sighed and stepped in. "Bhai, let me handle this."

I turned to the waiter and explained the situation. The guy looked even more terrified.

"Sir, I placed two buckets of curry. One with chicken gravy, one with veg kuruma," he stammered. "Maybe sir took the wrong one."

I turned to Thakur Bhai. "Bhai, you literally said this was the best kuruma you ever had. Not even once did you doubt it. You were relishing it!"

Big mistake.

Thakur Bhai’s rage hit a new level. He pointed a trembling finger at me. "Sab tere wajah se hua hai! I was going to my apartment, but you dragged me here. I have been a vegetarian my whole life. I made a vow to Lord Ram! And now, because of you, I have broken it. I am impure!"

I knew there was no point in reasoning with him now. His mind was a battlefield of emotions.

I tried anyway. "Bhai, it was an accident. Not intentional. If you had eaten it knowingly, then maybe you’d be at fault. But this? Lord Ram will understand. He will forgive you."

But Thakur Bhai was Thakur Bhai. Drama was in his DNA.

"You will pay for this!" he declared like a Bollywood villain.

Navaneeth and Mhathung, who had been silent spectators till now, were struggling to contain their laughter.

And then, in the most dramatic turn of events, Thakur Bhai stood up, took a deep breath, raised both fists in the air, and shouted at the top of his lungs—

"JAI SHREE RAM!"

And then… he ran. Yes, RAN out of the restaurant.

I sat there, stunned. "What just happened?"

I asked waiter to pack the remaining food and Navu to pay the bills.

We stepped out of the restaurant, but Thakur Bhai was nowhere to be seen. I figured I’d leave him alone for the night and talk to him tomorrow.

As we walked, Mhathung spoke up. "Dude, these hardcore Hindutva guys take their vows very seriously. Some even punish themselves if they break them. I’ve heard stories of people committing suicide over religious mistakes."

A chill ran down my spine. What if Thakur Bhai did something extreme?

My peace was gone. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I called him several times, but his phone was switched off.

And that scared me even more.

TOTAL TENSION

The next day, I was sitting in class, waiting for him. But he didn’t turn up.

Okay, now I was officially worried.

“Bro, what if he told his parents everything? What if they blame you for it? What if his family catches the next flight from UP to Chennai just to beat and burn you alive?” Mhathung said, smirking.

I swear to God, I wanted to kill this idiot. This moron was raising my BP.

I tried calling Thakur Bhai, but his phone was still switched off. Great. Just great.

Now my mind was going full Bollywood. What if his family really decided to come after me? What if they dragged me out of class, straight into a UP-style lynching? What if he did something terrible to himself?

Three days passed. No sign of him. His absence started to make me seriously uncomfortable. My peace was gone.

Then, on the fourth day, he walked into class.

I almost gasped.

He was wearing a Rudraksha mala, a fresh tilak on his forehead, and a calm, almost divine expression on his face.

What the hell?

He came and sat next to me.

I braced myself, preparing for a slap, a punch, or at least a classic Thakur Bhai-style verbal explosion.

Instead, he smiled and said,
“Jai Shree Ram, Aswin. How are you?”

I blinked.

Had he lost his mind? Was this some Baba version of him?

Before I could say anything, he continued, in an unusually calm voice—
“Aswin, you were right. I told everything to my mother. She said the same thing you said. It was an accident. I didn’t eat it intentionally. Lord Ram will understand.”

I felt a wave of relief wash over me.

“She asked me to do a pooja at the nearby Ram temple for three days. And now, I feel at peace. Lord Ram has forgiven me. And so, I forgive you.”

I wanted to scream.

Bro, I TOLD YOU THIS THREE DAYS AGO! But when your maa says it, suddenly it makes sense? Seriously?

But I didn’t say anything. Because, at that moment, I was just happy he was okay.

That day, I learned an important lesson.

Never mess with someone’s emotions, beliefs, or traditions. Religion is a sensitive topic. What might be a joke to you could be someone else’s entire way of life. I stopped bringing up ‘beef’ in front of him. I respected his beliefs, just like I wanted him to respect mine.

Because if I had said the same things in UP, well… let’s just say, I might not be here to tell this story.

But in the end, Thakur Bhai and I are still best friends. Like brothers.

And sometimes, just for fun, I tell him,
“Bro, come to Kerala. I’ll get you some delicious veg kuruma.”

And both of us burst out laughing.