Thatha and the Chocolate Pastry

One hand carrying an off-white jute bag with a 5x5 kolam printed in red on its front. Another resting on the counter of a quaint shop that has stood in a bylane of Velachery since the 60s. The Iyengar Bakery. Swiggy and Zomato haven’t gotten here yet. And if you were to miss taking the second left from the Murugan boli stall, you probably wouldn’t either. Hence, while it has expanded over four times of its size of six by ten feet when it was first set up, time has otherwise stood still in this sweet-biscuity-and-warm-loafy-aroma-emitting site, and the cul-de-sac it remains tucked away in. This is much to the delight of the residents of the street and the loyal old timers and their offspring and their offspring who claim to know the soul of Madras and keep pouring in starting 6:30 AM when this family-run-bakehouse lifts its shutters. Of late, young boys and girls from the neighbouring engineering campus who have recently discovered this ‘hidden gem’ after a food-vlogger posted an instagram reel featuring it can be spotted here too – gobbling vanilla cream buns after classes. This elderly man, however, seems to be a veteran visitor, save his self-conscious demeanour. Had the unforgiving passage of time, the receding of his silver hairline, and the pinkish-white patches growing against the dark skin of his feet, feebled his footing in the world? His lungi is folded up to knee length. He wears a checked green shirt. A golden analogue watch sits on his wrinkled wrist. Vibhuti or sacred ash is smeared on his forehead in a neat wide rectangle. Thatha (grandfather in Tamil culture), as the assistant cashier-cum-helper boy, Sasi, has fallen into the habit of calling him, stands gazing leisurely at the confectionaries behind the glass panel, as he does each afternoon. Sasi looks on indulgently, albeit knowingly; Thatha’s order has remained unchanged for the past decade or so - a freshly baked loaf of milk bread for his daily takeaway, with the exception of jeera and osmania-style cookies when his children and grandchildren are visiting from Bangalore and the annual butter sponge cake for his wife’s birthday. Thatha looks on. Sasi busies himself with the customers who have just arrived - an office-going father holding the tiny hands of his seven-year-old. Daughter demands a chocolate pastry; father smilingly relents; Sasi obliges and swiftly moves on to pack his next order - Thatha’s bread loaf. Just then, much to his bewilderment, the old man points his index finger – shyly at first and then firmly – to the contents of the paper plate held by the little girl. ‘I’ll have it here’ - he then lets out. The child grins as if to say ‘same pinch’. Thatha sits on the cemented steps of the shop, taking small unhurried bites of his dark brown cushiony pastry. He then briskly gets up, sheds the crumbs off his lungi, places two crumpled notes of twenty on the cash counter. Before Sasi can call out – ‘Thatha, your bread?’ – Thatha is off on his bicycle.