The name’s Tukaram, with a licence to seal

8 am In the good old days, when I went to melas rather than acting in one, buddhi ke baal used to be a fluorescent pink. Now, it is the colour of my roots between touch-ups, finally living up to its name. According to news reports, the disappearance of pink dye is due to Maharashtra’s Food and Drug Administration (FDA) commissioner Tukaram Mundhe, who has conducted over 3,000 raids across the state. Hundreds of restaurants have fallen like dominoes in his wake, including Domino’s. Where Mundhe goes, mundis roll.

10 am As I am trying to coax my dog to stop chewing on
my sock, my sister calls. ‘Has Usha bua called you?’
My bua lives in Ludhiana, and she only calls me when she needs something. These days, it’s for an introduction to Diljit Dosanjh.

My sister continues, ‘She said there were shots fired at that pizza place near her house. Some place called Pizza From Mexico.’

‘Was it over fake jalapenos?’ I ask. ‘Their FDA commissioner seems worse than ours. Here they just have a licence to seal, but there they have gone all James Bond with a licence to kill.’

My sister sighs, ‘No, you idiot, it was some criminal gang.’

2 pm Inspired by Mr Mundhe, I conduct a raid on my kitchen. I find a packet of Shahi Masala that expired around the same time as the Mughal Empire. Those who want to erase the Mughals from our history books should first start with lunch. Give up your koftas, kormas, kebabs. They all bear Mughal influence. You can’t have your Mughlai paneer, real or analogue, and eat it too.
Despite Vijay Shetty of the Indian Hotel & Restaurant Association saying, ‘Rats and cockroaches are beyond our control,’ I don’t find any in my kitchen. But cockroaches are tenacious creatures, especially when they come together and form a party.
4 pm While I am cleaning my kitchen, politicians have been debating whether singing two or six stanzas of Vande Mataram should be made mandatory. I see reporters stopping people on the street, asking them about this debate.
A middle-aged man declares that those who don’t sing the full national song are anti-national. Then he is asked to sing. He stammers, ‘I’ve forgotten the words.’

I panic and decide to memorise all six stanzas in case a reporter catches me. Thanks to menopause and its inherent brain fog, this seems like an insurmountable task.

Then I consider getting the entire thing tattooed onto my forearm. Unfortunately, to fit it all, I would have to use an ant-sized font. I go back to memorising the stanzas. Where there is a will, there is a way. Unfortunately, my will gives way by the fourth stanza.
5 pm I am now stalking Tukaram Mundhe the way I used to stalk George Clooney. I chance upon an interview where he talks about his dislike of eating out. It’s so rare to see a government official simply doing his job that it has become news.

Along with accolades, he also invites criticism. Recently, Bombay high court asked Mundhe’s department to pay a Pune sweet shop Rs 5 lakh as compensation for its losses. When the court raised questions about Mundhe taking action only against private eateries, he raided high court canteens. Apparently, two of the three canteens were operating without a licence.

In the interview, the FDA commissioner says he is fit because he seldom eats out, doesn’t consume packaged food, and dislikes pizza. Paneer and pizza seem to be his pet peeves.

Then he recounts an occasion when his friends forced him to go out for dinner. He arrived at the restaurant and noted examples of non-compliance. He dissuaded his friends from eating anything, particularly the analogue paneer. Apparently, he can distinguish between real and fake paneer even without tasting the dish. Twenty-four hours later, he sent his team to raid the restaurant. Who needs Ozempic when you have a friend like Mundhe?
6.15 pm The man of the house is late. I am annoyed, and I tell him, ‘You said you would be back home at 6.’
He replies, ‘It’s exactly 6 pm.’

‘It’s 6.15,’ I say, pointing at the grandfather clock in our living room. ‘The cuckoo came out and chirped 15 minutes ago.’

He shows me his phone. It’s 6 pm. Not just paneer; even analogue clocks should be seized and destroyed.

7 pm Since this fake paneer scam hit the headlines, my mother and I have started making paneer at home. Our old argument continues. In her house, one litre of milk yields 250 grams of paneer. I get 180 grams from the same amount of milk. Now, it’s also about whose paneer is tastier. Next, I suspect she will start asking whose paneer is whiter, and I may start putting detergent in mine. This is not as far-fetched as it sounds. A recent news report stated that students in Bihar’s Nalanda district fell ill because detergent was used in place of salt.

9 pm I am at a restaurant with my friends. We order tandoori broccoli and chicken tikka. Then I ask the server, ‘Has Mundhe checked your restaurant?’
He hesitates and says, ‘Yes, madam, last week. We passed.’

‘Wah! Then I can order the paneer tikka without fear. Please add it to our order.’

Our drinks arrive first, followed by the starters. I stab my paneer with a toothpick. Before it can reach my mouth, it collapses and falls into my martini.

I consider asking for a new drink. Then I decide it’s an appropriate toast to the man whose actions speak louder than words, and even songs. I christen it Mundhe’s Martini. Gin, vermouth, olive and paneer. Shaken, not stirred.

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