The Legend of Jayanagar Amma

A few weeks ago, as Koneti and I settled down for a face-melting, multi-plated serving of Affan Kebab’s deep fried chicken fritters, my eyes stole a slight-of-hand reveal from the pot-bellied champion friturier who manned the massive cauldron of frothing oil. He was shamelessly slicing open a small packet of Nandini ghee and tilting its contents into the bubbling moat created around the castle of sizzling succulent pieces of delectable fowl. It was an act of motherless ingenuity that warranted his being christened a Hero of mythological proportions, this despite the plethora of arteries that he had slayed into desuetude. A character, deserving a legend of his own.

This then, got me thinking. For years, I had heard and read about characters from the Bangalorean universe, whose stories had once been told with much fanfare, and who are now relegated to a distant memory without any of us ever encountering, or paying homage to, their stories. Depending on where you lived and which college you went to, names like Muthappa Rai, Koli Fayaz, Blade Manja etc. were familiar and sometimes legendary. It is increasingly likely that the average Bangalorean now has limited or no knowledge of the influence these characters had on daily life. Yet, presently, their time has passed without their stories ever being told, unless you count that book by Agni Sreedhar.

However, there is one story, legend rather, that I cannot, shall not allow to die without paying homage to. And that is, the legend of Jayanagar Amma.

If you lived in Bangalore in the 90’s and had a particular penchant for a mild, herbal, medicinal, psychotropic substance, it is almost certain that it was procured from a lady purveyor living in a small hutment who went simply by the name of “Jayanagar Amma”. When yeng gents felt the urge to partake in the occasional medication while laying back and chillaxing in Ganja Park, Jayangar Amma’s hut was a few minutes away. Just get one friend to ride pillion on your Kiney, ride down hosur road and take a right into Marble Road to connect to Dairy Circle. Down a couple of kilometers on Bannerghatta road and take the right towards Jayanagar. Take the first or second left and look for the small house with the asbestos roof. Muruga will be outside somewhere. He’d hook you up. You never or rarely dealt with Amma herself. Her cronies planted a bag into your hand for 40 bucks. Keep the change ready. And don’t look back. To and from Rest House Crescent, after picking up papes opposite Pecos, complete turn-around-time, less than 30 minutes. Her product was adequate, activating the required creativity for a period of 2 hours after which you could belt one masala puri on your way back home. No surprises then that Jayanagar Amma’s popularity saw an unprecedented surge, making her a household name, without anyone actually knowing her real name. For years, the only product one could find, and believe me there was a lot of medication being consumed in the city back then, was Jayanagar Amma’s. Soon, rumour-mongery became rampant, with far-fetched claims of her owning a Rolls, a couple of houses in Sadashivanagar and even a chopper while being cajoled by police and politicians alike, becoming topics of immediate discussion as the product was being rolled. Such was the audaciousness of her persona that she became larger than life, and her establishment slowly but surely fell into disrepute. By the early-mid 2000’s, her activity reduced considerably and customers began returning empty handed and increasingly dissatisfied with the dosa at Vidyarthi Bhavan (for it was a well-known fact that VB dosa tasted much better after a visit to Jayanagar Amma’s). Soon, Jayanagar Amma disappeared completely, most likely legitimizing her business with a much deserved move to Real Estate. Apparently, there is now a building where her hut once stood, registered in her name. Of course, while she slowly melted away into obscurity, the rumour-mongery continued, some even saying that the cops were on to her and had with them details of regular customers.

It was this fear that drove the yeng bengloorean gent in search of medication to further reaches of Bangalore’s skirts. Anekal, Hoskote, Tumkur, Mandya began emerging as newer, less accessible scores, requiring meticulous planning and advance notifications. It was essential to depute one friend to carry a prescription over and return with herbal tea, enough for as many days as friends you had. Jayanagar Amma’s absence was missed. Terribly.

It was during this time that I heard the great score story I have ever heard. In my life. Ever.

Three yeng gents got on to a single Kinetic Honda on a particularly late night for the immediate purpose of procuring a substantial amount of dried oregano from a villager with a home garden in Anekal. What they didn’t know was that this particular villager’s garden and farmer’s market had attracted the attention of the neighbours, on account of the English speaking riff-raff that made entries and exits at odd hours in the day. It was on this particular night, after making their quick transaction, that the three youths were waylaid by a small army of villagers carrying torches and sickles (I’m embellishing, but what the heck! This is how I heard it!). The leader among them questioned their presence and asked them what they were doing here, in Anekal, this late in the night!

The three youths were scared shitless! Their escape route was obviously blocked and they had nowhere else to go but through and into the awaiting mob. This moment needed a clear head and quick-thinking, things that an oregano-dependent patient was unlikely to possess. It was at this moment, while two of the pillions where just beginning to babble in English that the rider of the Kinetic stepped forward. He approached the mob with quick and confident strides, clasping in his hands the small bag of product. He looked menacingly at the leader of the mob and spoke, unfalteringly, in crisp loud Kannada, his voice booming in the cool quiet air of the blackest of Anekal nights…

“These fuckers are drug dealers who we had laid a trap for. They are ganja addicts! I am Inspector Sadashiv Gowda from Ashok Nagar police station, and I am arresting these dogs! Move out of the way or I’ll take you in also. I know all you dogs are selling ganja to these rascals.”

With these words, he approached his friends, who now actually trembled with fear, and gave them a couple of thulps earning a couple of yelps in return. Got up on the bike, started it and rode away, pausing momentarily to glare at the leader of the mob that dispersed ahead of them.

Escaping. Forever. Into legend.