“Tasty,” I said, wiping my mouth. “By the way, did I tell you about the brain museum in Bangalore? The architect told me we should go.”

Michelle tore off a piece of naan, and sopped up a wet chunk of brain. “We have to go,” she said.

And this weekend, we did.

I’m not sure that I’d call Dr Shankar’s Brain Museum a museum. There were no explanations, no details, no citations or learning. Just six hundred brains in an otherwise empty room.

On reflection, perhaps “Collection” would be a better word. A fantastic collection of diseased and healthy brains, sandwiched between a Brain Bank and the Hospital Canteen.

Two dozen purple slides showed something. Ten or so brains were marked by a shared label: Intracerebral Hemorrhage. Another row was marked Glioma. Arterial Stroke. Schwannoma. Schizophrenia.

“Are these even brains,” asked Michelle about a row that looked more like cancerous lungs.

“This definitely isn’t a brain,” I said, as we passed a handful of foetuses in glass jars. I took a photo, but decided not to post it. There was a sign saying “No Photos,” but there was no-one in there. No doctors, no guides, and no security. A deviant brain fetishist could easily walk out with a few dozen grey matter plastic jars.

“Hey, this is a duck brain!”

“A rat brain, too! Cool.”

“Are those testicles?”

On a table cluttered with samples, I found a few laminated pages describing brain diseases. One was about a fungal brain infection. It said the disease smells “fruity.”

Outside the museum, huge monkeys clambered through the trees and I was hungry.

“They have that tempura’d brain sushi at Like That Only.”

“Whitefield? That’s too far.”

“Parsi Brain Cutlets at Daddy’s?”

“Indranagar? That’ll take forever.”

So we tried the hospital canteen instead. They didn’t have brains, but they did sell samosas. Veggie samosas. Oh well. We went elsewhere instead.

Karims Hotel
Nearby Jama Masjid, Old Delhi

NIHMANS Brain Hospital
Just east of NIHMANS Bus Stop, Hosur Main Road / Dairy Circle Road.
Saturdays 10am – 3pm. Free.

(Then compare to their rather lackluster website. Oh….)

Well, hidden on SP Road in the south of City Market is Sandalwood heaven: Sri Ganesh Video.

It’s the world’s leading Kannada film resource. They distribute them, they sell them, they love them.

They’ve got action.

And romance.

And dudes with magnificent bling.

The company was started twenty five years ago, by two kids who loved watching movies. Today, they take up three floors in a street crowded with IT hardware.

“Do you have any films with Dr Rajkumar?” I asked, like a fool.

They had almost every film with Dr Rajkumar. And Uppi. And Darshan, Ganesh, Shivarajkumar, everyone. Looking for Rajnikanth films? They’ve got dozens. Almost all with English subtitles.

“Sit down, have some tea,” the manager said, passing over a small plastic cup of chai. “Maybe you’d like to see Chingari — very popular film — and others?” I couldn’t resist: walked out with twenty five others.

Darshanathon, anyone?

Sri Ganesh Video
121 NKK Complex Hall, SP Road
Stick your head into the tiny and crowded storefront, then cross the street, walk up the dirty staircase, take a left, and discover the true DVD mecca.

When it came out in 2006, it played in 115 sold-out theaters — for six months! It raked in more money than any Kannada film had before, won national awards, and was remade twice. The star walked away with the nickname “Golden Boy”.

And I’d never even heard of it.

Translated as “Pre Monsoon Rain,” Mungaaru Male tells the story of Preetam, a reckless layabout who casts life aside to chase the wind-swept love of Nandini. Since this is an Indian film, her pre-arranged marriage is just one week away!

Yes, this film eschews any hint of subtlety. There’s a shotgun-weilding father, a last-minute rescue on the railway tracks, and a pink sari tied to the balcony for a lover’s escape. Rather than crack his knuckles before throwing a punch, the love-rival cracks his whole damn neck.

But the predictable plot isn’t the reason you need to track down this movie urgently. It’s the star, Ganesh.

He’s an unlikely romantic lead: he’s short with the face of a chubby child, a wispy mustache and a teenager’s peach-fuzz attempt at a beard. His loose clothes hint at a greedy belly. His smile is nervous, and his button eyes flit back and forth searching for words that can’t be found. He’s endearingly clumsy, and at moments resembles a young John Belushi.

But when it comes time for action, he shows his stuff. His stomach disappears and muscles swell. A half-dozen thugs attack him on a busy road, but he handles them calmly — ripping a hubcap from a passing car to slam into a man’s face, or a tree from the ground to wave off a pair of them. His shirt rips off to reveal abs and pecs… the padding is entirely in his face.

When he dances, he moves like a star. It’s not that he’s so spectacularly good, it’s just that he’s so wonderfully comfortable in his skin.

And when he woos, he’s a master.

“Your memories, this rain, your smile, your hair, the sound of your anklets, your beauty, your voice, your watch… all of these have made an unrepairable hole in my heart,” he says in subtitles, drunk on rice wine. While the monsoon rain hides his tears, his nervous smile can’t.

“Even if I take a thousand lives, I will not love anyone other than you.”

Mungaaru Male made a star of Ganesh, and it’s easy to see why. It’s a great film, and he’s a great lead. And that’s why you should see it today.

Here’s the hit song, “Anisutide Yaako Indu,” sung by Kal Ho Naa Ho‘s Sonu Nigam…

DON’T MISS:
The fantastic opening, shot outside Eva Mall on Brigade Road. As the wind picks up Nandini’s hair, and she brushes it back in shallow focus, Ganesh stumbles lovestruck into a sewage-filled manhole. He emerges like a shit-monster.

He was a lover…

A fighter…

A party boy…

Seven years later, you still can’t walk down a city street without seeing his face. He was an action star, a romantic lead, a devotional hero, a comedian and a tugger of heartstrings. He really was a celluloid god.

But in western Bangalore, you can see more than that: his memorial.

Tucked behind his Kanteerava Studios, and set back from the highway, the Dr. RajKumar Smaraka is a quiet, holy place. A long walkway is flanked with photos from his unbelievable career.

At the end of the walkway was a gated-off shrine. I wasn’t alone here, but for the first time in India there was absolute quiet. A trio of kids whispered as they posed for cellphone photos. Another man bent down to take off his shoes, held up his hands, and began to pray. (Was he praying for Dr Rajkumar? Or was he praying to Dr Rajkumar?)

Another man grabbed me.

“Where are you from?”

“The US.”

His eyes widened. “But do you know Dr Rajkumar in the US,” he asked.

“Of course,” I lied. But then I told the truth: “He’s wonderful.”

Because he is.

Behind Kanteerava Studios, northwest of Nandini Layout.

But I’d come for the samosas.

I’d heard they were the best in town.

“Yes, samosas are most famous,” the man behind the counter assured me with a nod, ordering his boy to serve me up one fast. I’d also heard you have to arrive early to get one.

It came out warm, perfectly golden, and served up with a barely-sweet dipping sauce. A perfectly crunchy crust. Right so far. But then I took my first bite. And wow.

The potatoes were thick, and fiery — almost black — with spice. No onions, but peas, and so much cumin and coriander. Yes! Was this the perfect samosa? I can’t say… there may be better ones in Bangalore. But this was a damn good attempt.

“What else are you famous for?” I asked after I’d swallowed the last bite. The man pushed across a plate of warm gulab jamun with a smile.

They were firm to the touch, but soft and pillowy. Not too unlike a breast, really. And inside, a creamy custard of soft gorgeousness. You could swallow one of these whole, I thought, before trying. It didn’t work at all. But it was worth a try.

Tewari Bros Mithai Shoppe, Dickenson Road, Bangalore

These pickles take half an hour.

“They’re quick and dirty,” Jayashree says, holding out a spoon. They’re her mom’s fiery hometown mango pickles, and I gagged at the first bite. “They have some chili in them,” she said with a laugh. But that first gag turned into a lingering tang of beauty. Bold, sour, pungent, complex… I keep going back to the pan, dipping in a finger, and coughing from the spice. Frankly, these are some of the best pickles I’ve ever tasted. You might want to reduce the chili powder, but would Jayashree’s mom? No, I didn’t think so either.

Ingredients

100ml sesame oil (gingelly oil)
1T black mustard seeds
1/2T asafoetida (hing)
1t turmeric
2-1/2T chili powder
1T or 1-1/2T salt
500g raw mangoes, about two or three
1/4t of pan-roasted then ground fenugreek (methi)
1/4t of pan-roasted then ground black mustard seeds

1. Peel the mangoes, and then coarse-grate them. You’ll end up with about one and a half cups of shredded fruit.

2. Heat the oil in a large skillet, and add the mustard seeds, then the asafoetida, the turmeric, the chili powder and the salt, stirring constantly.

3. Add the mango, and continue stirring about 5-7 minutes until the broth has reduced, and the mango has turned a dark red.

4. Add the ground roasted fenugreek and mustard seeds, and stir until mixed in. Continue stirring for another minute or two.

5. Allow to cool to room temperature, and then refrigerate. Or don’t. You probably should just pile a couple hot tablespoons over a bowl of rice, and dig right in. They’re fantastic. They’ll go with everything.

It’s this month’s hit song from next month’s hit Sandalwood movie, Topiwaala, starring the legendary Upendra (Uppi to his fans). And you have got to see the video: Honeymoon in Vegas meets I Dream of Genie in a Burning Man-Busby Berkeley dream. Dick Dale gone Bhangra gone Kannada.

“Malli Malli manchakke estu kaalu,” Uppi sings, meaning Oh, innocent women, how many legs does the bed have?

“Mooru mattondu,” the ladies reply. Three and one.

Okay, that sounds dirty. “No, it’s a satire on Indian politics,” Krishna explained. That’s funny — I thought it was a coked-up Goan Scarface nightmare. Apparently the song is filled with Kannada idioms, completely untranslateable. But who needs a translation when you have 40 synched up Elvises, a horde of Genies, and Uppi? His mad fashion, his great hair, and look at that mustache! I love it.

Topiwaala is apparently a madcap treasure hunt adventure film, shot in Switzerland, Pondi, Mangalore and Bangalore, and it hits theaters March 12th. If this video is anything to go by, I’m there on opening night.

February 28th to March 2nd, 10am to 6pm
Raintree, opposite the Windsor Manor Hotel