For four years now, Selvam – a journeyman of medium height, swarthy and stocky – has been showing up for work at a house a quarter-kilometre from the Andal temple. His station, which overlooks the street and which he shares with five other workers, is a longish shed with a sextet of small kilns. Like the others, he is here every morning at 7:30, which is about the time milk from the cooperative society is delivered. He stokes the kiln with scoops of cashew nutshells (it’s cheaper than gas), warms a large wok, decants ten litres of milk into it, adds one-and-a-quarter kilograms sugar, and begins to stir. He will keep stirring for three-quarters of an hour, by which time the liquid will have congealed into three kilograms of a sticky, off-white semi-solid. He will pour this mass into a cooling tray, and then turn to the kiln and begin the process all over again. Milk. Sugar. Stir. And again, and again, till the morning’s consignment of milk has been consumed before it can spoil. By 11:30, Selvam and his co-workers will have produced some 25-30 kilograms of palgova.
There is surely some kind of cosmic comedy in such rigorous physical activity being expended on the production of a product whose consumption will entail, in the fitness-conscious, an equal amount of sweaty exercise. But Selvam and his colleagues have little time for dry existential pensées. They will head home, rest, and return for the afternoon shift, when the afternoon’s supply of milk is delivered. Selvam’s employer, Vijay Merchant, an affable young man with the unlikeliest name in Srivilliputtur, says that the 60 kilograms of palgova produced per day will be sold entirely by the time he closes shop at 9 pm. Merchant and his father, Vimal Singh, run a 25-year-old establishment clearly named to compensate for its small size: Sri Venkateswara Vilas Lala Sweet Stall. It’s more commonly known as “Singh kadai” [Singh’s shop]. This was the name thrown at me when I asked, in Madurai, where I’d get the best palgova in Srivilliputtur.
The Singhs are originally Rajputs, who were brought to Tamil Nadu as cavalrymen for the kingdom of Sokkampatti. Merchant says that his grandfather’s grandfather introduced halwa to Tirunelveli, which is a little like talking about the man who extracted the first lump of coal in Newcastle. According to Merchant, the now-legendary Tirunelveli halwa was first made and sold in the mid-1800s, in Lakshmi Vilas, which stands even today. Gradually the family dispersed to other parts of Tamil Nadu – to Nagercoil, to Tuticorin, to Srivilliputtur – and so did the art of sweet-making. Sometimes, more than one branch of the family settled in the same neighborhood, as is the case with Merchant’s cousin, Sunder Singh, whose product is named Puliyamarathadi palgova, as his was the first shop by the local puliyamaram [tamarind tree]. Singh shows me a sheaf of legal papers he has drawn up to trademark the “Singh Lala” brand name, with an S logo. He urges Merchant to follow his footsteps, but Merchant demurs. He feels trademarking the product will result in more taxes, and Singh argues that that’s better than others setting up palgova stalls with the same name.
Sunder Singh, in a sense, is the odd man out in a sea of palgova-makers, who are content to do things the way things have always been done in this small town. Merchant does not worry about competition because he knows he has a steady and loyal customer base. He says the secret of his success lies in the fine-grained texture of the palgova, obtained by Selvam and his cohorts knowing just when to allow the mix to cool. He also attributes his fame to “thaayin anugraham,” the blessings of the goddess. This is not an entirely sentimental statement. Like Madurai nearby, whose legend is built around Meenakshi, the economy of Srivilliputtur is driven by large flocks of devotees from near and far coming to visit the birthplace of Andal, and when they leave, as if custom-bound, they will take back with them “Srivilliputtur palgova.” The local bus stand is one of the busiest points of sale, where hawkers with plates of palgova perched on their heads move from transport to transport in the hope of attracting customers.
There are also stalls in the bus stand, one of which sells, exclusively, the palgova made by the cooperative society. Mayandi, a salesman with clumps of ear hair and a thick streak of ash between the eyebrows, has been at this counter for ten years, and he says that the society, which was established in the waning days of the Raj, was the first to make palgova. His story is that a crew dispatched to Haryana in the 1950s saw how khoa was made there, and they returned with the resolve to make the product here, with the surplus milk: hence paal (milk) khoa, which the pidgin vernacular has mutated into palgova. Mayandi remembers sampling the sweet as a child, when it was sold in far fewer quantities, primarily for local consumption. But when the “white revolution” in the 1970s resulted in a flood of high-quality milk, the cooperative began to make more palgova to sop up the excess supply. Their incentive: palgova will stay for two weeks without spoiling, unlike buttermilk and butter whose shelf life is a matter of mere days. (Also, it needs no refrigeration.)
There is a theory that palgova was “invented” so that the common man, accustomed to gruel rather than milk, could be tempted to consume more dairy, but K Koodalingam, who has been with the Srivilliputtur Milk Producers Cooperative Society Ltd. since 1977 (he began as a vendor and is now manager), doesn’t make much of it. He says that the white revolution is the reason Srivilliputtur became famous for its palgova, because people from the cooperative aggressively “marketed” the product by taking it around – to the Courtallam during the season, to the Theni exhibition – and making it known. He gives us a sample of the sweet, hot from the kilns. (Unlike the Singhs, the cooperative uses wood from the tamarind tree as fuel, which accounts for a slightly brownish tint, and they add one-and-a-half kilograms sugar per ten litres of milk for a yield of three-and-a-quarter kilograms. But like the Singhs, they sell the product for Rs. 180 a kilo.)
The taste of palgova is essentially that of sweetened, condensed milk, and a few mouthfuls can immune the tongue to further sensation. (You may need the equivalent of a cup of coffee beans in a perfumery.) Even so, the cooperative’s palgova is the finest we’ve had all day. It has a gummy texture, the consistency of cooked oats, and it’s so much richer in taste. Koodalingam says that they sell 100 kilograms a day, mainly at the bus stand, and he gently mocks the fly-by-night operators who vend their wares there. “Any person without a job in this town will buy milk, make palgova, and sell it at the bus stand.” The people at Parasuram palgova, nearby, do not take this aspect so lightly. (They add two kilograms of sugar per ten litres of milk, and they use cashew nutshells as fuel, like the Singhs.) Thangamarimuthu, who, with two others, is packaging the morning’s produce into quarter-kilogram slabs, has been here for eight years, and this trio is all that remains from an initial workforce of 22.
He says that business has gone down because a lot of small palgova-making units have sprung up. People come here, learn the trade, and go to these companies that pay better. Indeed, a stroll around the Andal temple leaves you puzzled by how anyone can make a living making and selling palgova in this town – so many stalls, so many brands, all claiming to be original Srivilliputtur palgova. The makers of Geetha palgova, named fifteen years ago for the owner’s daughter, manage at best to sell 10 kilograms a day. They make their palgova at a village named Vaniyambadi Vilakku, on the way to Rajapalayam, because their cows are there. These sellers of palgova make haste to point out how little sugar is in their product, as they do not want to seen as artificially sweetening the palgova. The saleswoman at Geetha says they use just 1.10 kilograms per 10 litres of milk, and Periyazhvar palgova, named after the saint who found and adopted Andal, claims to use only one kilogram. Merchant, who’s been guiding us around, smiles and says, “They’ll say anything.”
An edited version of this piece can be found here.
Copyright ©2012 The Hindu. This article may not be reproduced in its entirety without permission. A link to this URL, instead, would be appreciated.
venkatesh
June 23, 2012
BR : You should write more articles like these – that triggered copious amounts of nostalgia and pray what is a bona-fide Besant-Nagar ‘Peter’ like you doing in the hinterlands.
and for that here is something :
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v.
June 24, 2012
do they actually pay you to go palgoa-tasting? Nice job…
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rameshram
June 24, 2012
If you find a good hooch in the region will you call it Thanni madurai? (rimshot).
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Anu Warrier
June 24, 2012
Oooh, now you have got me salivating! I remember going to Srivilliputtur when I was working in what was then Madras. 🙂 The ‘palgova’ is addictive! I came back to Madras and promptly latched onto Aavin’s packaged palgova for want of anything better. 🙂 Thanks for that trip down nostalgia lane. Now I either need to go source some ‘palgova’ here in the US, or make it myself. 🙂
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ram
June 24, 2012
naaku ooruthe. so, if i go to srivilliputhur, where should i get palgoa? merchant or govt society at bus stand?
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brangan
June 24, 2012
venkatesh: haha, very funny. This isn’t the first time actually. Here’s something I did a while ago — this piece on the Miss Koovagam festival in Villupuram.
v: Not just palgova. The idea behind this series is to go to a place famous for a dish and explore the history/present — a sort of food-cum-travel piece. Here are the first two entries (done by others) — on Ambur Biryani and Agra Petha.
PS: I went to Srivilliputtur the day after I went around Madurai in search of the best jigarthanda (haven’t written that yet, and I couldn’t taste any sweets for a week afterwards. Ah, the perils of the writing life. All those movies, all that travel, all that food 🙂
Anu Warrier: This was the first time I was tasting Srivilliputtur palgova (at least consciously), and I couldn’t help thinking of Aavin palgova and what a difference there was 🙂
ram: I’d say the cooperative. Oh man! But if you ask everywhere, they’ll say “Singh kadai dhaan best-u.”
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ram
June 24, 2012
thank u saar. kandipaa rendume try panren 🙂
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ram
June 24, 2012
reg the above comments, the koovagam piece was too nicely written. i read it in sunday hindu few weeks back. from wat i remember, the last line was fantastic in tat article
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venkatesh
June 24, 2012
BR : 🙂 , horizon ka broadening i take it. Tell me you went to the bhai kadai on East Marrat Street for your Jigarthanda and its “Jil Jil Jigarthanda” for you non-veshti wearing Madras pattinam fellows.
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brangan
June 24, 2012
venkatesh: Who are you calling “non-veshti wearing”? 🙂 Vitta “Vazhakku Enn” alavukku stereotype panniduveenga polarukke? Writing/thinking in English doesn’t mean you have burger for breakfast, pizza for lunch, Earl Grey for tea…
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ram
June 24, 2012
i remember cartoonist madan, once, wondering tat BR can speak Tamil , in an fm rainbow interview cum viewer’s interaction… he thought u r a peter. ha ha ha
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ram
June 24, 2012
it was a discussion on cinema, aired live on fm rainbow three yrs back. viewers call and ask q to Mr.Madan. wen BR called, Madan was astonished tat BR can speak Tamil. ha ha ha.. dont remember the q exactly. it was something like wen would Tamil / Indian films be taken in international standards.
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venkatesh
June 24, 2012
BR : LOL , and don’t forget Fish and Chips with a drop of the good stuff for dinner , me ol’ chap. :-).
Actually i was reading through the comments on the “Vazhakku Enn” piece , the majority of the responses are aimed at the perceived bias of the author (i.e. you) based on his location, language, education etc. and the commenters reaction to that. Very few comments are actually on the content of the piece itself. I wonder what would have been the reaction if you had say published that review anonymously.
People are reacting to the subtext. I found it strange and funny.
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Vivek Gupta
June 24, 2012
You re becoming more and more prolific. The last time I checked the blog a couple of days ago, you had the review of Gangs of Vasseypur up. In the span of two days you have uploaded five more articles!
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brangan
June 24, 2012
Comments from the Hindu web site:
Whatever anyone has to say, the Cooperative Paalgova used to be the best. The location of the cooperative is on a off beaten path, not too many outsiders know the location of the coop. Should visit there around 2 – 3 PM, to pick up the day’s product. This product is shipped to other aavin outlets across the state.
from: Krishna S Bala
Posted on: Jun 23, 2012 at 21:16 IST
Can the author please correct the recipe so we know at what stage of the process the sugar
is added?
from: Archana Sundar
Posted on: Jun 24, 2012 at 02:20 IST
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anamika
June 25, 2012
Grr..having your palagove and eating it too..that is the good,sweet life..anurag kashyap for viewing and palgova for muching followed by thoughts in writing..!-maybe will take in a kilo of palgova whenI watch Gangs of…should sustain one I think.And the express spirit seems to have come back to teh Hindu.The joie de vivre in your writing which I feel has been absent, is back with a sweet vengence!
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vijay
June 25, 2012
This series should be atleast better than some of the restaurant reviews in Hindu, and that typically woulod feature a seafood or continental restaurant far away from the city on some highway, some godforsaken place which most of us are’nt likely to visit in out lifetimes, where a meal for two would be typically upwards of 1500 bucks, without the drinks.
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brangan
June 25, 2012
vijay: But there is a genuine demand for those reviews. People actually look up reviews and make reservations and stuff. The upmarket restaurant dining scene has really changed… And sorry, I had to edit out names from your comment 🙂
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raj
June 25, 2012
Now, this is the sort of article that Baradwaj Rangan was born to write. No Pop-psychology, no faux-expert opinions and analyses, simple description of an experience, with facts thrown in intelligently as part of the narrative. I wish he did more of this type.
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venkatesh
June 25, 2012
BR: “People actually look up reviews and make reservations and stuff. The upmarket restaurant dining scene has really changed…” – what someone like me would like is the downmarket , road kadai , local flavour of the street review. Anything like that on the horizon ?
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Manojh (@manojh3012)
June 26, 2012
Loved this description
“It has a gummy texture, the consistency of cooked oats, and it’s so much richer in taste”
Palgova is heaven on the earth in comparison to the fiendish disaster that oats is. If science can in due course of time realize it’s folly(fingers-crossed) and prove oats’ unworthiness, it will right away perch atop my list of things to renounce in gangai-kaasi 🙂
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brangan
June 26, 2012
venkatesh: I think you do find those off and on. Maybe not the roadside kadais, but the offbeat small restaurants.
Manojh: You know, there are lots of things you can add to oats to make it less of a “fiendish disaster” 🙂
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TheKomentor
June 27, 2012
That man pouring the milk seems to have put on the shirt just for the camera, which means that on normal days sweat would be an active ingredient in the Srivilliputhur paalkova 🙂
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Bala
June 27, 2012
Adada, just milk and sugar- dhaana ? Nothing else ? Amazing, quite amazing the things people conjure up in the name of food.
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Bala
June 27, 2012
@baradwaj: how about a book similar to Samanth’s “Following fish” ? Chose the item/cuisine of your taste :p
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brangan
June 28, 2012
TheKomentor: Have you entered the kitchens of the restaurants you usually eat at? Sweat, my friend, is the one ingredient in Indian cuisine no one talks about 🙂
Bala: Book-aa? Ezhudhitta pochu! 🙂
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asdf
July 25, 2012
I am glad everyone enjoying it. The sad part is the cashew nutshells they use to cook the milk. It produces a dark smoke and I am not a pulmonologist but I can tell most of us live in this town would wind up with lung cancer if the pollution controlled. There is someone making palgova almost every corner of the town and they all make palgova at night (gee I wonder why).
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