Cappuccino with a spot of sunshine ... CCD, Peninsula Corporate Park

Mornings are not the brightest moments of our lives. We are groggy and not the nicest people to know before noon. Ask anyone who rings our doorbell in the morning - the car cleaner, the clothes ironing guy - and you will hear horror stories.

Think of Hugh Grant and his sister waking up and running late (the clip's dubbed in French but you will get the idea) at Four Weddings and a Funeral. That's us. Panting, rushing, cursing the cell phone alarm. Desperate search for matching socks (me). Bumping into each other as we rush to get ready. Hurried SMSs to folks at work. Bundling into the car, traffic, snooze. Breakfasts missed. Coffee desperately sought.

Kainaz's office is at Peninsula Park. I usually drop her on the way to work. The Cafe Coffee Day (CCD) there is our lifeline. K gets her morning fix of cappuccino to steel herself for the day. She often makes many more trips down during the day to CCD with her friends at work.


The stretch between our offices is fraught with mind numbing traffic. And I work at a locality which is light years away from a decent cup of coffee. So I normally pick a coffee along with K before I set off for the final frontier.

The staff at CCD, Pen Park, know K and her coffee companions, including me, by now. They even know each person's idiosyncracies and personal tastes. In fact K referred to the folks at CCD as 'family' as we set off from home this morning.

Mona and Eliza from CCD are normally there when we reach in the morning. One look at us and they start preparing K's 'cappuccino in a takeaway cup, extra hot, with a lid and a straw ' and my 'cappuccino in a takeaway cup, with half a sachet of brown sugar, and foil around the lid (to prevent spills in the car)'. Words are redundant.

I then take my cup, bid adieu and head off to work.

Today was the same. I took my coffee, stepped out of CCD, began skipping down the passage (morning does weird things to me).

The cup slipped out of my hand and fell!

A bit of coffee spilled onto the floor and the sipper came out of the cup. The rest was intact thanks to the foil.

I sheepishly went back to CCD to pick up another straw. Most of the coffee was still in the cup and could be salvaged.

Eliza saw me, frowned, and asked if I had dropped my coffee. I affirmed. She got all worked up said that she would replace my coffee. I was touched but said that it wasn't required as most of the coffee was there. She would have none of it and took the coffee cup from me. Eliza and Mona rushed to prepare a fresh cup of steaming coffee for me, packed it up and sent me off to work.

K and I walked out. On the way I saw a janitor trying to figure out who spilt the coffee in the passage. I tried to keep a straight face and walked off in a dignified manner. Not very convincingly according to K.

The cappuccino, served with 'the milk of human kindness', did make me unusually chirpy this morning.

Thanks Eliza and Mona.

Boro Din.... Bengali Pulao with nostalgia on the side

The Blog home page is giving my some trouble and the side bar is sulking. Trying to sort it. Some suggested deleting this post and publishing it again. Did so. Didn't work. Suggestions welcome

Boro Din (Big Day), which I think referred to both Christmas and New Year, were celebrated at home during my growing up years in Calcutta. And birthdays of course. I don't think we made a big deal of the Bengali New Year in our house. Possibly due to the fact that folks in my mother's side of the family were Dilliwallahs.

The fare on these days was standard. Chicken curry or murgir jhol. Beguni or sliced egg plants, deep fried in a gram flour batter and fried and pulao.

Since then I moved to Mumbai at the other end of the country. It's been a decade since I have been home for a big day or a Boro Din. I make a fairly good chicken curry. But pulao, or polau (Bengali pronunciation), eluded me. I tried making a version initially in a sauce pan but it would get a bit soggy. I then hit upon a fairly easy method when I had guests and realised that one of them thought there would be biriyani for dinner. It was nice but it wasn't my granny's or mother's polau.

That's when I came across this blog post by Pree. I scrolled down and stopped in my tracks. I saw the photos she'd taken of her pulao. The cooking process looked like the way my mom makes it. Turned out that it was Pree's mom's recipe too!


I decided to give the pulao a go. One of the rare occasions when I almost followed a recipe to the T. After all I liked the promised dish and wasn't sure how to make it. Pree's version involved the microwave. I never make rice in the micro as I believe in draining out the water. I posed a question to Pree. Got my answer. A few small modifications and I set off on the yellow pulao road. (Turned out that the micro was a brilliant suggestion as the rice didn't stick to the vessel unlike in a stainless steel pan.)


Can't tell you how thrilled I was at the end. The final dish was the pulao that I used to so look forward to on special days. The pulao which is still a permanent fixture when I go home. Didu, my granny, makes it for me when I visit her. Her recipe includes aching knees, failing eyesight, kidney stones and loads of love. My mom adds beans and carrots to her pulao in an attempt to make me eat healthy. I guess that you are never grown up enough for your mother! especially if you are a Bengali boy. I make it a point to eat the pulao well beyond saturation point as I know that these ladies wait for months to make it for me.

One bite into today's pulao and I knew that this was it. A kaleidoscope of images began to flash in front of me. The small pack of Gobindo Bhog rice that my mom and Didu would buy and bring home during my visits home. Gobindo Bhog is a small grained, fragrant, rice which Bengalis use for special dishes. The little bag of cashews and raisins which would be bought, dipping into their pensions. And the look of joy as they saw the subject of their efforts wipe clean his plate with gusto.

And another very different memory of a College December Social where Pramod da of the Presidency College Canteen had prepared mangsho and pulao. Dancing to 'kaali kaali raate' from Baazigar. Complimented on my dancing steps! "Do you go to night clubs regularly? You dance so well" Well I didn't and actually had four left feet. Gosh, some of those first year girls must have been really scared of us final year folks :)

Well here's the recipe of the quintessential yellow, sweetish, vegetarian, memory soaked Bengali Pulao. Pree thanks for putting this up. Glad I could do justice to it.

Take a tablespoon of ghee in a non stick pan and heat it

Add a tablespoon of whole mixed garam masala to it once the ghee melts - cardamom, clove, cinnamon, black pepper, bay leaves

Add two split green chillies and a tablespoon of finely chopped onion once the garam masala roasts and begins to release a lovely aroma

Add a tablespoon of raisin and broken cashews to this and stir till the dry fruits darken

Add half a cup of soaked Basmati rice. Being an adulterated Bong, I prefer the long grained Basmati to the smug nosed Gobindo Bhog

Add half a teaspoon of turmeric, one ablespoon of salt, and a teaspoon of sugar, one teaspoon of fresh grated ginger, one tablespoon of curd, a small bowl of green peas. Stir till the rice seems a bit fried

Transfer this to a microwave cooking dish. Add 1.5 times the original amount of rice. So if you started 0.5 cup of rice then add 1.5 cups of water. This is where I was nervous. I wasn't sure if the rice would remain firm and crisp. I threw a question to Pree in the comment section and she talked me through it.

I added a few drops of rose water and a few shreds of saffron which we had at home

I put it in the micro for 14 minutes. Less time than the 20 minutes prescribed by Pree as my portion was a lot less. I took it out. A miracle! It seemed almost there. The water had largely dried up. The rice was still a bit damp.

I followed Pree's tip. Squeezed a slice of lemon on the rice. Stirred the rice gently and put it back in the micro for another minute. Did it work? Did the rice turn out to be firm and dry the way I like it? Well scroll down and decide for yourself :)

I must admit that I was mighty thrilled with the pulao. The the aroma which spread across the house reminded of the impatiently waited for days of my growing up years. And of the smiles that welcome me when I head home now. For a moment I was not a husband. Not a corporate denizen. Or someone with a driving license. Or an adult voter.

I was a son. And a grandson. Indulged. Scolded. Babied. Loved.

What a wonderful Sunday afternoon.

Update, 1st April

Samil wanted me to elaborate on 'Boro Din'. Here's what I wrote:

"What follows is anecdotal. So don't hold me to it.

Calcutta was once seen as the second city of the empire. And its citizens saw themselves as the natural inheritors or the Raj. Part of becoming Brit involved celebrating the rituals of the Shahebs. Christmas and New Year were seen to to be the most secular. They were referred to as 'Boro (big) Din (Day)'.The first 'o' is pronounced like the 'a' in call. The second like the 'o' in the 'Big O'.The festival would be celebrated in Bengali households. Typical activities would be a family trip to the zoo or to the Maidan. And 'Christmas cake' often made in humble bakeries and sold deep in the middle class suburbs of Bengal.

All of what I wrote is based on memories from Calcutta of the 1980s and 90s. Also known as the pre Bipasha Basu era"

Oxymorons Rule - light sausage pasta in white sauce

I am facing a bit of a problem with the home page of the blog. The Sidebar has disappeared! It is there on my other blogs as well as when you click on individual posts here. Cry for help on FB and Twitter led to some kind souls pointing out that the Sidebar's been shifted to the bottom. They suggested deleting and re-posting my last post on pulao. That didn't work. So help!!!!!






I embarked on a cooking expedition on Sunday. I made a Bengali pulao from the East of India in the afternoon. The pulao was pure self indulgence. So I made a sausage pasta in white sauce at night for the missus. Pasta is her favourite dish. Unlike my Calcutta nostalgia trip in the afternoon, pasta of course belongs to Italy in Western Europe. The pulao was inspired by mom granny's and mom's cooking. And I had learnt cooking pasta from K. 'Behind every successful dish ... ' as they say.


I have put up white sauce recipes in the past and wasn't planning to post this. Then Scarlett, another pasta lover (what's with women and pasta?) asked me to put up the recipe when she heard about my dinner plans. Dinner turned out to be, ahem, one of the best pastas that I have made so far. So I did decide to put up the recipe.


Light and healthy sausage pasta - recipe

Prep:

• Boil 200 g pasta, drain water, set aside
• Dissolve a tablespoon of corn flour in a coffee mug of slim/ skimmed milk
• Finely chop sausages, garlic, tomato, basil, green chillies
  
  

Cook

• Heat a tablespoon of olive oil in a non stick pan
• Add finely chopped garlic (1 tablespoon) ...stir till they become a darker shade of yellow
• Add finely chopped tomatoes and tablespoon of ketchup (this adds a bit of colour and sweetness to the sauce, the mild curdling effect gives the sauce some character)
• Throw in 250 g finely chopped chicken cocktail sausages once the tomato becomes a bit soft (I use paprika sausages). Sausages are K's favourite cold cut. I prefer bacon.
• The meat always goes in in the beginning as you want the flavour of the meat to infuse through the dish
• Add in 3 slices/ 2 cubes/ 2 tablespoons of slim cheese. Don't bother with expensive cheese as the taste gets lost in the sauce. Regular Amul or Britannia would do
• Stir till the sausage looks a bit grilled, the skin looks a bit crisp and is evenly coated with cheese and ketchup
  

• Add the mug of milk with cornflour. AND half a mug more of plain slim/ skimmed milk
• Wait till the milk sauce begins to boil. Reduce the flame and cover with a lid once the sauce bubbles. Let it thicken for a couple of minutes
  
  

• Add the boiled pasta
• Add a tablespoon of salt
• Stir gently till the sauce coats and wraps around the pasta. Let it stay on the flame for two minutes

• Add finely chopped basil (a handful, gives it a nice minty feel), half a tablespoon each of chilly flakes and black pepper powder
  
  
  
  
• Cover with a lid and let it cook for a couple of minutes on a low flame
• You are done (the bottle of wine was for the effect. Didn't add it in the sauce)
• Have it straight from the pan. Remember, Pasta doesn't wait for anyone.
  
  

"How 'light'?"

Olive oil not butter, chicken sausage not pork, slim milk and cheese!

Dr Maity I presume? Cafe Mangii .. .a great recommendation

Cafe Mangii is not really 'new' by Bandra standards. Technically it's in Khar and not in Bandra. I had seen this restaurant on the Nike lane earlier too. I spen an inordinately high number of evenings at my ortho's next door for physiotherapy after all. The front of the restaurant always looked warm and inviting.

Then Maity (AKA Soumik Sen), came into our life, as one of my Finely Chopped Knights. He often told me about Cafe Mangii and claimed that it had one of the best continental fares in Bandra. Then, as fate would have it, the newspaper delivery guy slipped in the menu of Cafe Mangii along with a 15 p c discount coupon below my door. Then Banu bunked yesterday. And K suggested that it was time to go to Cafe Mangii.

The food was everything Maity claimed it to be. And more. Both the dishes that we had were memorable and I can still feel them in my mouth. 24 hours later.

We started off with a couple of ice teas. Black currant was nice and not overly sweet. Long Island had a kick but wasn't over powering.

The bread basket had a limited range but made up in quality. The bread was warm and very soft. I love good bread and this was right up there with the best.




Our starter, or anti pasti as they say, Carpaccio of beef tenderloin was a work of art. It was a dialectical dish. Good old Marx would appreciate the lovely creation that had come out of the conflict of two diametrically opposite classes. Did I mention that I had studied Sociology in Marxist Calcutta in the nineties?

Well consider this. Beef is a red meat. As heavy and imposing as meats go. And yet what they served at Mangii were the finest and thinnest of slices of this mighty meat. It had a near crepe like consistency to it. A very natural pink shade which evoked some fairly raw passions in us. The meat had a sharp taste which was in contrast to its gentle and submissive texture. It made you sit up and notice it. And then a revolution happened as the taste of the rustic meat mixed with the that of the very elegant and aristocratic cheddar. Add a bite of olive to it and a new world order was born.

A very promising start to the dinner.





Our main course, Lobster Thermidor, recommended by Maity, lived up to the high standards set by the beef. At around Rs 800 (16USD) it was twice as expensive as all other dishes here. But it was the emperor of Thermidors. Most Theremidors which we have had tend to be dominated by cream and cheese with bits of prawn or shreds of lobster thrown in. No such subterfuge here. At Mangii, 'lobster' means loads and loads of succulent, fresh and tasty pieces of lobster. The dish was powerful, carried weight, had substance and yet was ethereal and divine. The Thermidor base was artistic and awe inspiring. The meat, solid and resolute. It shot up to the list of our favourite dishes.

Though K had a word or two to say about the mash which came with the dish. Not simple Farmer Fred's boiled potato with butter and cream stuff. This had corn bits in it and the potato seemed to have strained in delicately. My feisty Bawi (Parsi woman) had a few choice expletives which would be inappropriate here.







We had a Belgian chocolate mousse for dessert. K is more of a mousse person. The good news is that I have managed to recently dull my sweet tooth. I have managed to get out of the rut of chocolates every night which I had got into. I am still a slave to the salty stuff though and midnight dalmut (namkin) trips to the kitchen need to be expunged. I obviously don't have much to say about the mousse. It was adequate. No complaints.

One drink, one soft drink, a starter, a seafood dish and a dessert came to close to Rs 2000 (40 USD) with tips. I had forgotten to get my discount coupon after taking it out of the cupboard! As if we really needed a reason to go back.

The restaurant flier promised great Italian food, wood fire pizzas and a 'warm and intimate ambience'. Well the setting was cosy. I loved the grandfather clock that we sat by. The throw away cushion on the side benches, the posters of old ads, the yellow lighting, the earthen colours and mosaic basin in the bathroom whose door K had a tough time opening. It was a bit too 'warm' for my liking and I hope they work on their air con. The restaurant was fairly crowded for a Thursday evening which is a good sign. The staff was friendly. The waiter taking the order was not very well informed about the dishes. But we called the head waiter or senior waiter who knew his stuff.

Disclaimer: the plaster in the photo below is result of another fall in the bathroom in our house and NOT of domestic violence. A very lucky escape for K)

PS: Banu hasn't come for two days after bunking for three days last week. I have this line for her which fans of the movie Don would appreciate this: "Gyara flat'o ke malkin usko dhoond rahi hain. Banu ko pkarana sirf mushkil hi nahin hain, na mumkin hain"

I won't bother to translate this but this was a line spoken by Amitabh Bachchan in the classic gangsta flick, Don, in the seventies and by Shahrukh Khan in its recent remake.

Scorched memories: Fire at Park Street (updated)

Got an SMS out of the blue from Scarlett. 'Fire at Peter Cat. Lot of smoke'.

I checked with my brother. He SMSd me saying that reports suggested the many were injured and 45 fire tenders were at work. Another SMS from Scarlett. 'Reports of 3 dead. Thirty plus injured'.

The Facebook walls of fellow Calcuttans and ex Calcuttans began to fill up. Links to news sites suggested. Familiar names. Flurys. Peter Cat. Stephens House. Names we have grown up. All under siege. As were the people in the building. Any fire is terrible and nightmarish. But what is worse is when you see your memories get scorched. And Park Street is dear to anyone who grown up or lived in Calcutta.

I hope the fire is coming under control. It is difficult to say at this point. Hope that there is no further loss of life. That there are no more people trapped. No more injuries and burns. Spare a thought for those desperate to get news of their near and dear ones. Let's hope that their ordeal ends soon. Let's keep your fingers crossed and say a prayer. Hopefully someone will listen. Something will work.

This is one news report on the fire that I got on the CNN IBN site.

Update 25/3:

• Saw the first line of Bachi Karkaria's piece in TOI today which beautifully summed up what many of us are feeling: 'Every heart with 'Calcutta' engraved on it felt the clammy hand of dread as the flames engulfed Stephen Court and flung wide open the shuttered memories' Bachi Karkaria, TOI
• The death toll in this nightmare is 24. Countless others wounded or severely injured
• I found some succour in this article from HT which spoke about heroes in the fire, people we would never even glance at normally

Update: 25/ 3

I was watching a citizen's show on Star Ananda this evening. Started with two young execs who were in the building recounting their experiences. Their efforts to help. The horrors they saw. Numbers have gone up to 27 as people who fell and broke their bones or went into coma are succumbing to their injuries. As with any tragedy in our country it was the common man (and woman) who were helping each other out to the extent possible. Check out the pictures in this MSN link, all the rescuers are regular people. I felt someone walk over my grave as I heard their stories. Tragedies are not uncommon. But the one at Park Street or the 2611 attacks especially struck home.

When I begun this post yesterday I wrote that I hoped that someone would listen to our prayers. Since then the death count has gone up from 7 to 27.

Alice in Parsi-land .... Navroze Dinner, Parsi Gymkhana

The family finally met up up at the Parsi Gymkhana for dinner on Navroze on 21st evening. Parents in law, mama, masi, K and me. Reached the Gymkhana on Marine drive after a never ending drive from home, picking up the in laws on the way.

The Gymkhana consisted of a narrow club house and an open field on which the festivities happened. There was a nice tableaux inside of the Prophet and other auspicious and religious symbols.


As you can see below, the lawns were packed with happy and boisterous Parsis. Not that there are any other kind. At the fag end, by the club house ,were a group of enthusiastic dancers who didn't need any cajoling to jive. There was a M C dressed in formal office wear. Typical announcements were:

"There are three winners of the guess the weight of the cake contest"

"Keki where are you? Are you in the toilet?"

"The first one to come to the dance floor wins a ... " (we never got to know what as the M C was knocked down by people running on to dance)

"Since there are three winners of the guess the cake contest, one will get the cake while the other two will get five hundred Re vouchers at the Bar Night next Friday"

(Wry, timid Bengali heckler, "you mean there is some night which is not a bar night?")




I walked towards the food counter. Was fascinated to see people frying fish at the buffet itself. Fish vindaloo, saas ni machhi, chicken farcha, cashew chicken, mutton pulao daal, faluda, muttton batiya, tawa fried rawas ... I didn't care if they didn't start the fire but this looked like one heck of a feast.







Which is when I chanced upon the caterer and head chef of the evening, in the red shirt, who seemed to have a Gordon Ramsay thing going. He snubbed a few pensioners who came for their dinner saying that dinner would be served only at 9.30 PM. "It is written in the pass", he stressed. And then he bounced on from counter to counter exhorting his team, charging them on, yelling and screaming, trying to instill a sense of the occasion. He was a man who was born to lead in the best traditions of aapro Sam Maneckshaw.

The buffet was finally declared open and hoards of festive but hungry Parsis launched on the festive feast. I knew when I was out numbered and quietly waited for my turn. "Soon it will be Durga Puja," I thought, "we'll see who is at the front of the queue of the Mughlai Paratha shop then." Evil, not too loud, laughter.

So how was the food? Vegetarian Mama (in white) went to see if there was anything for him. After all he could see fish being fried. Not potatoes or cheese. Turned out he had the last laugh. He was the only one in the group who really enjoyed his food. A rare occurrence for a vegetarian in a meat loving community's banquet.

The expression on my pa in law's face showed how the rest of us felt. I felt blessed that I was too stuffed from lunch to be able to eat.

But then as I say, food is not just about food. Festive dinners are occasions for people to get together and often that's the high point. Baah, who am I kidding? We all wished the food was better. But still ...

I particularly loved the picture below of Mom in Law and Mama, her elder brother, at the buffet. I wonder if they would ever have thought that they would celebrate Navroze together in faraway Mumbai, when they were growing up in Surat.

Wonder how uncle and niece celebrated Navroze a couple of decades back ... do we ever grow old enough for our family elders?

Or that one day there would be a Bengali from the East Coast at their table on Navroze? Even if he sat at an edge of the table with an escape route kept clear?

Here's a look at the food.

Starter: salty mutton samosas, prawn kebabs with a sole shrimp in each and bland potato balls.

My first serving of fish was a washout. The saas ni machhi (fish in white sauce) was as limp as it looks. The fried fish was salty and rubbery too. The dal (brown liquid on rice in the photo) wasn't a patch on the afternoon's. This is the point at which my parents in law gave up on the dinner.

The second round of mutton batiya (brown meat curry) was slightly better. The pulao paled in comparison to lunch. The fried potatoes which we took from the cashew chicken station were cold. As was the rest of the food. Did I say that I am not too fond of buffets as a genre?

The entertainment didn't end there. We went to the dessert counter for faloodas.

There were no glasses. The crowd was getting restless. An elderly lady came timidly and 'asked for more' like Oliver Twist. She was shoo'd away by the boys at the counter till a young Bawi gave up her coupon so that this granny who had strayed by herself could get a second helping of the falooda.

Here's the gist of what I heard our caterer mutter, 'These Parsis! You can feed them all they want. One thing is late and they won't keep quiet. They don't care that the kitchen is somewhere. The place to wash is somewhere else. The boys are somewhere else ..... ".

Thankfully the blessed glasses appeared and the unappetising dessert was served to the belligerent diners. A riot was avoided.

We finally drove off. Not before my mother from Calcutta admonished her thirty something son for driving 'so late at night' on phone when I called her.

So if any Parsi feels offended that I took a light hearted look at the auspicious evening then please my feeble jibe at my own kind. And once again, Navroze Mubarak.

And if the caterer wants to slap a case for libel, then the picture below announces the table I belonged too. And my response would be, "You mess with me, you mess with the family"

(Godfather theme music fades out).

Phuchka vs Paani Puri... Playing tonight at IPL

The Kolkata Knightriders play Mumbai Indians in Mumbai tonight.

All sort of plays are involved in Mumbai, the most cosmopolitan of Indian cities. So you have Delhiite SRK, who made his fortune in Mumbai, now owning the Kolkata team. You have ex Kolkatan and current Mumbaikar, Maity, off to Brabourne where the match will be played. Any guesses who he'll cheer for? Ten years plus in Mumbai but my loyalties lie with Kolkata, or Calcutta as it is to me. Is there a Canterbury team anywhere?

But it is tough to be a Ganguly and Knightriders supporter. Especially when his repeated blinking doesn't give him clarity of vision. When he strides ahead as he did in his glory days, wields the mighty willow and when the ball then drops gently three feet in front instead of sailing to the boundary. But one will still stick by this mercurial man who introduced spunk to Indian cricket. There is nothing more painful than seeing an aged and wounded tiger hounded in the jungles he once lorded in. But then this is a man who never dropped his gaze. A man who was legendary for standing up for team. A man who loved a challenge. Who knew how to give it back.

The truth is that he doesn't evoke much faith today. He might flicker in the odd match but the flame is almost gone. Sure there are ten other players. But to me KKR is all about Dada. So I don't view the match with much hope. If we win, I'll be happy. If we lose, I'll know that there are some battles which we will win. For example ....

• Phoochka vs Paani Puri
• Muri alur Chop vs Vada pao
• Shiraz vs Lucky
• Malai Curry vs Koliwada
• Bar-B-Q vs 5 Spice (Scarlett, I am willing to trade places)
• Hot Kathi Roll Vs Tibb's Franky
• Mishti Doi vs Shrikhand
• Kookie Jar Vs Theobroma
• Flurys Vs Gaylords
• Mocambo's Bhetki a la Diana Vs Out of The Blue Penne Pesto (a very narrow margin)
• Paturi vs Patrani
• Jhal Mudi vs Bhel
• Mukhorochok Jhal Paapri Dalmut Vs Garlic Sev
• New Friends Vs Shiv Sagar
• Ilish vs Pomfret
• Luchi alur dom vs poori bhaji
• Kosha Mangsho Vs Mutton Kolhapuri
• Oh Calcutta vs Viva Maharashtra

As my friend, Mota, says, IPL's not about cricket after all.

What are your Kolkata Vs Mumbai Prize Fights?

Post match update:

• The man they call God Vs Dada