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Doc, Monkey Bar and a live demo of our impeccable Malayalam

By thegoodcitycrew November 13, 2026 5 min read

I have a friend, Dr. Keerthi, who is a very successful cosmetologist. In fact so successful is he that the late Bollywood actress Sridevi was his client and friend.

Now Doc, as I call him, does not know this, but the only two reasons I hang out with him is because I’m hoping that one day he’s going to rearrange my face to look like a bald Brad Pitt. The other reason is that he’s very good at pool, and partnering him pretty much means we’re going to win almost any doubles match.

One day, we were playing pool at the now shut Bar Stock Exchange on M G Road. It was a singles game and I was being thrashed rather badly by Doc. I suggested that we take a break from the pool and head elsewhere. I told him, Doc pool is a stupid game which, like most games invented by men, involves balls and a stick. Which makes it sexist and regressive.

So where do we go, asked Doc, not realising that I was cajoling him out of Bar Stock only so he could stop humiliating me in the game.

Let’s go to Monkey Bar, I said.

Oh, said Doc, there actually is a place called Monkey Bar? Let’s go, we are monkeys anyway.

I burst out laughing. Doc, as you’ll shortly see, has a terrific sense of humour.

So how do we get there? Do we climb into the bar through the window?, asked Doc with a straight face.

No, I said, the bar is not on a tree, we got to take a lift.

Doc was a bit disappointed, but did not show it. Instead he stopped outside the bar and from a roadside vendor bought a conical newspaper pack of roasted peanuts.

What else do monkeys eat, he said.

Then we swung into the place.

Inside Monkey Bar we noticed that they had boiled peanuts. Of course, we had to have that.

They also had a beer named, quite intriguingly, Kamasutra.

We ordered two of them expecting all kinds of sensuous taste explosions in the mouth.

But all Kamasutra tasted like Horsemutra.

We switched to the ever-reliable Kingfisher beer.

Across our table, across Museum Road, we saw in Shoba Mall a neon board that said, Paragon. At first, we thought it was just a place that sold Paragon chappals. But then through our drunken haze, we noticed people sitting across each other in tables. Eating. So we crossed the road and went up to Paragon.

We were ushered to a table. And that was it. We were left alone.

All around us, people were being offered menus, served food, gently spoken to, dishes were taken away, replaced by new dishes. Bills were presented. Smiles were exchanged. And here we were – two men, hungry, high and unserved.

It occurred to us that the only reason we were not being served was because we were not Malayalees. We decided to correct that completely wrong notion.

So Doc, who knows as much Malayalam as I know Vietnamese, said, Ingade namde Joshi, you fish eating sapda you? Yenda?

I replied, Yenda manasalaya, jolly jolly.

Doc – Food jolly koli bhashyam? Cochin.

Me – Kumblingam nights, kathakalli.

Doc – Mohiniyatamm, Dubai return um? Onam, Onam.

Me – Chochiyo papa. Thiruvanthapuran.

Doc – Cheta, cheti, choo choo cheetah. Pop is playing pope music and drinking lite cock.

Me – Evadey Mamooty?

Doc – In Ooty.

Doc was looking for me. I was on the floor, convulsing with laughter. He lifted me up. I must add, he lifted me up in Malayalam instead of in English.

In spite of our chaste Malayalam, there was still no waiter at our table.

People around us began to look at us like we were three month old fish.

We switched for a moment to English. Only to begin a heated debate on how today’s generation does not know the basic grammar of Malayalam, and how our once great Keralam language was being murdered by heathens.

“I mean Jose Kuriakose, my friend they don’t know that pulli and pulley are not the same thing. A cuppa tea is not the same as meen and kappa. What a travesty! Outrageous! Sacrilegious!”

“Yes Namboodiripad, they confuse your name with the Hindi word for gaseous emission from the nether region of the body.”

“You mean paad?”

“Yes indeed, paad, flatulence, breaking wind, passing gas, blowing sulphuric air out the ass, letting one rip, making the gut sing, rumble in the bum-bumble, being gaseous, the silent killer, the hydrogen bomb, a tear from the rear…”

A couple sitting near us asked to be moved to whichever table was furthest away from us.

Finally a waiter showed up at our table, believing that while we may be mad, we were at least definitely authentic Malayalees. We ordered, among other things, a Pomfret with Kerala parotas.

For some reason our chef decided to pour salt on the pomfret the way the Allied troops were bombing Berlin towards the end of WW2.

The waiter asked us if there was enough salt in the fish? He first asked this in Malayalam since our Malayalam had been perfect through the evening. Of course, we had no idea what he was talking about. So he repeated in English – Fishy salty salty okay?

Doc replied – Just add half a kilo salty more.

The waiter said – Gud idea sir.

I said – And please bring 200 gm salty for the water too.

The waiter smiled and replied – Olready putting 300 gm sir. Yenjoy.

Doc whispered – I like Paragon chappals better.

I agreed. They’re less salty.