“Of course I made them myself,” laughs K Krishnaveni. “I wake up at 5.30 am everyday to get the rice ground.”
The 70-year-old is seated on the ground, a tray of sundal and another stacked with white and brown balls of kozhukattai in front of her.
It’s almost 1 pm and while most people outdoors in the city are huffing and puffing in the heat, Krishnaveni sits beaming on Parthasarathy Street, Old Washermanpet, unaffected by the sun or the dust. She’s chatting with a friend when she asks us, “What would you like, daughter?”
She’s popular in the area for her kozhukattais — the brown ones, especially, are excellent. “I’ve been selling these here for 15 years,” she says. “I sold them at the Old Washermanpet Bridge previously for 15 years, which makes it 30 years of making kozhukattais . That’s a long time isn’t it?”
The white kozhukattais have a filing of sugar and coconut shreds. The brown ones, made of rice which is fried before being ground, are shaped by mixing jaggery syrup, and are topped with paper-thin coconut shavings. Krishnaveni sells them for ₹ 5 for two pieces. “They’re called poorna urundai and porima urundai ,” she explains.
It’s by selling kozhukattais that Krishnaveni has raised her three children; her husband brought in some income by working at a fruit shop, but he’s unemployed now. She’s the sole breadwinner; a huge responsibility at her age, but she’s taking it in her stride. She hums to herself as she does business, chatting with customers and grinning often, revealing all her teeth.
She never forgets to decorate her hair with flowers; she has pinned a small bow of jasmine on her bun, and a rose on top of it. “I’m from Dharmapuri village near Puducherry,” she says.
“I settled in Chennai once I got married.” Krishnaveni enjoys her job; even the prospect of shifting places through the day as the sun moves.
“There’s no permanent place of shade,” she says. “So I start at one end of the road in the morning and find myself sitting at the other end towards evening.”
She gives away unsold kozhukattais free to those in need. “I’m happy if someone’s hunger is satiated by eating what I made,” she says. There may be several people who come looking for Krishnaveni’s kozhukattais , but she doesn’t eat them.
“I’m never tempted to,” she shakes her head with a smile, “I will be, if someone else made them.” She’s going to have her lunch soon. “I’ve packed kaara kozhambu and beetroot poriyal ,” she tells us. “Want to try some?”
