Nov 182013

Back in the days, in late 80’s when dollar could buy quite few things in India, a friend of mine in grad school went back to Suratkal to visit his girlfriend. He took her along with her friends out to dinner at a fancy place. While all others were ordering lavish dishes, he called the waiter and whispered to him “could you ask the chef to make me Mosaruanna?”. Of course, the girls were already impressed with credit card, and the power of dollar. On top of it, his confidence in going off the menu, that too, for a simple item like Mosaruanna, impressed them even more. I would like to think that it is one of the cherished moments in the courtship of my friend. 

[Long time later, he told me that the story is more prosaic. He was flat broke and thus the credit card. He has upset stomach, and thus the Mosuruanna. But, I like my fiction better.] 

When I was told this story, for a moment, I thought Mosaruanna is something fancy. Once I understood it is nothing but your yoghurt rice, I knew its many incarnations. It is perugannam in many Andhra households, daddOjanam in many temples, tairu saadam in Madras.

During IIT Madras days, an imaginative classmate of mine used to rag people into ending every answer with “curd rice power!” In Chennai, tairu saadam can be a complex affair.  A deconstruction of such a dish would have reveal the textural contrasts — with addition of fried chana daal; sudden bursts of flavor — with fried mustard seeds, curry leaves, and coriander leaves; variations in four fundamental tastes — salt, heat, tartness and sweet with pomegranate seeds and grapes. 

When I first came to US, in Meenakshi temple, they would have free food: tamarind rice and daddojanam. It is simple yoghurt rice, but the way it is made with slightly overcooked rice, or rice soaked in hot milk and yoghurt, where the yoghurt sets in the rice itself overnight. With addition of other unique Indian flavors (asafetida, ghee, curry leaves, ginger), it makes for a satisfying comfort food. When I made it at home, I made the mistake of adding onions when soaking the rice in milk and starter yoghurt. Overnight, it acquired very pungent taste. If you stick to basics (cooked rice, hot milk, starter yoghurt, green chilies, curry leaves, and coriander leaves). The next day, season it with mustard seeds, asafetida in hot ghee, and you are done. 

I have a theory of topological transformation of foods, call it neutrological, — that is how the same basic ingredients are transformed across cultures. Under this theory, curd rice is neutrologically equivalent to cheese sandwich. Instead of bread, you have rice. Instead of cheese, you have yoghurt.   Under similar transformation, it becomes lebbeh pita in the Middle East — strained yoghurt in a pocket bread. I am amazed how this simple comfort food crosses cultural boundaries. 

Recently, I heard that a dotcom millionaire started a grilled cheese sandwich restaurant. It is hailed as a brilliant move, with simple appeal of a comfort food. What if we use the same concept for our curd rice restaurant?

Of course, the ingredients would be very simple. We can go with any simple rice, the rice that can cook close to mash consistency. We can even use broken rice. Good yoghurt is the key for good curd rice. No wonder Kalidasa asked for “maahishaMcha saraschandra chandrikaa dhavaLaM dadhi” (the yoghurt made from buffalo’s milk, as white as autumn moonlight). We may have to settle for less. 

In this restaurant, I would have the basic perugannam with yoghurt and rice. I can let people choose different kinds pickles on the side. There would be one with aavakaya, which is your basic Andhra variety. This one would be Mallika’s favorite. I would offer one with fried red chilies. Of course, these red chilies would have seeds removed, soaked in buttermilk and then dried to make for a complex flavor profile, and yet satisfy a genuine Guntur person like my brother, who refused to eat perugannam when he was young, until served with these fried chilies. And, of course, Madhavi’s favorite would be lemon pickle on the side. 

How do I top off such a meal? Perhaps in silence? So, I remain.

Yours truly, Rama Kanneganti

 Posted by at 9:17 am
Nov 162013

I am busy. My wife is busier. Kids like Chicken curry. Faced with these realities, I created the following recipe that is quick and tasty. I reduced it to the bare minimum of effort, with some optional variations. I made it at a few friends places and they asked me for the recipe. I am sure there are several similar ones – but I made is simple, made it parallel, and made it foolproof. Please feel free to comment and share with others.


  1. One Costco chicken packet (thighs with bones): It weighs around 0.5 kg, slightly more than a pound, I think.
  2. Onions: 2 medium, or One large.
  3. Oil: 1 table spoon.
  4. Salt: 1 teaspoon
  5. Chili powder: 1 teaspoon
  6. Turmeric: 0.5 teaspoon
  7. Garlic+ ginger paste: 1 Table spoon. Store bought variety will do.
  8. Dry whole masala: two cardamom, two bay leaves, two small cinnamon sticks, two cloves
  9. Other roast masala: 1 table spoon coriander seeds, 8 Almonds, 6 cashews
  10. Optional: Kasuri methi leaves. Coriander leaves

Vessels needed:

  1. Pressure cooker: Medium size
  2. Toaster Oven: for roasting the roast masala.


Read the process once or twice. I tried to parallelize it – while something is cooking, I do something else.

To start with chop the onions. Just dice them. No need to do a fine job. Don’t make them too big.


While chopping the onions, you go ahead and put the pressure cooker on the stove. Heat up the oil. By the time onions are chopped, your oil should be hot.

Add the dry masala to the oil.


When the bay leaves turn brown, add the onions. While the onions are frying, start chopping the chicken into small cubes. Make sure you cut through the bones. It is the bones that make good gravy.


After the onions are fried, add turmeric, chili powder, and salt to the onions. When they are translucent, add garlic ginger paste.


Now, you are ready to add chicken


While the chicken is frying (without putting the lid on), toast the coriander, almonds, and cashews, separately, in a toaster oven. They should become brown, but not burnt. Here is how they look:


Grind them fine. Don’t worry if there are some nuts that are not completely ground.


By now, your chicken in the pressure cooker is mostly done. Remember that you did not yet put the lid on. That is, there is no pink color – the chicken would be light brown. Now, add the powder. Fry for one or two minutes. Now, add water (1 cup).  It should look like this:


Basically, all the ingredients are in. Now is the time to add optional ingredients (like methi, coriander leaves etc). After that, put the lid on the pressure cooker and cook. While the pressure cooker is going on, you can set the rice cooker on, clean the counter, and set the table etc.

Once the pressure cooker whistles once or twice, turn off the stove and leave the pressure on. When you can safely remove the lid, do so. Here is the final look:


Now, optionally, squeeze a little lemon juice (even the bottle one will do – perhaps a tea spoon).  As you can see, we got the separation oil from the curry thing going. It goes well with rice or roti. Make sure that you do not eat the dry masala ingredients in the gravy!

Bon appétit!

 Posted by at 11:48 am
Sep 112011

It has been 10 years since I wrote that piece in a moment of anguish and shock. Ten years passed by, bringing in more and more dystopian visions of the future – curtailment of liberties, heavy-handed government, needless wars, suffering of the innocence, self-censoring of the press, and untold missed opportunities for golden future.

In the last ten years too, lot of things have changed. I moved farther and farther away from my childhood as it receded slowly from memory. First to go is the poetry. None of the old memories – the rains, the stars, the morning walks to the animal yard, the idle cards players in the library – seep into the semi-conscious morning. Instead of feeling the lyrics of the songs, now I merely listen to them.

Simply put: life goes on. We get used to things that we never understood. We take off shoes silently, paying the homage to TSA Gods and proceed to the altar of the winged machines. Does it remind me of my temple going days? Did I take of my shoes in quiet obedience then? I don’t recall that 10 year old person — – did he understand the nature of the God? Did he marvel at mornings and evenings? Did he stare at the stars to brand that image into the brain forever? What did he think of the world?

As memories fade away, I lose a bit of myself. I forget the excitement of the first day of school, earnestness of skipping the water puddles on the roads, first flush of youth, the sweet anticipation of exam results, and fateful farewell from the familiar.

Then, in forgetting those old memories, we make new ones. I suppose these memories are too static, stealing a moment of contentment from everyday life, or a happiness shared. It is not the same as exploring the world with wondering eyes — none of the childhood stuff.

Perhaps these new memories are not so far back as yet to romanticize. Perhaps I need to age before I look back wistfully at the mundane routine of meeting with friends in Farmington library, or taking the kids to ice-skating on a snowy morning in Michigan.

Till then, I will try to hang onto my old memories a bit longer, thank you.

 Posted by at 5:10 pm
Nov 252006

All the rage in the blogosphere

No knead bread

Adapted from Jim Lahey, Sullivan Street Bakery
Time: About 1½ hours plus 14 to 20 hours’ rising

3 cups all-purpose or bread flour, more for dusting
¼ teaspoon instant yeast
1¼ teaspoons salt
Cornmeal or wheat bran as needed.
  1. In a large bowl combine flour, yeast and salt. Add 1 5/8 cups water, and stir until blended; dough will be shaggy and sticky. Cover bowl with plastic wrap. Let dough rest at least 12 hours, preferably about 18, at warm room temperature, about 70 degrees.
  2. Dough is ready when its surface is dotted with bubbles. Lightly flour a work surface and place dough on it; sprinkle it with a little more flour and fold it over on itself once or twice. Cover loosely with plastic wrap and let rest about 15 minutes.
  3. Using just enough flour to keep dough from sticking to work surface or to your fingers, gently and quickly shape dough into a ball. Generously coat a cotton towel (not terry cloth) with flour, wheat bran or cornmeal; put dough seam side down on towel and dust with more flour, bran or cornmeal. Cover with another cotton towel and let rise for about 2 hours. When it is ready, dough will be more than double in size and will not readily spring back when poked with a finger.
  4. At least a half-hour before dough is ready, heat oven to 450 degrees. Put a 6- to 8-quart heavy covered pot (cast iron, enamel, Pyrex or ceramic) in oven as it heats. When dough is ready, carefully remove pot from oven. Slide your hand under towel and turn dough over into pot, seam side up; it may look like a mess, but that is O.K. Shake pan once or twice if dough is unevenly distributed; it will straighten out as it bakes. Cover with lid and bake 30 minutes, then remove lid and bake another 15 to 30 minutes, until loaf is beautifully browned. Cool on a rack.

Yield: One 1½-pound loaf.

My experiences:

  • Attempt1: Perfect bread, until I messed up on the pan. I chose the wrong one without the lid and then immediately shifted to another which is not well heated. Still, it looked good.
  • Attempt2: Perfect bread. The pan problem solved. I used an aluminium vessel. Picture attached.
  • Attempt3: Added rosemary and a table spoon of olive oil. It did not raise as well, but tastier!
 Posted by at 5:04 pm
Feb 282006

I love biscotti. I have been trying various recipes and here is one that I consider that is sure bet. I found it on Alton Brown.



(original from Owen Zoars)

It is important to dry out the biscotti, but don’t let it get stale.


  • 1/4 lb. (1 stick) butter
  • 1 cup sugar
  • 3 eggs
  • 1/2 teaspoon vanilla
  • 1/4 teaspoon anise flavoring
  • 2 cups flour
  • 2 teaspoon baking powder
  • 1/4 teaspoon salt
  • 1/2 cup chopped almonds ( Do not use almond meal. Cut each almond into about three pieces. That adds the right texture.)


Blend butter and sugar. Add eggs one at a time, blending thoroughly after each.

Add flavorings. (If you like anise, use more.) You can substitute almond extract instead of anise flavoring.

Add dry ingredients gradually, mixing carefully.

Mix in chopped almonds.

Spread in two loaf-like shapes on large greased cookie sheet (or use two sheets). Don’t spread too close to edge; they spread. They should be about 4 inches wide by 8 – 10 inches long.

Bake 20 minutes at 375 degrees until light brown. Don’t worry if they are soft. They become harder as you let them cool. Remove from cookie sheets and cut into 1″ slices. Arrange on cookie sheet allowing space between. Bake another 15 minutes or so to toast at lower temperature, say 300 degrees. Or, if you are using 275, it may take longer. Keep watching them so that they don’t get burned. In the end, they should be crispy and crunchy. Let dry completely before storing.

 Posted by at 4:59 pm
Feb 112006

Just when I was coming to US, I visited an elderly gentleman with relatives in the US. I asked him for any last minute advice. He told me this: “Get a haircut before going there. You will save 7 dollars”.

Koramangala Forum Mall

Koramangala Forum Mall

Now that I am in Bangalore doing shopping here, I have a different kind of advice. If you want to save money, don’t look to Bangalore Malls.

Note that during all these years several things have changed. Walls came crumbling down; new countries got created; new thoughts and words are sweeping the world.

Not that it matters, but I too changed. I am on the other side of tracks now. I used to worry about how my people could get out of hopeless abyss of daily grind. Now, daily grind is a show on MTV. Not that I became callous. My concerns are more abstract, (or shall I say, more universal?) now. I am for social justice and equality of course, though my main complaint these days is “it is so difficult to get good help”.

I needed buy some essentials and I wanted to buy some gifts. I went to the local Mall (Forum) in Koramangala to shop there. On the outset, it is like most small malls in the US. Rows of small shops in four floors were selling different goods. Some stores were selling “ethnic” goods as well.

Here is the strange fact: What we used to call “foreign” goods have become regular goods. What we used to consider as regular clothes (actually, a variant), have become ethnic.

In my quest, here is what I found: shops that sell specialty soaps for $12 each. I splurge on occasion buying French-milled soaps at $8 each. These were too expensive for me.

I forgot my watch and went into a watch store. Looks like the average Indian is more cost conscious than an average Indian-American [Damn the hyphenated existence! More on this on another post]. These watches cost $1000 and upwards. I may be part of affluent minority, but I am still used to looking for deals. I passed on that shop too.

I walked into another store to look at the shoes. Here Nikes go for $100 minimum. I always manage to buy my shoes in “sale” events. I am not about to spend that much money on shoes.

One thing I could easily convince myself is food. There were rows of shops selling Dosa to Crepes (no kidding!), Mexican wrap to Tandoori Paratha, and Sandwiches to Bhel puri.

One thing I could not resist is walking into Landmark, a bookstore. I could find most of the best sellers here. If you find yourself in Indian bookstores, look for the Penguin India, or Rupa books. They are good and cheap.

Mall was packed to the hilt. It seems like a popular hang our for families. They come there, look at some shops, and marvel at others buying the expensive cargo and have dinner and go home. Occasionally they give into impulse and buy these $12 soaps. The hyper-consumerism calls for different kind of heroes: Bill Gates is the most admired person in Bangalore, according to some poll.

What did I do in the end? I went to back alleys of commercial street. There, in a shop frequented by purdah-clad women, I found the trinkets that I needed to buy for my daughters. I got all I wanted for mere 1400 Rupees, which I was going to spend on a couple of small soaps.

Ramarao Kanneganti
Feb 11, 2006

 Posted by at 12:07 pm
Jan 312006

Roxy #lO# Norma Shearer
Brodway #lO kaancana maala#

Let me assure you those were good choices. If I switch on my TV, I am not as lucky. I get to choose between horror and horreur!

Ok, I am in Banagalore now. I come back to guest house at odd hours and catch some TV before going to bed. The trouble is that I have not yet figured out how to know what channels we get. Looks like there is no preview channel.

Anyway, I quickly settle on the channels I am interested. All Telugu ones — ETV, Teja, MAA TV, and Gemini, and handful of English ones — HBO, Star movies, Star something. Hindi is not for me — if I feel nostalgic, I turn to Telugu and if I miss home, I turn to English! Ah, blasphemy! Ahh, the life of an expat! Hate mails welcome.

I flip through all channels looking for something worth watching. There seem to be a mega function for mega star Chiranjeevi. I remember him being youthful. Now, off screen, he looks bloated and unattractive. (I am not saying that he looks different onscreen. I have not seen him onscreen for a long time — so I cannot say how he looks there. He did good at one point. How people change!) Movie people, one after another, come and sing praises of him. It appears he won Padma Bhushan award this year. People speculate why he won openly on the TV. Nothing snarky, let me assure you. It is all perfectly adulatory. Chiru naturally dedicates his award to his fans.

On another channel, there is an oscar-wanna-be function. Several old time heroines come and hand over awards. I saw people I did not even think for so many years — Kanchana, Latha, and a few others. There were several inside jokes, and paying "we-are-not-worthy" at each others’ lotus feet.

On English channels the preoccupation is with Martial art movies. At any given time, there seem to be one playing. The other channel plays the horror kind: Bride of chucky and the like. There are occasional gems (I did not expect to find "The good girl" on TV here), but perhaps I keep missing them.

When I drive, I listen to some radio station. Cute. Imagine a typical US station. Make the voices more Indian. Increase the RPM by a factor of 1.417. Throw in a sprinkle of Hindi words through out — do not even put the "’s around them. Let them flow as naturally as Anglo-Saxon words. You get the idea.

I have seen the multilingual (or is it monolingual) city and Bangalore is it. It is profitable to have a single language for commerce. The TV is working to that reality. We see these faces with no hint of their nationality. They seem to come in every ad. They all speak Hinglish, a variant that seems to be popular these days.

My NRI status naturally excuses me from knowing Hindi. Otherwise, things Indian are discussed in words Hindi. In all educated circles in Bangalore, even if people speak in English, they use Hindi culture (concepts, writers, Indian expressions, movies and the like) in their conversations.

If TV shows the way, in a few years, India will speaking Hinglish (at least the educated classes).

Ramarao Kanneganti
Jan 31, 2006

 Posted by at 12:05 pm
Jan 292006

Detroit Airport

“We will have to wait for one more hour” he said while I was washing my hands in the bathroom. “It happens all the time with Deccan airlines” I said. “This is my first time flying” he confided. We were talking in Telugu.

In the US, we don’t talk to strangers in the bathroom. And, strangers don’t speak in Telugu. But, I was in Hyderabad, on the way to Bangalore. My co-(ahem)victim is also waiting for the same plane it seems. He is around 60, with glasses and looks like a ex-military man with short, trim torso. Not oozing with riches — Deccan airlines surely made flying affordable for even the middle class.

Naturally, I savor even such small inconsequential conversations. Years of spending abroad makes me feel like a perennial member of minority. It is nice to be taken at face value, a member of majority, and yet somehow the influential minority.

When I was young, I used to look forward to traveling. My mother always believed that we should wear our best when we travel. The need to appear well-bred and perhaps even well-off is no longer there. I ignore the dress code so completely that my attitude of studied indifference gives away that I am part of that well-off minority. At least, I was told so in the next hour.

I waited in the lounge with other passengers. We were all united in cursing the airline. Normally I would get lost in a book, but in India, it is always a pleasure to talk to people. I looked at my neighbors to see who looks interesting.

The seat opposite to me is occupied by a youngish girl, perhaps in early 20s. It is obvious that she is no stranger to flying. She made herself comfortable, occupying both the seats. I knew that the rest of the world is created just as an accessory for her. She was semi-reclined on the chairs reading a book. I glanced at the title — “Da Vinci Code”. What is it with airports and Da Vinci code? Do they get special fares with that book?

Fortunately, I read the book earlier, enough to chat about it. (There are people that say that I don’t have to read a book to talk about it too). I waited till she grew bored with the book and started glancing around.

I smiled at her. “How do you like that book?” I asked. She frowned a bit, not expecting to be small-talked to by a stranger of the opposite sex. I smiled widely suggesting that I am cool enough to be ignorant of local social mores. May be that was it. Or, the fact that I was a man of a certain age made the difference.

She too smiled. We were now a part of a small select club that makes its own rules. She said she could tell I live abroad. She asked “States?” with clear accent that I was reminded later of when I listened to radio ads in Bangalore. I nodded.

Of course, she had cousins “practically all over in the states”. She went there for a summer too. She excused herself for flying in Deccan Airlines. “I had to fly back to Bangalore in the last minute”, she said.

With a practiced tone, I sketched my profile, “living 100 ft above the ground, with two large windows overlooking the creek, and the new 7 Series BMW on the way”. But then, that was the price of admission into the club. Or, perhaps my genuine interest in her as a human being.

In the next one hour, I heard her speak in lovely accent all about the local scene. She just finished her medicine and going back to Bangalore, where she lives. She would like to do FRCS, and loves helping people. It is not the money or the prestige that attracted her to medicine. I surely understood — she is rich enough not to bother.

Of course, I surely understood and sympathized with her. I found myself agreeing with her on everything. Why, India is improving, the pub scene is great in Bangalore, we get everything that her cousins get in New York within a few days, traffic is a problem, wish cars were costlier so that there would be fewer.

I too mentally became part of that page-3’ish crowd. I would smile indulgently to encourage her to tell me the other side of life. Not explicitly, I seem to have suggested that I was part of a similar scene in my days. At least vicariously, through “hep-cat” friends in IIT.

We were called to board eventually.

At the baggage pick up area in BLR airport, I overheard a loud voice, “Geez! Would you stop barging in like that?” I saw that man with short, trim torso at receiving end of the confident rebuke from the voice of new generation. He seemed to have lunged for his luggage at the baggage belt.

Non-standard disclaimer:
Well, it could have happened to me. I may have embellished the incident. Perhaps, the characters in there are composite sketches. The essential truthiness is there. The message is right, even if the facts are largely made up. Aw shucks! Give it a rest, will ya! I am telling you, I did go to prison! It did toughen me, I tell you. What if I am planning on writing my memoir? Why do you wish it wouldn’t reach the best seller list?

Ok, Ok, you really want the truth. Well, to begin with, it did not happen in Hyderabad Airport. It happened in Frankfurt. It did not happen to me. It happened to somebody else. I don’t even know who.

There. Now, quit complaining to Oprah.

Ramarao Kanneganti,
Bangalore, Jan 29, 2006.

 Posted by at 12:02 pm
Nov 082005

Magic of the familiar


My brother told me an anecdote.
As anecdotes go, it was not much.
Apparently, a few of his friends
went to a wedding of a college friend.
It was a small village, with no electricity
or even good transportation.
For the wedding, they booked a gramophone,
with many records, all LPs no doubt.
But, on that day, because of a snafu,
they only got one record.
From the morning to evening,
they only heard that record.
“unter der treppen, auf den longen
floren” *, they heard it everywhere.
They heard it from the walls,
they heard it over the chatter.
Soon, the walls start singing the same
song; it clung to their skin like smoke.
They hated the very sound of the song
They could not bear to think of the words
By the evening, they can only look forward
to listening to the song again, and again.
#engayO kETTa kural# like, they can only
fall into the magic of the familiar.
To this day they could not recall the song
without nostalgia, with out the misty eyes.
Those were the good days, good times,
good songs, good music and good life
They said it often and they still say it.

Ramarao Kanneganti
Nov 8, 2005
[Time took: 110 secs :-)]
*: From a German poem called “Zicate” or cicada. Does any body know the full poem? I lost track of it.

 Posted by at 12:02 pm
Sep 122005

Growing Old and even Older

Growing old is a funny thing. When you are young, all that you could think of is how soon you can grow up. Once you do, all you think of is, how much you want to stop aging, and even regressing.

I always thought that life peaks when you are 25. Not only that it is such a nice number, but all the books I read lead me to believe that it was the age. Everything seems to happen at the same time.

If you are a mathematician, you are supposed to do your best work in your 20’s. You pretty have to figure out where you are ending up — a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer, a bungee jumping instructor — by that age. You are worried about your future; you are worried about making the right choices. Amidst all that, you find it is easy to fall in love — as easy as leaves falling in fall season. Of course, you fall and fall again.

Once you trade your youth for more stability, a mortgage, couple of kids, cars (or perhaps even that van) in the garage, you still cling to youth. You think you can go back and see it better next time. May be this time, you live better. Make all the right choices. Smile at the right people. Take courage to say hello across the aisles. Read that book before the exams, not after it. The personalized redemption is vaguely back of your mind …

Until one day, you go to a party. You are urbane. You are witty. You are suave. You look dashing. You are life-of-the-party in the mixed company. Of course, inevitably, a pretty young thing calls you “uncle”.

You start noticing these things immediately. You are no longer dangerous. Your “harmless” flirtations are really harmless. You are really a lovable uncle, for God’s sake.

You still do not want to concede. You hang out with young people. You think you are connecting with them, talking about Missamma. But, then they are talking about the one with Bhoomika. You still think SPB is a recent upstart. For them, he is a has-been.

Eventually, people start respecting you. They say that they have to learn things from you. That pretty much means your time is up. You hang up those boots and get back home. Sit on a porch and watch the sunrises and sunsets. Spin your yarns to little children, that start with “in my days”.

The zig is up, mister! You are not merely growing old — you are old!

* * *

I grow old, I grow old,
I wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

* * *

The biggest fear of losing youth is growing old. What happens to us as we grow old? Will it be like as vEdula said “dinammulu paraspara pratidhwanammulu kaaga” (దినమ్ములు పరస్పర ప్రతిధ్వనమ్ములు కాగ)? Do we spend time thinking of the past glories? Does each fading memory gets replaced with a fantasy memory? Perhaps each remembered glance becomes a full-fledged love story, unredeemed, unrequited, and eternally re-lived.

When I get there, I will tell you.

Ramarao Kanneganti

PS: The only place perhaps I will feel younger is in the company of older people. That is why I am hanging out on RB!

This article is originally sent here. One response it got is by Lyla:

Ramarao! Avuncular!
Rama Rama! Heaven forbid!
Ramarao can be singular,
peculiar: he can be pedantic
semantic and romantic
eccentric, ecelectic and electric
poetic and at times lunatic
But, Ramarao Avuncular
Is not in the vernacular!

With regards, to Ramarao Kanneganti,


 Posted by at 7:26 pm