When once in the late seventies I hitched a ride on a freight truck from Mangalore to Bombay, being dropped at Ballard Estate, the last point the lorry was destined for. Now, disorganized as I am, I did not know where my folks lived or whereto I had to go next. As I squatted on the pavement pondering what next, when I heard some angry shouts and saw a fracas on the other side of the road; a free for all exchange of fisticuffs was rapidly escalating into a general melee and street battle. I recognized the lingo, it sounded familiar it was Tulu.

Now ask any hot blooded Tuluver, the open sesame to an abiding kinship with the Tuluvas, is interacting with them in their tongue. Ive seen the language fetch me much attention, whenever I spoke it at select venues. Remember almost all in the hospitality business are from Udupi (earlier) or from Padubidri (more recently) both in Tulunadu. Utter a word in Tulu, any word, and it become virtual visa or password it will open many a door.

A quaint proto - Dravidian dialect spoken in a restricted swath of land on the west coast. Swear words and cusses, graphic and stark, in chaste Tulu were being traded. Aha! this is home I say, quickly crossing the road.

Unlike in movies, actual physical duels last only a few minutes. Sane counsel from one or two separated the warring quartet and soon calm and peace was restored. Quick, friendly handshakes and hugs, then bonhomie.

I walked up to the fighter and asked him if he could direct me to the nearest Post Office which he did, quite elated that I was from his hometown. We talked in Tulu as we walked a kilometer or less, whereupon he pointed out a post-office. I thanked him and met the postmaster, introducing myself and asking for directions to reach the residence of the Chief Postmaster General the officer sent for a postman, who, instead of escorting, directing or accompanying me to wherever I needed to go, bade me follow him up a steep staircase. Perplexed, I gingerly followed. On floor three, he rings the doorbell, whence at the open door, stands my mother, wide eyed and open mouthed.

What the heck? How come?

This was sheer incredible. Here I was with nine bucks in my pocket, not knowing where to go next in the huge metropolis then bumping into goons who steer a path for me and presto, abracadabra, in eight minutes flat, I was hugging my amma, inhaling in the exotic but familiar smells that emanated from her kitchen just two floors above the nearest post office.

Note: An earlier detailed blog on the trip is found under: The highway to Bombay - http://kmc.sulekha.com/blogs/blogdisplay.aspx?cid=44176