Or as most people call it, Maggi.
I, like every self-respecting, taste-buds-possessing individual ever, love Maggi. Because Maggi comes to the rescue, in situations where nothing else works.
- When your cafeteria decides it will serve you sambaar and rice for lunch, and then watered down sambaar (calling it rasam) for dinner, and continues the serve the same thing every night for 5 nights in the week, it’s Maggi in the night canteen that ensures you don’t die of starvation.
- When you return from 3 back to back annoying stakeholder calls to your apartment, just to find out that both your flatmates are out for a team dinner, and that there’s no food at home, it’s Maggi that soothes your frayed nerves, and goes so well with the F.R.I.E.N.D.S. reruns on your computer.
- When you are down with a terrible cold and fever, and can pretty much taste nothing, it’s the soupy Maggi that makes your throat feel amazing, and also wakes up a couple of those dead taste buds.
- When you return late night after all the dancing and drinking, and even the Bandis and Thelas have shut shop for the day, it’s Maggi that ensures that those calories you burnt on the dance floor, hopping around to Shiela ki Jawani, are restored in their entirety, and some more.
- When it is Saturday afternoon and it is too hot to go out, so you are sitting in the air-conditioned confines of your room, it’s Maggi (in this case versions of it, like Cheese Maggi, or fried Maggi) that makes you announce that ‘No, we are not ordering in food. We’ll do that in the evening. I will cook today’; thereby restoring some faith in your fast receding domesticity.
And when your 4 year old refuses to listen to you and you coax her with a ‘Be a good girl, and I will make you noodles tonight’, you know life with Maggi has come a full circle.
P.S. I am a Ching’s Hot Garlic fan these days. Which basically makes the topic even more relevant. But Maggi is Maggi is Maggi.