Konamitta stories
Kuchela's 100% Veg Mess at Battuvel, Kadapa
The sun over Battuvel didn’t just shine; it leaned on you like a heavy, humid blanket. It was a Wednesday, the kind of day where the air feels thick enough to chew, and the only salvation in the district was the promise of the Kuchela 100% Veg Mess.
Pedda Naidu, a man whose stature was as broad as his reputation in the nearby villages, arrived at the mess just as the noon rush hit its peak. The queue snaked out of the blue-painted doorway like a hungry python. Pedda Naidu wasn't a man for jostling. He surveyed the crowd—a mix of government clerks with tucked-in shirts and sweaty foreheads, and local traders arguing over the price of groundnuts—and decided the open-sided zinc shed nearby was a far more dignified waiting room.
He took a seat on a wooden bench that had been polished smooth by a thousand pairs of trousers.
"Naidu garu! You standing in the sun is like the moon trying to get a tan. Entirely unnecessary!"
Pedda Naidu turned to see Kuchela himself, the proprietor, wiping his hands on an apron that had seen better days but smelled gloriously of ghee and roasted mustard seeds. Kuchela’s face was a map of laugh lines and culinary secrets.
"Kuchela," Naidu chuckled, adjusting his veshti. "Your fame is my misfortune. If you fed people poorly, I’d be eating by now."
Kuchela sat beside him, ignoring the frantic signals from his head waiter inside. "Let them wait. A hunger that lingers is the best appetizer. Look at them," he gestured to the crowd. "They aren't just waiting for rice and sambar. They’re waiting for a moment where the world stops spinning. My ginger-perugu pachadi does that, you know."
The Third Man in the Shed
A few feet away, leaning against a rusted pillar, sat Kitta. His legs, thin but roped with the hard muscle of a man who pedaled a cycle rickshaw for ten hours a day, were stretched out. His rickshaw, decorated with faded plastic roses and a picture of a smiling film star, was parked just under the eaves.
"Kitta," Pedda Naidu acknowledged with a nod. "Are you also in the business of waiting for Kuchela’s charity?"
Kitta offered a humble, gap-toothed grin. "Ayya, for a man like me, this shed is the porch of heaven. My stomach knows the time better than the clock at the railway station."
Kuchela let out a boisterous laugh, slapping his knee. "Charity? Don't let his modesty fool you, Naidu. Kitta is a permanent fixture. He eats here at noon, he eats here at night. I think if I closed down, Kitta would waste away into a shadow within forty-eight hours."
"It's the only fuel that works," Kitta said, his voice raspy. "The hills between here and the junction don't get any flatter, Ayya."
Kuchela leaned in, his voice dropping to a tone of conspiratorial pride. "You see, Naidu, the clerks in there pay the full rate. They pay for the fans and the fancy steel tumblers. But for Kitta and his brothers of the three-wheelers? We have the 'Rickshaw Rate.' A few rupees less, a bit more rice, and a ledger in the back where the ink stays wet. They pay when the pockets are full—once a month, maybe longer. A man can’t pedal on an empty stomach, and I can’t sleep on a full wallet if my friends are hungry."
Family Matters and Sacred Travels
Kitta, perhaps feeling the warmth of the conversation, shifted his weight. "Naidu garu, I haven’t seen the younger one lately. Is Chinna Naidu garu away? Usually, where there is the big tree, the smaller one is nearby."
Pedda Naidu sighed, though it was a sigh of contentment. "He’s gone south, Kitta. Took his wife and headed to Vontimitta. Her mother’s side is having a grand gathering. You know how it is—family functions are the only things that can pull a Naidu away from his own land."
"Vontimitta," Kuchela mused, his eyes tracking a hawk circling above. "The Sri Kodanda Rama Swami temple. A magnificent place. They say the idols there weren't carved by man but found whole. There is a stillness in that stone that you won't find anywhere else."
"Exactly," Naidu replied. "They wanted to be there for the special abhishekam. My sister-in-law has been pestering him for months. She says a prayer at Vontimitta is worth ten elsewhere. Chinna is probably sitting through a long discourse right now, dreaming of your meal, Kuchela."
"He’ll return with a blessed thread on his wrist and a lighter heart," Kuchela said. "But he’ll be thinner. Nobody feeds a man like his mother-in-law, but nobody makes him work for it like her either!"
The trio laughed, the sound cutting through the humid air. They discussed the erratic rains, the rising cost of diesel, and the way the town of Battuvel was changing—how the old houses were being replaced by concrete boxes that held the heat like ovens. It was the 'vagrant' style of talk—drifting from the spiritual to the mundane, from the price of lentils to the nature of the soul.
The Call to the Table
The conversation was interrupted by a young man in a frantic rush. It was Kuchela’s assistant, Ravi, his face beaded with sweat.
"Ayya!" Ravi gasped, looking at Kuchela. "The corner table—the big one by the window with the best breeze—it’s ready. I’ve blocked it for four. The crowd is getting restless, but I told them it was reserved for the 'Management Inspection'."
Kuchela stood up, dusting his apron. "Management Inspection? I like that. It sounds official. It sounds like we aren't just three hungry men about to do battle with a mountain of rice."
He turned to Pedda Naidu and Kitta. "Come. No more talk of hunger. The avakaya is fresh, the dal is thick, and I personally oversaw the frying of the aratikaya bajji today."
Pedda Naidu rose with a groan of stiff joints, and Kitta stood with a nimble hop, looking almost bashful.
"Me too, Ayya?" Kitta asked, glancing at his dusty feet.
"Especially you," Kuchela insisted, grabbing Kitta’s shoulder. "A table for four. We’ll leave a spot for the ghost of Chinna Naidu, or perhaps just extra space for the bowls of sambar. Today, the owner eats with the village and the road."
The Feast Commences
As they entered the dining hall, the wall of heat from the street was replaced by the scent of roasted spices and the rhythmic clink-clink-clink of steel spoons against plates. The diners looked up, seeing the unlikely trio: the wealthy landowner, the boisterous restaurateur, and the lean rickshaw driver.
They sat at the reserved table. The banana leaves were laid out with the precision of a ritual. First came the salt, then the pickle, then the towering heap of steaming white rice.
"You know," Pedda Naidu said, as a server poured a golden stream of ghee over his rice, "my brother is at the temple seeking merit. But I think there is as much merit in this room as there is in Vontimitta."
Kuchela smiled, passing the bowl of spicy powder to Kitta. "In the temple, we feed the gods. In the mess, we feed the life that the gods created. It’s the same business, Naidu. Just different kitchens."
Kitta didn't say much then. He was already lost in the first mouthful of rice and dal, a look of profound peace settling over his face. Outside, the queue continued to grow, and the sun continued to bake the earth, but inside the Kuchela 100% Veg Mess, the world was exactly as it should be.
© Bharat Bhushan
29 January 2026
