Tandoori Time Travel From Panipat to Australia

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“Tandoori Time Travel: From Panipat to Australia, One Chicken Leg at a Time”

“Baba, it’s your last Saturday in Australia. What do you want for dinner?”

That question came from my son Anish—IT-enabled solar power expert by profession, but at heart, a five-star chef disguised in an apron with attitude.

I didn’t blink. “Tandoori Chicken. The one you make on that contraption that looks like a barbecue but behaves like a Vedic yajna setup.”

And so it began: marination, skewering, that sizzle, the aroma wafting like an old friend tiptoeing back into memory.

I poured myself a glass of rum with hot water, settled into the chair under the Australian sky—blue, smug, and mosquito-free—and took a bite.

And that’s when it hit me.

Boom! 1978. Panipat. BHEL.

I’m in my 30s again. Back from Indian Oil Corporation, full of voltage and vision, posted to commission the 2×110 MW thermal power station of Haryana Electricity Board.

We lived in Panipat New Township—a dusty, dreamy setup where the tea was strong, the gossips stronger, and the fans turned even when the power didn’t.

But Saturdays, ah… those were sacred.

Every Saturday evening was booze night. Not a party. Not a get-together. It was an institution, complete with standard operating procedure, democratically run by our friend Late Gurdeep Singh—the only bachelor among us.

Gurdeep was our self-declared bartender, chef, treasurer, DJ (without any music), and emotional counsellor—depending on how far along the Old Tavern you were.

Our group had Late Kandaswamy—a gentle, wise Tamilian whose whisky intake was directly proportional to his storytelling in broken Hindi;

Lenin—yes, that was his real name, and no, he was not remotely Marxist in drinking habits;

And then, of course, me—the only member who brought along a 4-year-old assistant named Anish, tucked under one arm like a lunchbox.

The protocol was simple:

₹50 per head.

₹10 if you’re under 4 feet and eating only the chicken.

No questions asked.

Gurdeep does everything.

We called it: “Give 50 bucks to Gurdeep and forget about it.”

And honestly, we did. Gurdeep never disappointed.

The menu? Unchanging:

Rosy Pelican beer in the summers (₹5 a bottle—cheaper than peanuts today).

Old Tavern or any other Solan-based sorcery in winter.

Tandoori chicken, ₹5 per whole, marinated in turmeric, red chili, lemon, and mild anxiety about salmonella.

The setting: folding chairs, a cracked transistor blaring Lata Mangeshkar, and one mosquito coil valiantly losing to the entire insect population of Haryana.

Anish, all of four, would gobble tandoori chicken with alarming professionalism. He would sit by my side  with a leg piece in one hand and throw in the occasional one-liner, which, frankly, had more bite than the chicken.

“Uncle Lenin,” he once said, “why are you laughing when your glass is empty?”

Or, “Baba, why is that chicken leg on Gurdeep Uncle’s head?”

Gurdeep didn’t flinch. He always said, “Beta, tension mat lo. This is called garnishing.”

We’d talk shop—

—how to commission the turbine without tripping the generator;

—how Shamnani, our short-tempered Site Incharge, could reach 400°C before the boiler did;

—how Manocha, the self-declared welding guru, once corrected a welder’s angle with a scale and then blamed the welder when it cracked;

—how the Ranga-Billa case had everyone scared, though we couldn’t tell if we were more afraid of them or of the canteen's mutton curry.

Sometimes, we just sat quietly, watching Gurdeep dance around the tandoor like a kathakali artist with a skewer.

One night, when the beer count crossed into double digits, Kandaswamy solemnly declared, “We must all buy shares in Gurdeep.”

We laughed for ten minutes.

Next morning, Gurdeep increased chicken prices to ₹6 and blamed it on inflation.

That was life.

No swiping, no scrolling, just chicken, banter, and bonding.

And now, back in Australia, Anish placed a steaming plate of tandoori chicken in front of me—red, smoky, glistening.

I took a bite. Tender, perfectly spiced, crisp at the edges.

And suddenly—he was four again, licking his fingers.

Gurdeep was yelling, “Bas karo yaar! Only two legs per person!”

Lenin was laughing at nothing, and I was 30, full of dreams and chicken grease.

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Maybe you do fly across the world.

Maybe life gives you solar panels and sky-high airfares.

But one tandoori bite, and you’re right back to ₹50 evenings, folding chairs, and friends who never left.

Cheers to rum, chicken, and memory circuits that never trip.

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