Anyone who knows me well knows of my deep and enduring affection for the cuisines of southern India. From the gentle shores of the Konkan coast to the spice-laden kitchens of Tamil Nadu, each dish tells a story, rich with memory and flavour. I find joy in the simplest of preparations—the delicate tendli bibbe upkari, where crisp ivy gourd twirls with tender cashews in a whisper of coconut and tempered spices; the sweet-tart pineapple pulissery, sun-kissed and simmered in Kerala’s age-old tradition; and of course, the comforting duo of soft idlis and bold sambhar from Tamil Nadu, soul food in every sense.
Growing up in Mumbai, my mornings often began with the quiet clatter of wheels against pavement—annas on bicycles, pedalling through the waking city, baskets brimming with idlis still warm from steam, medu vadas golden and crisp, sabudana vadas, masala pohe, and fluffy upma. Their fare, humble in price but rich in flavour, was a daily comfort for office-goers and students alike, devoured on street corners, often standing.
One anna in particular remains etched in my memory. A familiar face on Linking Road in Bandra, he has stood his post for over 25 years. My family and I have been loyal to his vadas for two decades now—golden, airy, and perfectly seasoned. Even now, living in Delhi, I find myself yearning for them, especially on quiet mornings when the city still stretches into daybreak.
And then, quite unexpectedly, a recent lunch in Central Delhi brought those memories flooding back. A fragrant spread awaited me at a friend’s home—idlis, vadas, sambhar, and a symphony of chutneys, each bite echoing the tastes of the south. My friend, not usually one to don an apron, had a secret: a discovery from INA Market, a culinary gem tucked amidst its busy lanes.
There, amidst the daily din of shopkeepers and the scent of coriander and curry leaves, stands a modest eatery run by Prabhakaran, a man recently arrived from the coastal town of Kanyakumari. With quiet resolve and dreams stitched into his apron, he now serves Delhi the food of his childhood—soft idlis that yield like clouds, dosas that curl and crackle like golden lace, vadas that crunch before melting into warmth, and sambhar simmered slow, fragrant with memories.
His eatery, South Indian World, is small in size but immense in heart. What Prabhakaran offers is more than food—it is remembrance, a rootedness, a whisper from the south carried on a northern breeze. His dream is simple: to build a life here, and in doing so, to offer the true taste of Tamil Nadu to those willing to stop and savour.
As his following grows, so does his reach. I learned that he now caters home gatherings and intimate brunches, expanding his offerings to include rich, homestyle mutton and chicken curries—bold, unpretentious, and cooked with the kind of love only the truly devoted can offer. These dishes have begun to find a home in the hearts of Central Delhi’s discerning food lovers.
“I recently had Prabhakaran cater our Holi celebration,” says writer and Central Delhi resident Smita Tripathi. “The food was exceptional—his mutton curry, in particular, was luscious and disappeared in no time. That gathering became a turning point for him, and now I regularly call on him for my home events.”
There is something deeply reassuring in his food—a quiet reminder that no matter how far one travels, home can still be tasted in a spoonful of sambhar or the crisp edge of a dosa.
Too often, when we think of eating out, our minds drift to the polished gleam of fine-dining restaurants, forgetting the quiet artistry of the small vendors who serve without fuss or fanfare. Hygiene and ambience may influence our choices, but in doing so, we sometimes bypass flavours untamed, unaltered, and unapologetically authentic.
People like Prabhakaran are not just earning an honest living—they are guardians of culinary heritage, sharing stories on every plate. In a city like Delhi, a vibrant mosaic of cultures and cravings, there’s space—no, there’s a hunger—for such truth in flavour.
So yes, I recommend his food wholeheartedly. More than that, I hope his dreams rise—like dosa batter left to ferment overnight—full of quiet promise, waiting to bloom.