Spaghetti to sambar

Okay – so he isn’t the enigmatic Man-with-No-Name.

Nor, in sharp contrast, is he a suave, impeccable hunk, driving an Aston Martin DB5, armed with a licence to kill.

"Ramu was born exactly 8 months after our marriage, so we call him Quick Son Murugan!"

He prefers sambar to martinis, and it had better be totally traditional, thank you very much, without all that 'shaken, not stirred' hoopla.

Spurning deliberately muted understatement, he flaunts orange pants and green satin shirts, matched elegantly with leopard-printed waistcoats.

He’s gutsy enough to reject that weird, accented Indo-English so many mistake for sophistication (we speak like this only – what if?), and wears his make-up so thick, only an archaeological expedition can reach the face beneath.

So what?

He’s a hero... the Ultimate Edgy-Veggie, who can 'dishoom dishoom' with the best, who takes on gangs named after spicy powder, and who (you just have to like this guy) has the highest regard for ladies.

(His particular lady, incidentally, dismisses all this 'size zero' nonsense with cheeky elan.)

Maybe it’s time to re-think current usage of the term "sariyaana thair saadam case".

Transiting smoothly from a TV ad character to a pucca hero, he's an affectionate tribute to the gloriously manic, over-the-top imagination that has created our quintessential 'eroes over the decades.

Dhool, ma.

Meanwhile, mind it, Rascallas, and simply yenjai, I say.