Shrishail presents a whimsical story about Dharwad Pedha #427's journey from the simmering cauldrons of Babusingh Thakur Pedha shop in Dharwad to Canada's beautiful Capital City of Ottawa to celebrate Kannada Rajyotsava 2025!!
Come, let's indulge ourselves in this sweet delight and enjoy Pedha #427's journey.
Story by: Shrishail Kariyappanavar
Illustrated by: Kedar Radhakrishna
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I am Pedha #427, and let me tell you, the Thakur family never warned us about Canada.
We were born in the smoky, wood-fired cauldrons of Line Bazaar, Dharwad—buffalo milk, sugar, and a lot of arm-aching stirring. One minute we’re rolling in sugar dust, dreaming of Diwali plates and aunties arguing over who gets the last piece. Next minute? A cardboard box. A label that says “Fragile—Do Not Squash.” Ha. As if anyone listens.
The journey began with a whisper: “Ottawa.”
“Otter-what?” asked Pedha #312, the nervous one.
“Sounds like a sneeze,” I said. “Probably near Belgaum.”
We were wrong. So very wrong.
First came the truck to Hubli airport. Every pothole was a betrayal. Pedha #89 lost half his sugar coat to the box wall. “Identity theft!” he wailed.
Then the plane. Oh, the plane. They stacked us like Jenga in the cargo hold. Somewhere over the Atlantic, the air pressure popped. Pedha #203 inflated like a tiny brown balloon. “I’m a gulab jamun now!” he squeaked. We laughed until the turbulence hit and we all ricocheted like popcorn.
Customs was the real horror. A man in gloves poked us with a stick. “What are these?”
“Cultural ambassadors,” said the Karnataka uncle escorting us. The officer sniffed. “Smells like dessert.” Obviously, I wanted to yell. We’re not smuggling idlis!
Twenty-four hours later, we landed in Ottawa. Minus 2°C. MINUS. My caramelized soul froze mid-thought. Pedha #512 cracked in half from the shock. “I’m a biscotti,” he whimpered.
We were rushed into a community hall where 300 Kannadigas waited, wearing pashmina shawls and singing “Jai Bharatha Jananiya Tanujate.”
They opened the boxes.
Silence.
Then:
“Dharwad pedha in Canada?!”
Aunty #1 burst into tears. Uncle #7 took a selfie. A kid tried to pay with loonies; we don’t accept beaver coins, sorry.
I, #427, was chosen for the VIP plate. A little girl in a “Karnataka is My Happy Place” T-shirt bit into me. Her eyes widened. “It tastes like my ajji’s hug!” she declared. I melted—not from temperature, but pride.
By the end, only 37 of us remained. The rest? Sacrificed to nostalgia, homesickness, and one overzealous uncle who thought “one more won’t hurt.”
As the hall lights dimmed and the last notes of “Uppu Huli Dosa” faded, Pedha #312 (now sugar-bald) leaned over.
“Worth the trip?”
I looked at the empty boxes, the sticky fingers, the smiling faces.
“Brother,” I said, “we just colonized Canada. One bite at a time.”
And somewhere in Dharwad, the cauldrons are already bubbling for the next batch.
Ottawa, we’ll be back.
Bring mittens!!![]()
