Work work work

Too much of it!
Work work work work work...
Not sure if I'm I'm inefficient, or if there really is a lot of work! I find everyone putting in 9-10 hours a day, on an average. What sort of time do they have left for anything else in life?
Hmmm...

Not So Much!

Too much water--don't like the rains all that much now :(

Red Earth and Pouring Rain

i love chennai in the hot, hot summer
i love chennai on rainy days like these
pouring cats and dogs, water on the roads,
sipping hot tea, and eating some bajjis.

Conked Out!

This just in: Our laptop just conked out. Just won't start--I'm typing from V.'s desktop.
It's frsutrating because, to be honest, digital makes me feel totally impotent. I keep switching on and off the computer--and that's all I can really do.
With analog, you could (note the tense here) somehow try to fix it--with video tapes, you could take the tape out, and clean it, and do something that made you think you could! But with DVDs, for instance, if it doesn't play, it's gone!
I'm beginning to rethink writing on the computer--maybe I should take printouts or something?
Anyway, wish us luck!

Serendipity

Too thrilled on Saturday.

I went to check out a sale of books in a local worn-out library on Arya Gowda Road, (doubles and triples of books, the owner said). I'd been there before, and hadn't found anything interesting, but just wanted something to do, and went there.

And lo and behold! Look what I found: "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time" by Mark Haddon.

I had been looking for this book for over a year, and had almost given up hope--Eloor didn't have it, nor did Crossword.

I also picked up a Danielle Steele novel, and get this: The Daniel Steele novel was Rs. 70, and the Mark Haddon book, Rs. 30 :)

Read it almost at a single stretch. It's a beautiful book about how humans have complicated lives for ourselves. It is narrated by a 15-year-old autistic child, and is funny, poignant (I've been wanting to use that word in writing forever), and thought-provoking at the same time. And what's more, it's a quick read! Highly recommended by me. Of course, if you don't get a copy anywhere else, I'll be glad to loan mine :)

11 km in 2 hours!

Coming back after a long day's work, without a mode of transport, is hell.

No car on Friday, nor a bike, and I travelled by 3 modes to get home--and it took me 2 hours! Would a brisk walk have been quicker?

7:00 p.m.: The rains. Totally unprepared for them.

Then, I walk from Ascendas to Tidel (auto guys asked for Rs. 170 to come to Mambalam. Y'day at 4 p.m., it was just Rs. 100, but today, it's the rain+time+traffic factor, they explained nicely.)

7:10 p.m.: I ask an auto guy at Tidel Park, and he asks for Rs. 140 (one would think Ayyappa samis would be more reasonable, but no, siree!)

7:15 p.m.: I take a share auto to Madhya Kailash, and realize, to my horror, that I have no change--only a 100-rupee note. (I hand it over to the share auto guy with trembling hands, but he's a king soul--he fishes out his last ten-rupee note and gives me the change.)

7:30 p.m.: Am waiting for a bus at Madhya Kailash bus stop. I take a super-crowded 5B, thinking I'll come to the T. Nagar Bus Terminus, and someone can pick me up from there (someone from home, that is!)

7:45: Traffic is choking, and we're still near Raj Bhavan. The bus splutters to a complete halt. A few guys get out and push the bus. In between, there's a small fight in the bus--a guy is accused of misbehaving with a woman. He says it's the crowd--it's not like he wanted to. Just peak bus traffic, as usual. The bus reluctantly starts, but soon gets going. Only, the traffic doesn't. I have moved to the front of the bus.

I'm trying to take a picture for this post, but the shake is too much. And I turn to see a man looking directly at the screen of my phone. Cannot expect privacy in a crowded bus--my life is a free-for-all screen in a crowded bus. Here's what it looked like, anyway.

The driver cribs about how irritated he is to drive these days--the traffic is just too much. "Veruppa irukku," he tells the guy standing next to him. The guy says, somewhat in reply, "Don't go to the extreme left of the road, and then try to go right, you'll get stuck." The driver bristles at this. "I know what to do--you don't have to tell me," he says, suddenly aware of his position. "Konjam vitta podhum (Give a camel an inch and he takes a metre)," he mutters. Passengers, it seems, must be just that, and understand the hierarchy of a bus ride--it's the driver, conductor, and then the passengers, in that order.

8:00 p.m.: The traffic has sort of eased. The bus speeds down Mount Road, but I start getting a bit claustrophobic. I need to get out. I get off at the stop before Saidapet. It starts raining heavily. I try to hail an auto--he won't come to Mambalam. The rain eases up a bit, and I walk in the general direction of home. I stop at McRennett's and get myself a bun.

8:15 p.m.: I consider autos that are lined up in an auto stand, but don't. Stand autos are notorious for their rowdyism, I hear. Must be strength in numbers, because isn't every auto man part of a stand, somewhere? I look at an auto that is standing in front of a tea stall, but a blind man is passing by, and the auto guy runs to help him. I pause, and keep walking. In two minutes, the auto stops in front of me, and he agrees to the fare--Rs. 50. I get in, and chat a bit with him. The traffic really kills them, he says. The ride is pleasant enough, and I'm at home at 8:45 or so.

P.S.: I like the rains, like when it's raining now, over the weekend :)

P.S. 2: I made the map, but not sure why--just seemed pretty cool.

What Worm?

Spotted this guy (is there a way to find out if it's a he or a she, with worms?), trying to come inside the house. Then, he promptly went away--haven't seen this kind before--anyone knows whether he's a safe worm to be around?

Was reminded, somehow, of a papaya, when I saw this one.

Cutest pic of Bruce

He's 6 months old now!

What can, must?

The car snakes its way
Along the concrete jungle
Black roads hardly visible

Like a new bride's sharp tongue
Like an occupied child's call of nature
Like a virgin boy's first time

Moving along and stopping
As if wondering
"Should I really, now?"

Then thinking of the fire within,
"Yes, or I might just implode."
The car moves along.

How about this weekend?

Emotions, feelings, relationships
All adjourned to the nearest weekend
The injustice of the corporate world!

The Other "The"

Whenever I think of my friends, I consider myself lucky--I (think) I have a good mix--and the best part is that they are of all ages.
But age has a unique way of letting itself known. We'd started a book club in our office, and my older friend suggested the book, "The Kite Runner." I have to shamelessly admit that I am yet to read the book--too much war in the news sort of puts you off reading about it!
In any case, in summarizing the book, my good friend said it was about two boys in Afghanistan during and after the war.
I thought I got what the book was about, but when I peeked in, I realized that "THE WAR" meant the Russian occupation!
I'm sure the rest of the club members wouldn't have thought that "the war" was not the U.S. invasion (is it okay to call it that?) but the Soviet one!

Powerless!

What's with this hypocrisy?
While the state's reeling under a severe power crisis, MK lights up his events--no, not by his presence, but literally!
MK asks business establishments to minimize the use of power and what I do I see the day before yesterday near Anna University?
A function where MK inaugurated 6 new engineering colleges was announced by so many lights that it seemed like Diwali. And tubelights announced MK's arrival all along the main Anna University Road (S.P. Road, isn't it?)
Why, so that people can see where the main road is? It's well lit already, thank you very much! And tons of serial bulbs in the shape of the rising sun--why, why, why?

Of course, they are not the only culprits--I see temples lighting up the Chennai skyline with bulb-portraits of various gods and goddesses--not a good idea when people are facing a 4-hour power cut in the suburbs--where is our sense of propreity?

Oh well, that's my soapbox for the day. I so wish I had a camera phone so this piece would make more sense. I bet wouldn't have had to write anything! Guess I've to keep up with the Moorthys after all :)

What's in a Name?

I think I’m done with the whole dog thing. The novelty has sort of worn off, and so has my patience with his biting! He’s sort of become one more of those things we live with, with mixed feelings—like the Chennai weather, traffic, and the Indian team.

Just passing through some ridiculously-named businesses the other day, and I seemed to have a list of those. I promise pictures soon!

I actually got thinking of this when I saw the word “More” splashed across all the stores I knew by the name “Trinethra.” Now, for those who don’t know the language, “More” means “buttermilk” in Tamil. I thought of about a hundred jokes that people probably make when they see the board—I wouldn’t be surprised if someone actually thinks it’s a store selling buttermilk, or a free buttermilk booth!

And then there’s the three-wheeler by Piaggio, Àpe. It has an accent, like so many of us, but in this largely English-speaking world, would antennas not have gone up, that it means “monkey”?
And as for Tamil, don’t even try. Tamil slang “aapu,” pronounced very much like the name of the vehicle, actually means, “failure.” Good name for a vehicle model, eh?

Moon White Dry Cleaners: Now, they can’t possibly be that clean if their target is the moon’s colour, can they?

Next Asset Furniture: Their tag line? Compromise With Our Furniture! Hmm… maybe I’m not worth much more. Sniff, sniff!

Identity Crisis!

I’m slowly getting used to sleeping with a dog let loose near my bed.
But enough about me—I think Bruce must be undergoing a severe identity crisis now. We call him by various names, and V. thinks that calling his name in baby-ese will somehow endear him—so he calls him “Bloosie,” “Bloosh,” “Blues Clues” (a very famous kids’ show, in my ever-expanding “useless pieces on information” folder) and anything weird that starts with a “B” sound.

Not to be outdone, I have christened him something ever further from his real name—Ambuli. Don’t ask me why—I just blurted it out one day, and it seems to have stuck. What’s more, my parents-in-law have taken to the name too. Of course, there’s the usual derivatives of Ambuli—Ambuja, Ambuls, Bulls, Ambu, Jambu, et al.

My f-i-l has somehow seen his grandson in Bruce. So he calls him Govind Bhashyam! Hopefully, that won’t stick—can’t imagine the kid (they live in the U.S.) coming home to see a dog with his name!

And here we are, complaining that he doesn’t listen to us—he might, if we settle on a name for him!

Bruce Almighty!

Seriously, if it's like this for a dog, I wouldn't mind living a dog's life at all!

• So, Bruce (the name is set now) is so used to the AC, that my usually hesitant father-in-law keeps the AC running longer than usual in the afternoon and at night.
• V. cleans his susoo and poo-poo without even wincing, while he'd make all sorts of excuses to avoid cleaning the bathroom at home.
• And of course, my ma-in-law, who is a total cleanliness freak, doesn't crane her neck at an angle to spot any dirt or dust on the floor.
• Also, usually reticent people come over and talk to us during those rare moments B. does decide to take a walk.
• I voluntarily take my tea with me when I walk him; earlier, I would throw tantrums when anyone so much as spoke to me during my sacred tea-time.
  
  Oh, and here's the funniest thing: V. tells B., who thinks it's the ultimate torture to leave the comfort of the AC room, except to eat, "If you only eat and sleep like this without any exercise, you'll become fat and bulky. It's not healthy, lazybones!"
  
  Hahahahaha!

Teething Troubles

Here’s the thing—we got a puppy recently. Am quite excited. He’s a 2-month-old Alsatian we call Bruce.
That’s one of V.’s long-term dreams turn into reality. I think the other is to be a champion at bridge.
In any event, this jumpy, cuddly creature is the cutest thing on earth—when he’s sleeping! He’s sometimes cute when he’s not sleeping—more specifically, when he’s biting someone else (he’s supposedly teething), and when it’s not 3 a.m.!
But seriously, if my parents-i-l want us to want children, they could not have conjured up a worse trailer. Bruce is not toilet trained yet, and insists on peeing and pooping in the kitchen. We take him for long walks during which he admires the views and the sounds around him, and then promptly come home to poop in the kitchen!
Now I’m not one of those who go “Awwwwwwwww!” on seeing a cute dog. I like to see them, preferably from a distance, even more preferable if there’s a partition between me and the dog.
But in one of those many compromises that you make instinctively (only to regret at leisure) as part of this agreement called marriage, I accepted the concept of a dog in the house. I also understand why someone’s scared of dogs, or refuses to enter a house when a dog’s in it (am –or is it ‘was’—one of those people). It’s been quite an effort to get over my idea that animals and people belong in different habitats.
This is not about to turn into a blog entry detailing how I started loving dogs, and how God has created all creatures bright and beautiful.
When Bruce first came to our house, I tried getting him to play with me. After all, I quite fancied myself as the ‘more lovable’ person, be it dogs or humans. But Bruce knew that I was trying too hard, or so it seemed.
That night, he seemed very sad. I felt sad for him too, for having left his family in Orissa, and coming into a house where the people were all strange.
Then, one day, when I was petting him, he wanted to bite my hands (those damn teeth again), and I withdrew my hands quite suddenly. He barked—his very first angry bark, for me.
And my old ideas returned. After all, they do act on instinct, no matter how much intelligence we bestow upon them, no?
And then, I started noticing that it meant at least a 30% increase in chores—getting his food ready, cleaning up after him, running after him, and sleeping in constant fear of being bitten.
The silver lining? Kids, who I thought will not have any inhibitions, also seem scared of him :)
He’s cute when he looks up with those forlorn eyes, but when he barks, especially at the broomstick which he’s convinced has a life of its own, it’s quite funny. And scary. Perhaps mine is the fear of the uninitiated. Perhaps it’s the truth.
In the meantime, I’m trying to savour the moments we have with Bruce. As V. says, he is what we all hope to be—true to his feelings.

One Weekend, Two Chennai Staples, Two Let-Downs

I've always liked Saravana Bhavan--good sambar, and good chutney (two of the rarest things, I learned from my years in the U.S.).
But recently, I went to the one near Ashok Pillar--the restaurant, with my mother-in-law. And promptly got sticker shock! Why is a dosai priced at Rs. 78? And when I ordered the regular masala dosai, I was warned by the waiter- It won't be enough for you. Do you want the ghee masala instead? The price difference? One almost double the other. And when we ordered juices, they arrived when we almost finished eating.
And the fresh lime juice had been extracted more than the IT worker! Total thumbs down!

And the other one? Murugan Idli Shop. I used to like the unpretentiousness of the place. When we went this weekend (again, my m-i-l and I, our spouses are out of town, you see!) we both had the mini meal. And when m-i-l spotted that the so-called mango pickle had gone bad, the waiter was unapologetic. He said something like, "I guess it had started to ripen." Huh?
And when we persisted, asking if there was some other pickle, or something we could eat with the curd rice, pat came the reply, "The pickle will come at 3 p.m." Double huh?? How about offering us some sambar, dudes? And the waiter was bit of a smart-alec too. When we thought he had an order wrong and asked him to repeat the order, he said it right. Along with the comment, "You must been too long in the sun"!!

Customer is king, but I guess these times are those of ridiculing your king!

Kids Say the Darndest Things!

This Saturday, a few of us CSR folks from our company (translate Singa paalam-- we’re apparently not supposed to blog about work or our office at all) went to Thirusoolam (a neat little hamlet just behind the hills that you always think will be perfect for trekking, whenever you feel active in the comfort of your bike/car/bus).

It was the CSR event for the month of June, and the organization we tied up with was Kaingkarya—an NGO that encourages the children of the village to go to school. It also conducts some training outside of school as well, and also nursing training programs.

In any case, we sponsored their sports day. We’d have liked to be more involved, but as it turned out, the young men of the village had it all covered.

It was good in one sense, because we had a lot of interaction with the kids. There were several interesting exchanges, which were very insightful—some funny, some very telling. These are, obviously, just translations:

Boy: Are you Hindu or Christian?
I: Why?
Boy: Chumma…
I: Can I not be Muslim?
Boy: Are you Muslim?
I: What do you think I am? (I’m not sure why I don’t give him a proper answer—maybe I still feel it’s not a kosher question!)
Boy: I think you’re Christian.
I: I am what you think I am (The kid must have thought I’m crazy!)
I: Are there many Christians?
Boy: No.
I: Are you? (I guess the question’s suddenly kosher!)
Boy: No, I’m Hindu. Are you really Christian? (This kid just doesn’t let up)
I: Is there only Hindu and Christian? Maybe I’m Sikh, maybe I’m Jain, maybe I’m Parsee!
Boy (calls his friend over): Hey, it seems Akka’s a seek da! You know, what you put in your hair on Diwali!

*--*--*

Lots of girls are fighting with boys who, it turns out, are their brothers. One such girl is talking about her brother, who’s actually quite the rowdy—and he’s not even 10!

Girl: He doesn’t listen to anyone at home.
I: Hmm… how did you come have a brother like this?
Girl: I don’t know.
I: (Trying humour here): Did you ask your mom why she bore such a brother for you?
Girl: I did.
Girl’s friend: Oho! As if mothers bear children after asking!

*-*-*

Girl: Are you from out of this country?
I: No. I’m from here only.
Girl: Then how come you’re so white?
I: I guess my parents are fair, so…
Girl: Are they from out of the country?

*--*--*

There were about 8 girls called Manimegalai. Everytime I asked some girl’s name, and the answer was “Manimegalai,” the girls burst into laughter!

Girl: Don’t call any girl called Manimegalai. If you do, around eight of them will answer!

*--*--*

Some of the kids are studying in English medium schools, and most in Tamil medium schools. One of the boys thought it was somehow funny.

Boy: Vanakkam, Englipees.
I: What’s that?
Boy (to another boy): This is Englipees Akka, da.
I: And what’s your name?
Boy: I’m Englipees.
I: Oh, so everyone’s Englipees?
Another boy: He studies in an English medium school—so….
I: Oh, that’s nice!
Boy: Avnu.
I: So, you’re Telugu as well?
Boy: Yes, all-India all languages.
I: You didn’t speak in Kannada.
(The conversation is getting a bit “out there”.)
Boy: Yes, I know it though.
I: Very good. Now how about you speak in English for me?
Boy: No Englipees. Haha…

The reason I mention this really otherwise boring conversation is that the boy seemed sort of embarrassed that he was in an English-medium school.

*-*-*

Well, it was a nice outing all in all. You should visit the temple that is atop a hill there--very cool. Try and go there before the sun gets up!

Ah! Print Acceptance

So, this morning I wake up to some really exciting news—my blog’s been mentioned in the Indian Express's Indulge’s Web Scout section.

I usually rush to grab Indulge on Fridays (I swear!) and read Niladri’s column, and glance through the list of blogs mentioned. Today, though, I had to look at it twice—and there it was: chennaigirlreturnshome.blogspot.com!

I jumped up and down, after ensuring that it was indeed my blog they were talking about, and was almost incoherent as I told my parents-in-law, “Indulge has mentioned my blog.”

I phoned V. from downstairs (after all, it’s not everyday that your blog gets mentioned in a national newspaper), and told him my blog was mentioned, when my mother-in-law asked me, “What is a blog?” I explained that it was sort of like an online diary. My father-in-law read the short write-up. My mother-in-law asked me again, “But where’s your name?”

Me: Opening my mouth and closing it.

In about 10 minutes, V. walked down. And ma-in-law was happy to see her son get up so early!

“Maybe you should write to Indian Express everyday,” she said, before walking off to water her garden, “Then V. may get up early everyday.”

Me: Speechless!

Wired Weird

Last night, I had a weird dream—that I had AIDS. Must be all this NGO stuff I read about and do, I thought. V. always says my dreams are too weird.
What was most remarkable was the fact that, in my dream, I could feel the inability to do anything, the fatality that I assume comes with something like AIDS, and also people’s reactions. The dream went something like this: I suddenly become aware that I have AIDS, although people around me haven’t told me anything. Then, there are parties and other fun stuff that happen, but I’m not interested in any of them. I don’t even want to participate in anything. When someone asks me what I want to eat, I say something like, “I don’t really care; what does it matter now?”
There is a rich neighbour as well, in my dream. The neighbor seems to be some sort of scientist guy, something I probably took away from last night’s “Honey, I Shrunk the Kids”! Would he be the person to deliver me from the dreaded killer?
In any case, what mattered most in the dream was what I felt—no determination to fight this thing, no will to live, nothing. I’m not sure if that’s indicative of the kind of person that I am deep down, or what Freud would say about all this. But when I woke up (or even in the dream, I thought), I was determined to do something about this virus.
Now what that is, I’ve to figure out.

Tagged by my friend

My dear friend, Raji, tagged me. It apparently means that I've to do what she did, which is fill out this questionnaire.

It sort of got me off my ass and made me get an entry up after all these weeks, if not anything else!

So, here goes the food tag:

What’s your favourite table?
Ea-table?

What would you have for your last supper?
C’mon man! That’s too depressing a thought!

What’s your poison?
Cheese!

Name your three desert island ingredients.
If I’m marooned on an island, don’t care what I eat! Maybe dosai maavu and green chillies? Guessing I’ll get coconuts there for the chutney! Dosai-kallu?

What would you put in Room 101?
Not sure what this means…

Which book gets you cooking?
Any book—the minute my ma sees me having some time to myself, she’ll think up an elaborate meal for me to help out with!

What’s your dream dinner party line-up?
Line-up… any party with French fries, and cheesecake. (Okay, you can throw in some salad too…) Oh wait, the question wasn’t about guests, was it?

What was your childhood teatime treat?
My only teatime treat -- Marie biscuits

What was your most memorable meal?
When my friend called me home for lunch, and I tasted something called a “bake.” It was a totally new taste, and I loved it! Might have been the first time I tasted cheese.

What was your biggest food disaster?
There was this time we’d called people home for dinner, and I was supposed to make mango pudding. I ended up adding salt instead of sugar, and too much turmeric… clearly the worst pudding ever!

What’s the worst meal you’ve ever had?
See answer to previous question.

Who’s your food hero/food villain?
You know Ranga Rao from “Kalyana samayal saadam”? Love him!

Nigella or Delia?
I like Nigella. Her name rhymes with flagella…

Vegetarians: genius or madness?
Depends on whether you’re a chick or not!

Fast food or fresh food?
Fast food first, and then, guiltily, fresh food.

Who would you most like to cook for?
Nigella. Her name rhymes with flagella…

What would you cook to impress a date?
We’d eat out at the most expensive restaurant in town, and I'd make sure he pays.

Make a wish.
World peace

Asphyxiation

How many words can you make from it?
At least a hundred?
I might as well list them.
I got the time, you see.

On the other side of my cubicle
Is another, where
A worker toils, sweats blood
But I have nothing to do.

Some stress for lack of work
And some just on account of it
Is it not possible for parity
In any aspect of capitalist life?

Something’s choking me
Oh! It’s the eight hours I need to log
It never seems to go away
However hard I try (Hope this helps).

Sphinx: A mysterious person
Whose intentions are not quite clear
She’s said to kill those
Who could not solve her riddles.

Phat: It’s passé, the Web tells me
Used to be “Pretty Hot And Tempting.”
A way to call a woman fat
And ensure she never blinks an eye.

Sap: There’s many meanings
The verb weakens
The nouns are fluid and stupid
The all-caps version concerns computers.

Ax: They say the Americans economized
Dropped the final “e” and no one missed it
Cos it didn’t serve any purpose
Oh wait – we are an American company!

From a Narrow Viewpoint

I dream of a better world for myself,
For my friends, for my family, for people I know
And those I don’t.

To be free from tension;
From looming deadlines
And increasing pressure,
From 8 p.m. meetings
And pizza desk dinners
From automobile smoke
And humming computers
That all seem to be saying

That 60 years have passed
But you don’t seem to know
That it’s too short a time,
To shake off the shackles.

Lines--And How to Cut Them

Yesterday, I was at a reception of someone who I had not seen even once earlier in my life. I was emotionally dragged into attending it by my mother-in-law, who, to be fair, is usually the only one attending such events, because of an extremely home-bound husband. If Fevicol were looking for a concept for its next installment of ads, I’d generously recommend my father-in-law, who stays at home, come hell or high water.

Anyway, as usual, I digress. On entering the reception hall, we spot a serpentine line snaking its way to the back of the room. “Let’s go stand in the line,” suggests MIL, and it seems like a good idea. We pick up our glasses of grape juice, and evade a few friends who might otherwise hold us up in our quest for eternity in the “X Weds Z Reception Veedeo: CD IV. 27/4/2008.”

After a few minutes, I notice that the line isn’t moving as fast as the camera flashes indicate. However, it has only been five minutes, and I think I must be over-reacting, as usual. We reach within ten feet of the stage, and a man in a blue short hails the guy in front of us (GIFOU) in the line. Gives his hand for a handshake, and they’re chatting. Pleasantries, I supposed. Soon, I notice he is part of the line, in front of us. What’s more, Mr. Blue Shirt (Let’s call him BS) then calls over his wife and kids, as if he wants to introduce them to GIFOU. They smile too broadly at each other, and the lady actually looks guiltily at us, while BS convinces her to stay on. Now, they’re part of the line too, in front of us. In another world, I tap BS on the shoulder and ask him, “Padichhavanga dhaane neenga (You’re educated, aren’t you)?” and, of course, he is overcome by shame.

In the real world, clearly, nothing of that sort happens. He happily carries on, and there are several others who join right in, both behind us and in front of, and we continue on, until we pose for the photo that is a sure candidate for the inanest instance of social propriety. By the way, after the reception photo is taken, what are the people supposed to do? I’d think, make small talk for the video. But most of us are still standing in the photo pose—wouldn’t that look horrible on video?

Well, after the “congratulations,” we make our way to the dining room, where another line awaits us. But as soon as a few places are freed up, there is a rush of people toward the empty dining seats, forget who was where first.

Why have we become so obsessed one set of social norms that we flout another so brazenly? Why does cutting forward in line count as acceptable behavior, while skipping the wedding of a near stranger does not? Is it because we have a closed circuit of people whose opinion we care about, and the rest can go to hell?

What makes a person wax eloquent about traffic rules, but run a red signal when the opportunity presents itself? If the wife of BS had that one iota of guilt, what made her jump over to the land of the obnoxious? Was it BS’ encouragement? Or was it the fact that cutting a line isn’t exactly seen as a crime?

When I first encountered this behaviour, I did take my fantasy role: I tapped the woman in front of me on the shoulder and told her that she cut forward. She proceeded to explain to me how they were part of the same group. She “let” me go in front of her, but the person behind me accepted her intrusion. I was now looked at with derision. “As if she can’t adjust. All these people from America always talking rules,” she said!

America or not, I have a dream – of a line that no one jumps, of a reception that is more meaningful than a few handshakes and 15 seconds of video.

Dilamo Dilamo

Okay, so here's the situation:

You go to Spencer's Plaza with friends. You buy some things from here and there, some of them riduclously overpriced, but you're okay with it, cos you can afford it.

Then you stop over at Cookie Man to buy some of those delectable treats.

While waiting for your sale to be rung up, you see a couple, with a kid. The man is wearing vetti sattai, and they seem as of they're in Chennai on a trip or something. The kid, who's about four, has taken a liking to the displayed gourmet chocolates. Just from the display, it's obvious they'll be quite expensive.

The kid asks for the chocolates, the father asks the counter guy how much it costs, and the guy at the counter is quite condesceding when he says -- ONNU (One) forty five rupees. The couple seem shocked at the price, and abruptly walk away, and the kid is wailing behind, asking for the chocolate.

So, what do you do?

So, here was my emotional roller coaster:
First, my impulse was to buy the chocolate and give it to the kid.
Then, I figure that if I did that, it'll be a bit condescending on my part as well, as if I'm ignoring the father, and somehow belittling him in the eyes of his family.
After that, I was angry -- first, at the guy at the counter for his seemingly rude behavior, and then at the whole Cookie Man establishment (in spite of their awesome cookies) for their overpriced chocolates. Of course, I realized it was quite the evasive behavior, because "it's the economy, stupid!"

In a free capitalist market, there will always be some people who'll be able to afford more than others. By this point, of course, the argument has assumed macro proportions in my mind. (At this point, let me confess that I know not if the family just thought the chocolate was unnecessary expenditure (I think it would be), and could well afford it.) Let's say I somehow made everyone magically able to afford the chocolate -- there'll be some other exclusive product that will come up, which will be more expensive than the rest!

Then, of course, I returned a bit micro, and was angry at myself -- for reasons unknown, but probably mainly guilt at buying things at these prices, and stoking the fire of price hikes.

In any case, by this time, our sales are done, and I have the cookies in my hand. I get a bit more micro and tell myself, "WEll, it's perhaps all for the best. Chocolates are no good for a child's teeth anyway!"

What could I have done differently?

Crushing success!

It all begins with a simple look – you look at him, mostly.
The first one I remember was that quintessential symbol of agility, Jonty Rhodes. When The Hindu splashed a beautiful photo of Jonty, mid-air, getting what was seemingly an impossible catch.

This, I recently dug out, a famous piece of fielding:



It was also the time I had newly discovered the meaning of “jaunty” and thought that the two factors combined made for a good enough crush for me. Of course, of prime importance in this whole process is the secrecy. Needless to say, my parents (or God forbid, my brother!) were never to see the secret file I had on him. They knew not that the missing rectangles in last week’s Hindu could be found in that selfsame file. I’m sure they guessed, somewhat, but didn’t deign to broach so insignificant a topic.

The phase actually lasted quite a bit, replete with dreams of me, a spectator in India, handing over a cricket ball to Jonty, a ball that has inexplicably found its way into my hands. Of course, our affair begins there, and he settles down in India and plays for the Indian team, and the whole country is in awe of me for netting the country Jonty. Too many Bollywood movies, is what I say now! Then, it seemed doable, if only I willed it real hard!

So I ignored all sorts of real-life guys in my life.

And then I turned on the TV, and something happened. I saw “Circus,” a Hindi serial that featured a young man called Shah Rukh Khan. My sister and I followed it religiously, and Jonty and his old file were soon forgotten.
Added to the SRK effect was Jonty’s failing form, and (this detail is a bit vague) news that he had some uncharitable things to say about India. I decided that Shah Rukh Khan would have to do.

For a while. As I neared my twenties, crushes came and went like people at a funeral – without warning, or a parting word. In my twenties, I became a bit more reasonable, and added real people I had actually talked to, to the mix. It was getting to be quite tiring just keeping tabs – maintaining the same level of energy for Hindi, Tamil and English actors, sportsmen, random television personalities, guys I saw in the college, on the road, near my house…

It was a bit more difficult with real-life people, as I had suspected. They were, well, real. And while digging up information about superstars hid more than it revealed, with real-life people I was often directly confronted with their everyday minutiae, and irritants such as their yellow teeth, disrespect for women, and body odor. Insurmountable obstacles, these, I now realize.

And of course, there’s the Groucho Marx sentiment – I’ll never be interested in a guy who’s interested in me – the ungettability is part of the attraction, you see!

I think the underlying sentiment behind these is the fantasy element – I somehow knew, deep down, that I will never have to spend the rest of my life with any of these people.
For the simple reason that I will never allow fantasy to interfere with my life. My dream life, as it were, would be completely different from my life.

Now, remember that these are not men I am even necessarily thinking of sexually, just guys I like the look, and sometimes, the walk or talk, of.

And then one day, I got married. I was astounded to find my crushes still intact in my heart. The Ajay Devgans and the Robin Uthappas were alright, but how did my former colleague still feature in this list? Weren’t real people banned from being a crush?

As time went by, it got tougher for me to “allow” a crush, but they still stopped by every now and then. As I got to deciphering, and then predicting, V.’s reactions and emotions accurately, it became a bit more interesting to discover a new person – know more about him (or sometimes, her). And I’ve come to peace with the fact that, in my heart,

Crushes may come and crushes may go
But V. stays on forever.

High fliers

So, I'm all about poetry now. A kind colleague has taken me on (I hope), as Eliza Doolittle (although she's nothing like the professor), to educate me on poetry. There's hopefully some apparent improvement. This was inspired by a scene outside, while I waited for my "turn" in the office loo.

Wait your turn, I tell myself
As I stare through the two-by-two
A child's out there, flying a kite
Oh, there's another too!

Now, I see only the rectangles
Not the thread nor the children's hands
As the sprightly kites come close
In an elaborate mating dance.

The smaller one seems enticed
By the big, blue one and his style
Must have whispered sweet nothings
Could he have, in such a short while?

As the winds bring the couple closer
The unseen hand giving anchor
He takes her away from her support
And elopes, swearing to protect her.

Alas, he has no free will, it seems
She is only a trophy wife at best
When they return to the ground
They are separated, and there’s no protest.

No way to go back to her own
Nor a breeze that can take her away
Ignored and bereft, she's torn
With no real options to weigh.

Wait your turn, I tell myself,
As I stare through the two-by-two;
Today, it’s just the little kite
Tomorrow, it might be you.

Cop out!

Has Chennai become better policed? I am convinced it is so. All those creepy silver screen images running at 24 frames per second where an inspector seems pure evil are mostly imaginary, I am sure.

My mind, which did undergo an emotional seesaw, has finally settled in favor of the Khaki Chattai.

To expand on this, I am obliged to go into a long, but (I hope) entertaining story. The house next to ours, which housed the old woman overly concerned about the lack of my reproductive activity, now stands razed to the ground. For at least a year, there will be no ambient sound of daughter shouting at mother. Or that of the mother who shouts at her own, who then carries on a monologue to no one in particular, punctuated by the three whistles of the pressure cooker, a weird metaphor (I imagine) for the mental state of all three women in various stages of their lives.

Anyway, to make a long story short, the house is being razed to the ground, and for that, bulldozers were called in. It turns out that bulldozers are not allowed to ply the roads during the day.
Hiring a bulldozer is quite expensive, and contractors usually try to skimp on costs, no matter how large the project. Solution? Everything has to be done at night.

So the bulldozers were pressed into action, and a “Sleepless in Chennai” night followed. V. made several calls to the police, who promised to rectify the situation, but broke those promises with impunity.

After our numerous complaints, it was agreed upon by the building contractor that it wouldn’t happen again.

But of course, two days later, the bulldozer had made its reappearance. It slowly moved to the now pile of rubble, and was poised to begin work – at 9:30 p.m.

My father-in-law rushed out, as did V. and I. Having recently been accused of sleeping through the hullabaloo two nights earlier (I did), I was out to prove my worth.

I had grand visions of being the woman who saved my frail f-i-l, when the contractors pushed him, while somehow managing to stop the bulldozer by throwing myself in its belly.

I was distracted by the voice of the contractor. “Only two hours saar,” he now said, and seemed to actually grovel. But we were steadfast; we had seen this before (I use the pronoun in a loose sense, of course), just two days earlier, in fact. They had said some pretty nasty things about us earlier (all hearsay), and knew they weren’t all that innocent.

We threatened them once more of inviting the police to discipline them (they actually seemed to snigger at this), and stormed into our house. We called the police, of course, the 100 number.
Convinced it was V.’s educated accent that failed to do the trick earlier, I put on a Chennai accent and reported this violation (or what we thought was a violation anyway).
In the meantime, a mama two houses down had also called the police. He had earlier chided us for being “soft” on these guys, and insisted we should have staged a dharna outside the police station the last time around itself.

Promises that an inspector was on his way were parroted to him as well. By this time, the men in the next plot were, well, plotting their next move. They hung out for a while, during which time two lorries made their way to the (now demolished) gate, sticking their behinds in to collect the rubble.

The bulldozer growled to life (not purred, it was hardly a BMW), and it seems the men were activated. We were, meanwhile, waiting for the police to arrive. Didn’t happen.

V. and I decided that action must be taken somehow, and I used my nagging to get us to the nearest police station. I toyed with the idea of mentioning my background in journalism just for the heck of it, but went into a funk about not actually being a journalist. V.’s advice to not lie to a police officer helped too, of course!

Anyway, we entered the station, and presented ourselves to the policeman nearest the entrance. We were immediately ushered into the inspector’s office. We went in, expecting, of course, someone like Pasupathy of “Dhool” fame. But we’re surprised to see someone really pleasant – almost like the uncle next door.

He bids us to sit, and V. offers me the only seat available, feigning habitual chivalry, which had, in fact, just made its debut. The inspector makes him sit too, on a nearby bench, and asks us what we want. We explain our problem, launching into a tirade about the bulldozer and the noises it makes, and he asks us, as he would a child, “So, what do you want us to do?”

We tell him that we want it to stop, cinema-style. He says, again in that tone that speaks to the kindergartener, “But we don’t allow them to come to the city in the morning. When can they demolish the house?”

V. thinks he’s being the devil’s advocate and (unwisely, I think), tells him why the noise must stop, asap. The inspector gently repeats the question, and we think. Anytime before 11 p.m., and after 5 a.m. is fine, we say. He calls a policewoman, takes down our address and asks her to go and tell the guys they must stop, after a little bit. She does, and leaves.

We go home, and wait. By this time, of course, the demolition men have started their work. We wait and wait and look out for the telltale police van – not that we know how it will look. My mom-in-law calls again, from a different phone (God bless cell phones), as a mami who’s disturbed by the demolition. “Inspector is on his way, mami,” they say.

We wait for nearly half an hour, and by now, it’s not just a matter of the demolition, our egos have entered the equation as well. We are arguing the police, their fidelity, their corruption, and how they would have received bribes from (by now) our arch enemies.

Forty minutes after our meeting with the inspector, almost all of us want to just lie down – we’re disillusioned. In a last gasp for truth (as we saw it), V. and I returned to the police station – this time, it was 11:30 p.m.

The policeman near the entrance was eating his dinner, and said the policewoman was on her way. In fact, he said, she must already be there. We came out, convinced it was one of those “be-there-in-five-minutes” situations. We were talking about whether the police actually expected money for this, all the way home, and were surprised to see a Hyundai police car there.

The policewoman was a pretty sight – she was threatening the workers with stoppage of work if they didn’t stop. Really admirable, the way she asked us to call her if there were any trouble and to them, “Oru call varattum, muttikku mutti thatti ulla pottuduven (I’ll break your legs and throw you guys in).”

The night passed without any incident, or noise. And yeah, we couldn’t sleep that night in all the excitement anyway!

Flat Thoughts

Here’s my attempt at the verse form – for better or worse!

PROMISCUITY

On my red two-wheeler
I inched toward my final destination –
A tiny space high on cloud nine
Where, packed, we workers fine
Create knowledge for the West.

What’s this? I glance to my right,
A grand old lady who has seen better times
Is being violated, beaten, thrashed about.
Ahoy! I want to shout,
She has history in those plastered rooms.

Behind those old teak doors,
Lie secrets, safe with her.
Those days, they preferred a strong base,
Today, she merely looks out of place
In this anaemic, boxed-up world.

The next day I see
She’s wearing a metal skirt
Forced or willingly, I know not.
She seems all bruised, maybe she fought,
But all I can see now is her bent head.

She lies broken, distraught
She knows she must change now,
From chastity through the ages
To promiscuity, inevitably, in stages.
And families are already peeking under her skirt.

I shed a tear for her and ride away
Arriving at my eight-hour cage
Where a gas-filled tube
Controls my life in my cube
As I prepare palatable knowledge.

Down the road is a school
Where kids come for the food
far from palatable, you know.
The knowledge however, is even less so
And what do I do about it?

As my three-month stint is over,
I will start trawling job sites
looking for the next highest bidder.
The best offer I’ll consider
on my way to selling what I’ve got.

When I see the old woman these days
She looks younger, much younger,
She stands tall, not hunched back.
She’s shed her clothes, like she’s back on track.
She seems a maiden metamorphosed.

When she looks at me
With all those eyes
I feel she knows my soul by now
And sensing a kindred spirit somehow,
Sheds that tear running along her side.


I recently realized that I hardly see new houses in the city – they’re invariably flats. As I rode to work one morning, I saw men demolishing this house, one of the very few on that street – I was struck by an inexplicable feeling of loss. This was born out of that.

Hope you enjoy this. Please do leave comments.

Make No Mistake

I know that Poppat Jamal’s sale is not much of a sale. I know where you’ve to go to get paints for a good price. I know which doctors are good in the neighborhood, which ones just stuff you up with antibiotics. I know exactly how much tamarind it takes to make rasam for four people. I know the shortcuts to get to my nephew’s school in peak traffic.
I wish I didn’t, though. Really.
I got to know most of those things through older folks in our families and neighborhood, and while they are, really, advising us so that we don’t get hurt, I sometimes wish we did.
I wish we went to the crappiest restaurant in town and ate the worst dosais, that I bought dresses whose colors ran from the fabric like our maid’s daughter with her suitor, that we made some wrong choices in life.
Happy (or unhappy) accidents, I believe, are what life is made up of. When I botched up a recipe for mushroom sabji, I came up with (our popular, if I may say so myself) mushroom sandwich. As a result of eating of what could arguably qualify as the worst Indian restaurant in Boston, I had to take the following day off work, and finished reading a book that (nearly) changed the way I thought about life.
Several older people in my father's generation had to struggle early on in life, and learned things the hard way. Most of them want their children to have none of that uncertainty, that anxiousness, that feeling of not knowing if they have done well by their children.
But without all that, I often wonder, what is left for one to experience? I want to explore, to find things for myself. Needless to say, doing it anyways while already knowing the best option is sort of like reading an Agatha Christie novel after knowing who did it.
I’m sure tomes have been written about this, but India was traditionally a risk-averse nation, and we like to arrange everything just so in our lives. When my father took up a job in the (God forbid!) private sector, his father was horrified. All his other sons and sons-in-law were in the government sector. How did he produce such a maverick, he often wondered.
I think that the emphasis has, for a long time, been on the “what,” rather than the “how.” This principle might have tricked down to every single aspect of desi life, including getting a ration card, attaining ultimate enlightenment, and even reaching, literally, a destination.
Things are slowly changing now, as young couples, and older ones, realize the value of "life" itself, and not merely what lies beyond it.
Success is, after all, the journey, not a destination.
This may be the American in me talking, but herein might lie the answer to the question we were so often asked: What will you miss most about the United States?
So, this new year, I hope to make many, many mistakes, and learn from (most of) them.