Flashback to school - chemistry class - nausea

Very interesting graffiti on the back of a local bus.

Nallified

There comes that moment in every man's life, when he is forced to go to Nalli Chinnaswamy Chetty Cloth Store in T.Nagar. The stronger individuals of the species, tend to fight this inevitability with excuses like work, “urgent calls” and so on, but the more intelligent variety have the broader understanding that, it is better to get it over with, not fight it. Eventually every human has to go there and endure the unspeakable suffering.

My visit to the Nalli proved that I belonged to neither the strong variety nor the intelligent one. On the contrary, I had thought I was very smart, and leapt at the opportunity to go there, when my uncle and his family had landed here. I had it all planned out. We would drive to Nalli, I would hover at the entrance till everyone got out, and then my cousin and I would say that we would park the car and be with the bloodlings in a jiffy. And then we would park the car, and walk out through the nearest exit to the nearest coffee shop, have a detailed espresso and some Bhakshanam, and walk back at tooth-picking pace to the dreaded Nalli. If questioned, we would use the ubiquitous “great difficulty finding a parking spot” line, and do a high-five out of eyesight.

This plan looked so perfect on paper that even the “high-five out of eyesight” rhymed. But one small factor that was ignored was that the rest of T.Nagar makes the Nalli look deserted.

I have had a taste of (or should I say a whiff of) my brothers of India in the recent Aruvathi Movers, but this was different. There were more people in the streets of T.Nagar, and this was unlike the Aruvathi Movers in every way.

The key structural differences between Aruvathi Movers (AM) and T.Nagar (TN) can be surmised in the following points, distinguished by two seperate colours.

(1) At the AM, people are there to chill. They hang with their extended family, eat delicious food prepared on the sidewalk, and generally scream in joy. But in TN, people are not there to chill. They are there with a purpose. They are there to shop, and to save money, which they have to spend on feeding their relatives, and on travel back home.

(2) At the AM, everybody is screaming, but the screams were of joy and festive fervour. The middle aged adults crack clever jokes about the ineptness, greed, appearance etc. of their wives, to whom they have done a great favour by bringing them out in the open. The youngsters scream at each other using specially chosen foul words while looking at the young girls that are parked in tight hand-held clusters. The kids scream in exponentially increasing intensity for cotton candy. At TN, there is uniform screaming, nothing festive about it. Just two types viz. the shopkeepers, and the bargainers.

(3) At the AM, everybody moves with the Gods, and so when you need to come up for air, all you have to do is swim in the direction opposite to that of the Gods and you will arrive at a clearing in no time. In TN, though, nobody is moving with anything. You can swim in any direction you want, there is no chance you will arrive at any clearing, until you reach Anna Salai. If you find a clearing between say a Jewellery shop and a public lavatory, and dive into that clearing, a dude wearing a wicked lungi will materialize out of nowhere within 2 centimetres of your face and will gently scream, “Jettee Vaenumaa sir? Banian Vaenumaa sir?”

(4) At the AM, you get back home without your footwear, with your clothing torn at strategic points. At TN, you get back home without your money.

My cousin and I walked up to a restaurant that called itself Atchaya Bhavan and placed a request for a cold beverage. The main reason for choosing that restaurant was that we were at a point where we could not take one step forward, or go back without food. The number of people who pulled us into their sidewalk shops to sell us undergarments was staggering. In our short ambulatory adventure we'd had more people colliding on us than electrons in a nearby Electron-positron collider. I was sapped of essential life-juice, and no bloodhound on earth could follow my trail, as I was carrying the scent of half of Tamilnadu.

The waiter at the restaurant, had worked in a mortuary before joining this place. He had been in charge of removing the dentures and the displaced organs on the autopsy table. He served food and water, in exactly the same way. But thankfully, the food did not encourage molecular disintegration, something that I assumed was going to happen.

We came back to the Nalli, through some form of short cut, as I couldn't bring myself to witness the blokes standing outside of Pothys wearing unwashed clothing recreated meticulously in the style of the Pandya dynasty, and that would remind me of the old actor who plays the role of Pandya King in the commercial, and that would remind me of the phrase where he says MEEN-AACHEE Amman koil. And that always induced spasmodic shuddering, lkie is't dniog to me rgiht now.

The situation inside Nalli was no better. I saw the all too familiar transluescent white Khadi shirt and white khadi vaeshtee old blokes with airs of ownership delivering faintly disturbing welcome smiles at everyone who walked in. There was that odd contraption that sprayed some form of water laced with something that smelled of rose. And there were the gazillions of women scanning sarees and screaming at their husbands at the same time. And those husbands. There were so many soul-less empty voids in their eyes that there was a risk of a black hole forming there.

I didn't even have the presence of mind to deploy the parking lie, but instead told the wife the whole truth. She then expressed her observation that I bore a shocking resemblence to the corpulent even toed ungulates from the suidae family, which I didn't contest. The very fact that I was alive was thanks to several years of intense survival training called living in Mylapore.

I just double-checked that my cousin was breathing when I delivered him to my uncle and aunt, lugged the huge cloth bags back to the car and headed back home.

De Voted Finger

Andal miss is a staunch Vaishnavite. Not to mention the fact that she is a Government school teacher posted on Election duty. She sees the sign of her God Krishna in everything. Even in the indelible ink that she has been appointed to apply on the patient voters of Mylapore nadu. Irrespective of caste, creed, subcaste, gender or species she liberally applied the indelible ink like you would apply srichurnam on a balding forehead. Hence,

(1) Now my entire left forefinger looks like nailpolish gone horribly wrong.

(2) Whenever I point at somebody to mention some insensitive, scandalous information about them, the listener is riveted at the purple spear on my finger.

(3) I only have nine fingers that I can lick.

We went to the voting area as early as 7:30 AM, which is close to midnight by my standards. The sun was on it’s warm-up lap already, and the fact that all the “uncles” in the queue, were fresh in their non-showered state of post-morning walk, was really helping the general ammonia level. I am assuming that they had all ambled in at 6 AM, as there were 20 creatures with varying levels of osteoporosis in front of me.

The “lady police” or the “Pombala Police” as we affectionately call them, were the only contingent that were sporting a wicked looking sidearm. During the hour long wait, I was tempted several times to walk up to one of these lady cops and ask them if I can take a snap holding the gun, but the fact that the heat would have already melted my phone-camera and the fact that I was consigning myself to as little movement as was possible (as I had not completed the non-aromatic disposal activities that all adult healthy people do in the mornings), made me hang on to the crooked wooden railings that were constructed so that we can all enjoy the fun game of hunting for the impossibly hidden, extremely painful splinters.

The cops had the usual Enfield rifles that the Saryupariya Brahmins Division threw down in protest under the leadership of Mangal Pandey, during the Sepoy mutiny. Historic artifact that always brings a tear to the eye whenever we see it leaning against the parabolic curve of the stomach region of the average cop.

There seemed to be a genuine degree of confusion inside the polling booth and the blokes that were conducting the polls seemed to be discovering the polling process in tatkal learning, hands on at that time of polling.

All the hospitals nearby were hosing down the Intensive Care Units and changing the sheets and conducting repairs, as all the centenarians that were on life support had miraculously got up and had come down to the polling station to cast their vote. It was a proud moment to see the vast army of living proof of south Indian longevity walk in to the polling area at a brisk 8 millimetres per hour trot. The number of old people, or “perusus” as we respectfully call them, was staggering.

I also suspected that there might have been some media mischief, where all the youngsters thought that the voting age has been raised to forty, as I didn’t see anyone of my age in the area.

As I cast my vote and dripped half a cup of sweat on the Electronic Voting Machine, I realized, albeit too late, that the indelible ink business would have been a good choice, as Andal miss alone was using it like the free Neer-More during Aruvathimover.

Just Brilliant

What is the "mean"ing of this, eh?

I was sauntering in "hetero" abandon on my semi-trusted Honda steed along the banks of the friendly neighborhood Kapali Koil, making good time for an appointment with the local courier, when my fleshy lenses locked on this sight. There were a few people feeding the fish some pori stuff, and these fish were so hooked to it that it was evolving into a fish-eat-fish event. I am assuming that it is something like the 63 movers of the fish world.
If Jacques-Yves Cousteu were to be alive to witness this aquatic spectacle, he would have thrown in a final Sacré Bleu and would have converted to Hinduism.
I whipped out my phone, thrust it through the bars and took a picture. I had little time to review it, for like all war journalists I don't review the pictures while in the field as it could prove fatal. The threat to my life was two pronged, viz.
(i) When in idle my semi-trusted Honda's complicated electronic circuitry switches on the tear gas module, and it starts spewing out lethal fumes on a Corporation Kosu Marundhu Kaaran level. And,
(ii) I was right outside the Kapali koil and hence ran the extremely high degree of risk of being identified by a Sastrigal.
Kapali's fish seemed to be in an advanced state of evolution as they had blaring whiskers and were the size of an average malnourished child. I did hear a typical bloke tell a gaping kid that he was dragging along that they were catfish. But, considering that my recent underwater experiences have been opening my eyes while in the shower, I wouldn't vouch on the technicality.






-- Post From My iPhone

Lord Krishna's footwear

The supreme lord Krishna, of Gujarat, had zillions of admirers, among men and cattle. His magnetism and divine charm was, to put it mildly, godly. Over a period of time, his admirers grew into such large numbers that the entire Harappan city of Dwaraka sank into the sea, leaving behind seeds of imagination that was fostered into monstrous myths by multitudes of sastrigals who got such a fix from narrating these tales that they gave up bathing altogether.
Post-menopausal aunties with a Licence to Kill called PMS, were the bouncers of the Club.
After Lord Krishna retired and moved to the Cayman islands, the admirers club split in two. There were the conservative groups, who had been around since Lord was a wee lad, going after butter like a Mylaporean after a bargain. These guys had their last names changed to Bhattar, to honour Lord K's butter-tooth, and stayed put in the land masses that wasn't submerged. They built mighty temples, and never wore footwear. There was a splinter faction that was driven out and migrated to Zlin, where over a period of several years, their last names corrupted from Bhattars to Bata, and from butter they craved for cheese.
Thousands of years later, these folks from the tribe called Bata, had built a huge shoe business, that flourished like B.O. on a Sastrigal, in India. Bata launched a range of slip-on sandals in memory of Lord K, in the manner in which all aunties depute their kids to paint, Lord K's footprints, hours before initiating Krishna Jayanthi celebrations.
Being a Smart Hindu (as I was a Smartha) I grabbed a pair at INR 349.95.
My wife hates it. Frankly, it's not exactly a stepping stone from my Dr. Scholls, but I am putting up with it like a man (with demi-god looks) in the name of our religion and our ancestors


-- Post From My iPhone

The Untold Story

Kittu Mama was the official treasurer. He took his job quite seriously, and reported to work everyday, no matter what. He made it a point to get creative with every little thing in his official line of work, and was very eager in seeing to it that his presence was felt in even a small stone that was turned. Kittu Mama had come a long way, being born in Pattamangalam and having travelled all the way to Palayankottai to earn a living. He always felt that he had a gift, just wasn't exactly good at pointing a finger at what it was. Alamelu mami was very supportive, and was always by his side in all matters concerning his daily curd rice or Nellikka pickle. Kittu Mama always felt that Alamelu Mami was a chip off the old mami block. He loved her a lot but always found her a bit thick for his liking and her humor wry. For instance, he wasn't amused at her outrageous suggestion that Kittu Mama was outgrowing his poonal - "Yaenna, Konjam periya poonal pottukkanum pola irukkae, romba erukkama poyindu irukku".
There was the fact that she was a lot younger than him, and he had always had that disconcerting thought that she was not attracted to him, from that startled look on her face when she saw Kittu Mama for the first time during their marriage. That, and the fact that she cried non-stop during their first night, smashing to pieces all the plans that Kittu Mama had meticulously laid out. But then life had moved on, and the burden of the family landed on Kittu Mama, mere months after his marriage. His father passed away so suddenly, moments after he choked while attempting to swallow an entire Vadai at the Ganapathiraman's house Srardham.
Kittu Mama didn't wallow in grief for a long time. He took a few shots of Melagu Rasam from his favorite copper Shombu and made a bold career move. He took up the offer from Palayankottai Zamin for the post of treasurer. Alamelu hadn't been keeping well ever since the day they had been married. Every single night she had complained of a severe headache and had gone to sleep immediately like she was knocked out cold. It must be the water, Kittu Mama thought, a change of scene would do her a whale of good too, and they would have a better chance to consummate their marriage.
Kittu Mama was in awe, when he saw the Palayankottai Zamin. His first taste of royalty, and the Zamin was so young too. He was told that the Zamin was the most eligible bachelor of South India. Well, he would do well to lose a few hundred pounds, but girth always spelt royalty and Kittu Mama knew that a bigger waist was a huge turn on for the girls. Kittu Mama settled into the job very quickly and he had little to complain. His every whim was taken care of and he was treated with utmost respect. But the job quickly got into a routine grind and there was very little Kittu Mama could do by way of being creative. He introduced multi-colour strings for the money bags. He came up with the novel idea of a plantain leaf dispenser, where he devised a tall wooden pot in which they would stack the plantain leaves, so that they needn't go cut leaves every time Kittu Mama felt like a snack.
This invention was greatly appreciated by the Zamin's Holy Cow.
One day, Kittu Mama was walking up to his office when he heard about the contest on the Public Address system. His mind raced, and he felt the adrenalin rush, but he was aghast at the fact that nobody showed any interest at the broadcast. The Flower vendor Pakkiri was tying up the rose garland, business as usual splashing water on his girlfriend Parijatham, who was seated on the ground sieving through the flowers. Ambujam Aunty, with both her hands coated with fresh cow dung up to her wrists was trying to brush away an errant strand of hair from her forehead. And Somu Mama was pretending to read the Panchangam without realizing that he was holding it upside down. How could these people not realize the potential that this contest meant to their royalty? He decided that the importance of it had struck him just because he was gifted, and decided to take the matter up with Palayankottai Zamin's mother. He fixed an appointment with Palayankottai Zamin's mother, and told the Royal Lady that he would like to escort the Zamin personally to participate in the contest. But even before he finished the statement, the old lady started laughing so hard that she started gasping with a rasping sound, so disturbing that the Raja Vaidhyar came rushing in from the ante-room, hair all dishevelled and the Panchagacham with the wrong border out. Kittu Mama knew that the Old Lady was elated at his suggestion and proceeded to make all the arrangements for the Zamin to leave for the contest.
The Contest to be held in Mythilai City.
For the hand of the daughter of King Janaka.
What better groom than the Palayankottai Zamin?
As the ministers broached the proposal to the Zamin after much persuasion by Kittu Mama, the Zamin distinctly opened one eye and groaned. A definite expression of interest, and the Royal Palanquin was readied for the long and arduous journey to Mythila. Kittu Mama told Alamelu Mami to pack for an Indian summer, and for the first time he saw her laugh so hard that she had to be supported.
The journey to Mythila was long and arduous. The Zamin's fourteen palanquin bearers fell ill. Kittu Mama came up with the shift system, where he hired four teams of Palanquin bearers, and appointed a supervisor for each team. This was included in the management text scrolls of all leading management institutes for several years to come. They reached Mythila a day before the contest, and the streets were completely jam-packed. Again, Kittu Mama to the rescue. He ordered the eighteen palanquin bearers, (Zamin had gained a few pounds during the journey, and so they had to add more bearers), to take a shortcut through the Royal garden.
The team made steady progress through the beautiful garden, and Kittu Mama was at the front of the troupe, a pall bearer of sorts, munching on the bits of broken Vadam that Alamelu Mami kept feeding him. They could see the magnificent palace where the contest was going to be held, and the flowers all around were spell binding. The grass beneath their feet made them feel like they were floating on air. The multiplicity of all this Mayai did not waver the razor sharp intellect of Kittu Mama. He saw some women in the distance and there was a fascinating aura about them. He felt like he was drawn in that direction by an invisible flesh magnet. As he got closer to the hedge behind which the women were standing, Kittu Mama realized with a jolt that it was none other than the daughter of Janaka. She was so beautiful that Kittu Mama's breathing became a voluntary activity. The radiance was simply breathtaking. He turned around to see if Alamelu Mami was seeing this spectacle, when he realized that Alamelu Mami was looking at the other side of the hedge before which the Daughter of Janaka was standing. Her mouth was open and her pupils dilated. Kittu Mama had seen a similar look on her every time the Zamin's Head of Guard practiced his Silambu wearing a loincloth, but this was much greater in magnitude. He spun his head in the direction of Alamelu Mami's stare and the sight he saw was so astonishing that he didn't feel his Kudumi's whiplash.
There was a man standing across the hedge from where the daughter of Janaka was standing and he was spectacular. Kittu Mama knew that if there were a God, he would look like this man. A bit dark complexioned, but if he were in the room, you cannot blink.
Kittu Mama immediately realized that they had to turn back.
That this would not work for the Palayankottai Zamin.
The daughter of Janaka was looking at the spectacular man, and he was looking back at her. There was something fishy going on here, and he would be damned if he was going to drag his lord, the Palayankottai Zamin into it. He walked up to the palanquin and drew back the curtain. The shape inside was not stirring, and though Kittu Mama couldn't quite make out where the head was, he knew that the Zamin was fast asleep. It was God's handiwork, that the Zamin didn't see the daughter of Janaka, or there would be no telling of the heartache that he would have to endure.
Kittu Mama barked orders that they should turn around and said that he would explain the reason in good time. They made steady progress despite the fact that they were the only group of people going out of Mythila. On the second day of their journey they heard the news that the daughter of Janaka had married the man she was eyeballing in the garden. Kittu Mama was also told that the contest was a simple Bow threading competition, something that the Palayankottai Zamin would have done blindfolded.
Upon reaching home, Kittu Mama explained to the Royal mother how he had saved the Zamin from a hideous blemish on their reputation, and even though nobody displayed any emotion during Kittu Mama's narrative, he knew that he was undoubtedly the local hero. He realized the impact of his good judgment when he was told that he could work from his house, and he would get his paycheck every month.
Alamelu Mami started a small retail unit in their house where she started making foodstuff that she said were Mythila recipes. It was a great hit and soon their establishment grew to several shops all over Palayankottai. Kittu Mama knew that their commercial success would slowly cast the shadow on his exploits on what should have been the Ramayana (would obviously be called the Zaminayana), but he was always the player, and supported Alamelu Mami doing what he was best at.
Kittu Mama the treasurer.