Enigmatic, bold, brilliant, handsome... Well, these are how men are portrayed. Men who haven’t set foot in the arena of fashion, will find this opportunity exciting, for they get this never before chance to express their mystifying personality. The search for the 'Chennai Man' – an ideal combination of brain and brawn begins here...
I want to quit my job.
And I wish to become the judge of this contest.
Imagine how much fun it shall be?
May be, they will have a Veshti Round. Hot Tamizh boys, wearing white jarigai veshti will be too much. A master-stroke. The most brilliant marketing strategy.
Pity that T Anna is not in Madras. Else, he could have tried. I am certain that he would have had a good chance. After all, he is tall, is Bharadwaja Gothram and believes in world peace. Really. He does. What else can explain that he drove for four hours, while being swamped under work, to go and meet a visiting chitti. Not because he was dying to meet the chitti, but because she was making Pineapple Rasam. Yes, that is why. And he would also win the coveted, Loving Nephew/Niece in USA contest.
This act certainly proves that he is an advocate of world peace. I mean:
• We never eat Pineapple rasam in “our” house. You are being unfair to both the rasam and to yourself
• T Anna is actually allergic to pineapples
• T Anna is somewhat allergic to the chitti. I think, the feeling is mutual
• And chitti is not a great cook or anything. What I am saying is, she is a terrible cook
But he still went. Because amma asked him to. And that is what good Tamizh Brahmin boys do.
T Anna is forever raising the bar. I wish amma will understand that, I cannot have this unquestioning love for Pineapple rasam or for the chittis who rustle them up for you.
I suppose, which is why, I will never be Miss Chennai.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
The North Indian Boy
I don’t like North Indians. Okay wait, if I am really honest, I am more uncomfortable with them than anything else. May be because, they look nice and are usually thin. And therefore, one derives that they are wicked.
Was it not Julius Ceaser who said, Let me have men about me that are fat… sleek headed men… has a lean and hungry look… such men are dangerous? He said that for Cassius, I think. But really, it holds true for North Indian people, especially the men.
I haven’t got to meet many of them, of course. I mean, my school hardly had any North Indian kids, and ditto for my under-grad college. There were a number of Malayalis in college though, but I liked most of them.
It was only in Journalism school, I met them. In large numbers. I usually avoided them. It worked for the best for all parties concerned.
In spite of all this, it must be the recurring bout of fever and extended dose of antibiotics that made me feel friendlier than usual and meet boy from my journalism school this evening. The boy is a North Indian guy, is generally very lonely and works for one of the news channel.
On campus, one avoided anybody North Indian. My friend T, a worldly sort of person, who took me under her fold, told me that, anything that is Delhi MUST be avoided. It was like a BIG warning sign. Of course, they were the nicest looking people. But they were scary, as they always roamed around in large groups.
I developed an intrinsic dislike of this mob of North Indians. The big part of my dislike for the Delhi people was that they chose to call Madras, Chin-I.
Chin-I Yaaru, most sentences would go.
I still recall that eleven years ago when this most inexplicable name change happened, I and my family felt very cheated. We figured that, while we can do nothing to resist this change, at least for us, Madras will always remain Madras.
Okay, so you want to show respect to the politicians. You want to keep it official. So, call it Chenn-Ai no? What is with Chin-I?
However, a month ago, I got a mail from one of the avoided-brigade of boys. His mail was hesitant. Apologetic. I know we hardly spoke, he said. It demanded for my help, so that he could find an apartment in the city. He still said Chennai, but, he also added that, T Nagar would be his first choice.
I warmed up to him quickly after that and put amma and the network of neighborhood maamis on the job to find him a suitable place.
After a week, this ever resourceful network of maamis found him a place, in Venkatnarayana Road, no less.
Boy seemed happy and I was happy too, in spite of every pet North Indian people stereotype that I religiously believed in. By the by one realized, this boy was harmless, boring and socially just a little challenged. I forgave him then. He also seemed to not just know about, but be a fan of Harry Miller. Not many Tamizh boys would know about him either, I was rather impressed.
Of course, as one knows, familiarity is the quickest path towards contempt. And things went downhill after that.
Every time he pinged me on messenger, I winced. For he started on the whole Poor-North-Indian-In-Madras-Whine-Trip:
• It is so HOT here
• The women on the other hand are NOT
• The auto fellows are all crooks
• Dhaba Express does not deliver dinner after 11 pm
• People don’t speak Hindi
• People are very unfriendly
• There are no cheap booze places, unless you take the Shobha and Sridevi Whiskey places
• No manicured gardens
Typical sort of stuff.
Your Chin-I, is how he began many of his sentences. With a slightly accusatory tone also.
Ho hum. I remember asking him on several occasions, where he was originally from? Delhi, he insisted. Every single time. I am of course ignorant, but I don’t understand when people can trace back their ancestors only up to Delhi. Were they descendents of Bahadur Shah Zafar, I am not sure?
Somebody came from somewhere and settled in Delhi perhaps, I suggested?
After some probing, he admitted that he was from a place called Sitamarhi (the birth place of Sita), in Bihar no less. Oh dear, was the only thought that came to my mind.
As if to quickly cover up, he asks, Why can’t you speak Hindi?
I can, I just don’t want to, I tell him. He thinks, it shows less tolerance and is racist like behaviour. It also suggests that we are not proud about our Indianness.
I first learnt Hindi, when I was in school, taught by a brilliant Tamizh woman, in a school where cramming is (okay was) religion. Always done with surgical precision. My Hindi marks were insanely high, much to amma’s and appa’s amazement and worry. Amazement because, well, it was amazing. And worry because, it is a bit worrisome for any Tamizh parent when the daughter tops class in Hindi but not in Mathematics.
The superlative marks notwithstanding. I never speak in Hindi. Because most people I knew/know, think in Tamil and speak in Tanglish. And besides, it was embarrassing. What if I spoke good Hindi? That would be awful.
Of course, now I have successfully managed to unlearn most of the Hindi that I have learnt. Which is a good thing.
But really, the biggest reason I dislike these North Indian folks is because, they make me feel all protective towards Tamizh people in general. I am suddenly feeling den- mother like towards Iyengaar boys even. Of course, they are not insane, I must insist. It is depressing.
After our disastrous meeting, he sends me a message saying, No matter what I think of this city, we are friends. I would say, I am fond of you even.
Really, how can someone like me, without being in love with Madras and everything that makes it up?
Was it not Julius Ceaser who said, Let me have men about me that are fat… sleek headed men… has a lean and hungry look… such men are dangerous? He said that for Cassius, I think. But really, it holds true for North Indian people, especially the men.
I haven’t got to meet many of them, of course. I mean, my school hardly had any North Indian kids, and ditto for my under-grad college. There were a number of Malayalis in college though, but I liked most of them.
It was only in Journalism school, I met them. In large numbers. I usually avoided them. It worked for the best for all parties concerned.
In spite of all this, it must be the recurring bout of fever and extended dose of antibiotics that made me feel friendlier than usual and meet boy from my journalism school this evening. The boy is a North Indian guy, is generally very lonely and works for one of the news channel.
On campus, one avoided anybody North Indian. My friend T, a worldly sort of person, who took me under her fold, told me that, anything that is Delhi MUST be avoided. It was like a BIG warning sign. Of course, they were the nicest looking people. But they were scary, as they always roamed around in large groups.
I developed an intrinsic dislike of this mob of North Indians. The big part of my dislike for the Delhi people was that they chose to call Madras, Chin-I.
Chin-I Yaaru, most sentences would go.
I still recall that eleven years ago when this most inexplicable name change happened, I and my family felt very cheated. We figured that, while we can do nothing to resist this change, at least for us, Madras will always remain Madras.
Okay, so you want to show respect to the politicians. You want to keep it official. So, call it Chenn-Ai no? What is with Chin-I?
However, a month ago, I got a mail from one of the avoided-brigade of boys. His mail was hesitant. Apologetic. I know we hardly spoke, he said. It demanded for my help, so that he could find an apartment in the city. He still said Chennai, but, he also added that, T Nagar would be his first choice.
I warmed up to him quickly after that and put amma and the network of neighborhood maamis on the job to find him a suitable place.
After a week, this ever resourceful network of maamis found him a place, in Venkatnarayana Road, no less.
Boy seemed happy and I was happy too, in spite of every pet North Indian people stereotype that I religiously believed in. By the by one realized, this boy was harmless, boring and socially just a little challenged. I forgave him then. He also seemed to not just know about, but be a fan of Harry Miller. Not many Tamizh boys would know about him either, I was rather impressed.
Of course, as one knows, familiarity is the quickest path towards contempt. And things went downhill after that.
Every time he pinged me on messenger, I winced. For he started on the whole Poor-North-Indian-In-Madras-Whine-Trip:
• It is so HOT here
• The women on the other hand are NOT
• The auto fellows are all crooks
• Dhaba Express does not deliver dinner after 11 pm
• People don’t speak Hindi
• People are very unfriendly
• There are no cheap booze places, unless you take the Shobha and Sridevi Whiskey places
• No manicured gardens
Typical sort of stuff.
Your Chin-I, is how he began many of his sentences. With a slightly accusatory tone also.
Ho hum. I remember asking him on several occasions, where he was originally from? Delhi, he insisted. Every single time. I am of course ignorant, but I don’t understand when people can trace back their ancestors only up to Delhi. Were they descendents of Bahadur Shah Zafar, I am not sure?
Somebody came from somewhere and settled in Delhi perhaps, I suggested?
After some probing, he admitted that he was from a place called Sitamarhi (the birth place of Sita), in Bihar no less. Oh dear, was the only thought that came to my mind.
As if to quickly cover up, he asks, Why can’t you speak Hindi?
I can, I just don’t want to, I tell him. He thinks, it shows less tolerance and is racist like behaviour. It also suggests that we are not proud about our Indianness.
I first learnt Hindi, when I was in school, taught by a brilliant Tamizh woman, in a school where cramming is (okay was) religion. Always done with surgical precision. My Hindi marks were insanely high, much to amma’s and appa’s amazement and worry. Amazement because, well, it was amazing. And worry because, it is a bit worrisome for any Tamizh parent when the daughter tops class in Hindi but not in Mathematics.
The superlative marks notwithstanding. I never speak in Hindi. Because most people I knew/know, think in Tamil and speak in Tanglish. And besides, it was embarrassing. What if I spoke good Hindi? That would be awful.
Of course, now I have successfully managed to unlearn most of the Hindi that I have learnt. Which is a good thing.
But really, the biggest reason I dislike these North Indian folks is because, they make me feel all protective towards Tamizh people in general. I am suddenly feeling den- mother like towards Iyengaar boys even. Of course, they are not insane, I must insist. It is depressing.
After our disastrous meeting, he sends me a message saying, No matter what I think of this city, we are friends. I would say, I am fond of you even.
Really, how can someone like me, without being in love with Madras and everything that makes it up?
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Madras Thatha
Talk of the moon and first salary reminds me of something that is taking up inordinate amounts of mind-space.
Now that I am working and also making some money, I not only need to give the money for the petrol, I also need to show my love and affection to members of the clan by getting them first salary presents.
Why exactly does one need to give them presents, is a grey area. Is it because I share my gothram with a large number of them? Or would it be because they have in their little way determined and helped me in arriving at my life choices?
When amma proposes. One meekly agrees. Especially when you are trying to get back into her good graces.
Amma has a simple formula, one small “token” for each family. Given the complexities involved in buying a cheap yet useful and likely to get appreciation gift, I have decided that in every family, if there is a female relative in the age-group of 18 to 30, they must get a gift. It is much simpler to buy gifts for women. Especially if you are a woman yourself.
However, of the seventeen presents I need to buy; only three of them fit this criteria. So, I am struggling. What to buy for the chitappa who has everything and the periappa who appreciates nothing?
It is tough. It is boring. Therefore, I have given the task to S.
S will find stuff. That much I am sure about. She is resourceful. She has a keen eye for detail. And most importantly she loves the whole world, including the clan. So things that can be put into plastic bags and be truly what the recipient desires, will find her. Even inanimate objects seek a loving eye.
Two particular gifts however, I must buy myself. That for the thathas.
In the hierarchy that exists in the clan. The thatha is supreme. The paati is almost up there. Then come the gothram periappa and gothram chitappa. The maama. The non gothram periamma and chitti. And finally the atthai.
But Thathas are awe-inspiring and the best buddy, altogether at the same time. My maternal thatha is wonderful. Full of enthusiasm and a roguish streak, he is who I hope to become someday.
The paternal thatha, that is Madras thatha, is perhaps, who I already am. Sometimes stubborn, sometimes whiney, sometimes idealist, sometimes funny, sometimes moody, sometimes finishes crossword, sometimes not.
He is the adult I have been most closely associated with through my growing up years. For seventeen years we lived in the same house. His house. With one bedroom. One hall. One kitchen and a separate bathroom and a toilet. When I think of Madras Thatha, I think of Bazlullah Road. And the lovely house I grew up in. But the house was difficult to maintain. All the neighbors had sold their homes. So Thatha had no choice, but to let go.
Since then, we moved to Boag Road and thatha and paati stay at TP Road, in the same apartment as periappa and his family.
Madras Thatha is an independent sort of man. He likes to do his own thing. He is fairly anti-social and has caused paati immense amount of grief.
Three years ago, we got a frantic call from Paati, Thatha who was then 77 had left home for his morning walk at 6:00 am sharp and not returned until 9:30. Amma got frantic and immediately called Warren Road Pattu Maami, the one with important connections. We all then set out to look for him, partly annoyed with him and partly dying of guilt. Finally, he returned home. At 11 o’clock. Safe and without damage. Seems that, he decided to skip paati’s idli for the masala dosai and sambhar vadai at Sangeeta’s.
After that it was decided, I would go on a morning walk with thatha, to keep an eye on him. We used to walk up to the T Nagar Club each morning and attempt to solve the Crossword together. It was fun. But after three weeks, I dropped out. For one, Thatha walked too fast. In fact, T Anna calls him, Gandhi Thatha because of the way that he marches forth. The other thing was, he refused to take any other route. I got a bit tired of Venkata Narayana Road each day. And of course, he knew far more number of words that I ever did.
Thatha also had a bicycle for very long. Having worked for the Murugappa Group for a short while, he had got a little attached to one. We never saw him riding it. But he wiped it each day. Took care of it. And refused to let go of it. Till he got tired of paati using it as a clothes-line and gave it away.
So, what does one get the Thatha?
Amma says, a mobile phone would be useful. So that paati can keep tabs on him. Am not too sure if thatha will appreciate that. Besides, he turns 80 this year, not like he goes out alone that often.
Torch to find lost things? Watch to keep looking at? Figs to eat for better bowel movement? Jarigai Veshti that he can wear for the kalyanam next week? A book of crosswords that he will try and solve in one day? A coupon from Apollo Hospital so that he can do a Master Health Check-Up?
What? What?
Thatha has not been too well the last few months. A slight variation in the ECG, but nothing to worry about. A slight pain in the back, but nothing to worry about. Occasional dizzy spells, but nothing to worry about.
Thatha turns 80 in September. The 80th Birthday has immense significance. They say, a person has seen a thousand moons by then. We plan to celebrate his Sathabhishekam in a grand way. Appa is getting all emotional and wants to go back to the home of the Tamaraparani to celebrate. Periappa thinks otherwise. Everyday they debate.
Thatha’s health has been a bit of a worry. They say, before a significant landmark in your life, such things happen.
Last week, at one of the weddings, Thatha lost his slippers. Somebody had stolen them. T Anna had bought these for thatha three years ago, from the Woodlands store at Panagal Park. It was very expensive, but thatha basked in the love of his favorite grandson. Never mind that he scolded him in a good natured manner. Amma was upset that her son bought his grandfather a pair of slippers.
I expected thatha would get upset. He normally gets upset when the clock stops running. But he did not. On the contrary, he was happy. He said, the peedai has been gotten rid off. Losing a pair of slippers can end a bad patch.
I am happy for him. I even volunteer to buy him a new pair. He declines and says, ask T Anna to come and buy me one.
The prodigal son shall return this September, to celebrate the Thatha’s birthday.
Suddenly, I feel very insignificant.
Now that I am working and also making some money, I not only need to give the money for the petrol, I also need to show my love and affection to members of the clan by getting them first salary presents.
Why exactly does one need to give them presents, is a grey area. Is it because I share my gothram with a large number of them? Or would it be because they have in their little way determined and helped me in arriving at my life choices?
When amma proposes. One meekly agrees. Especially when you are trying to get back into her good graces.
Amma has a simple formula, one small “token” for each family. Given the complexities involved in buying a cheap yet useful and likely to get appreciation gift, I have decided that in every family, if there is a female relative in the age-group of 18 to 30, they must get a gift. It is much simpler to buy gifts for women. Especially if you are a woman yourself.
However, of the seventeen presents I need to buy; only three of them fit this criteria. So, I am struggling. What to buy for the chitappa who has everything and the periappa who appreciates nothing?
It is tough. It is boring. Therefore, I have given the task to S.
S will find stuff. That much I am sure about. She is resourceful. She has a keen eye for detail. And most importantly she loves the whole world, including the clan. So things that can be put into plastic bags and be truly what the recipient desires, will find her. Even inanimate objects seek a loving eye.
Two particular gifts however, I must buy myself. That for the thathas.
In the hierarchy that exists in the clan. The thatha is supreme. The paati is almost up there. Then come the gothram periappa and gothram chitappa. The maama. The non gothram periamma and chitti. And finally the atthai.
But Thathas are awe-inspiring and the best buddy, altogether at the same time. My maternal thatha is wonderful. Full of enthusiasm and a roguish streak, he is who I hope to become someday.
The paternal thatha, that is Madras thatha, is perhaps, who I already am. Sometimes stubborn, sometimes whiney, sometimes idealist, sometimes funny, sometimes moody, sometimes finishes crossword, sometimes not.
He is the adult I have been most closely associated with through my growing up years. For seventeen years we lived in the same house. His house. With one bedroom. One hall. One kitchen and a separate bathroom and a toilet. When I think of Madras Thatha, I think of Bazlullah Road. And the lovely house I grew up in. But the house was difficult to maintain. All the neighbors had sold their homes. So Thatha had no choice, but to let go.
Since then, we moved to Boag Road and thatha and paati stay at TP Road, in the same apartment as periappa and his family.
Madras Thatha is an independent sort of man. He likes to do his own thing. He is fairly anti-social and has caused paati immense amount of grief.
Three years ago, we got a frantic call from Paati, Thatha who was then 77 had left home for his morning walk at 6:00 am sharp and not returned until 9:30. Amma got frantic and immediately called Warren Road Pattu Maami, the one with important connections. We all then set out to look for him, partly annoyed with him and partly dying of guilt. Finally, he returned home. At 11 o’clock. Safe and without damage. Seems that, he decided to skip paati’s idli for the masala dosai and sambhar vadai at Sangeeta’s.
After that it was decided, I would go on a morning walk with thatha, to keep an eye on him. We used to walk up to the T Nagar Club each morning and attempt to solve the Crossword together. It was fun. But after three weeks, I dropped out. For one, Thatha walked too fast. In fact, T Anna calls him, Gandhi Thatha because of the way that he marches forth. The other thing was, he refused to take any other route. I got a bit tired of Venkata Narayana Road each day. And of course, he knew far more number of words that I ever did.
Thatha also had a bicycle for very long. Having worked for the Murugappa Group for a short while, he had got a little attached to one. We never saw him riding it. But he wiped it each day. Took care of it. And refused to let go of it. Till he got tired of paati using it as a clothes-line and gave it away.
So, what does one get the Thatha?
Amma says, a mobile phone would be useful. So that paati can keep tabs on him. Am not too sure if thatha will appreciate that. Besides, he turns 80 this year, not like he goes out alone that often.
Torch to find lost things? Watch to keep looking at? Figs to eat for better bowel movement? Jarigai Veshti that he can wear for the kalyanam next week? A book of crosswords that he will try and solve in one day? A coupon from Apollo Hospital so that he can do a Master Health Check-Up?
What? What?
Thatha has not been too well the last few months. A slight variation in the ECG, but nothing to worry about. A slight pain in the back, but nothing to worry about. Occasional dizzy spells, but nothing to worry about.
Thatha turns 80 in September. The 80th Birthday has immense significance. They say, a person has seen a thousand moons by then. We plan to celebrate his Sathabhishekam in a grand way. Appa is getting all emotional and wants to go back to the home of the Tamaraparani to celebrate. Periappa thinks otherwise. Everyday they debate.
Thatha’s health has been a bit of a worry. They say, before a significant landmark in your life, such things happen.
Last week, at one of the weddings, Thatha lost his slippers. Somebody had stolen them. T Anna had bought these for thatha three years ago, from the Woodlands store at Panagal Park. It was very expensive, but thatha basked in the love of his favorite grandson. Never mind that he scolded him in a good natured manner. Amma was upset that her son bought his grandfather a pair of slippers.
I expected thatha would get upset. He normally gets upset when the clock stops running. But he did not. On the contrary, he was happy. He said, the peedai has been gotten rid off. Losing a pair of slippers can end a bad patch.
I am happy for him. I even volunteer to buy him a new pair. He declines and says, ask T Anna to come and buy me one.
The prodigal son shall return this September, to celebrate the Thatha’s birthday.
Suddenly, I feel very insignificant.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
One Month After
I completed a month of working last week. And I have acquired a couple of things in the process. Of course, there is the salary. I have also found a friend in my colleague, M.
To have someone at your place of work to watch over you is important. Especially a woman friend is most nice. After all she is the best person who is likely to lend you a sanitary napkin (of the same brand that you use), should you need one.
I liked M, from the very first day I met her. For one, she went to the same college that I did. We even went to the same school, albeit different branches. Teachers, who gave us grief, make for fantastic lunch-time conversations.
Most critically, she is a very good journalist. And a brilliant and envy inducing writer. That is very important. It is years of conditioning. Tamizh-Brahmin snobbery, I suppose. One only associated self with people who were brighter than you. You know, in school it was the kind of people who could solve the most complex of mathematics problems faster than you. Or in college, those who knew more Shakespeare Sonnets than you did and would quote them at will and with immense feeling. It was like, if one also did breathe the same air that they did, it would magically rub off on you and lead to dramatic change in one’s own skills. So you become like a moon, basking on all the reflected light.
M is what people would call a Global Citizen. Her world-view is large. Her heart is big. And she loves the non Tamizh world too. She sings Hindi songs. She thinks that Iyengaar boys are better looking than Iyers. She did her Post-Graduation from Bombay. She had not heard of the movie Paruthiveeran till I told her about it. And she also thinks that going away to Bangalore is the best way to spend her weekend.
I can’t relate to any of that. But let’s just say I am not spoilt for choice here at work. So I have chosen to like her. At least, more often that not, we speak the same language.
However, I was wondering last week, why would she want to hang-out with me? I think, now I know.
I, she and a batch-mate from Journalism school went to see this play at the Museum Theatre, Flame of the Forest, based on Kalki Krisnamurthi’s novel, Sivagamiyin Sabatham. Of course it is a wonderfully nuanced story, seeped in Tamizhness and English can never do it adequate justice. But M kept whining all through. The sudden rains were a problem. The audi was a problem. The music and dance were a problem. And she kept referring to Sivakami as a moron. I found it annoying. How can we complain about North Indians making fun of Rajni, if we don’t love our heroes?
When we met at work on Monday, M tells me, you know I cannot wear my Tamizhness as a badge.
She is perceptive and I am not terribly subtle, I suppose.
Having spent a few years in the North of India, she thinks that being overtly Tamizh is both unattractive and also makes other people dub you a racist. When she was 20 and traveled from Bombay to Madras in a train, co-passengers would be shocked that she was from Madras, because she was pretty and fair. Rather, fair and therefore implied prettiness. That opened the world of non Tamizh to her.
And then she tells me that secretly she would love to have my little Tamizh world view, but simply cannot because she wants to please more number of people and be loved by them.
It is a bit strange. I somehow feel sorry for her that she must sing Hindi songs so that more people can be happy. But she is a very clever journalist. I hope to grow up and become like her. So, I must forgive her. I must like her also.
If she were a Hindi songs singing Tamizh boy, I would find it much more difficult to handle.
The good part is, I finally seem to have become somebody’s sun.
To have someone at your place of work to watch over you is important. Especially a woman friend is most nice. After all she is the best person who is likely to lend you a sanitary napkin (of the same brand that you use), should you need one.
I liked M, from the very first day I met her. For one, she went to the same college that I did. We even went to the same school, albeit different branches. Teachers, who gave us grief, make for fantastic lunch-time conversations.
Most critically, she is a very good journalist. And a brilliant and envy inducing writer. That is very important. It is years of conditioning. Tamizh-Brahmin snobbery, I suppose. One only associated self with people who were brighter than you. You know, in school it was the kind of people who could solve the most complex of mathematics problems faster than you. Or in college, those who knew more Shakespeare Sonnets than you did and would quote them at will and with immense feeling. It was like, if one also did breathe the same air that they did, it would magically rub off on you and lead to dramatic change in one’s own skills. So you become like a moon, basking on all the reflected light.
M is what people would call a Global Citizen. Her world-view is large. Her heart is big. And she loves the non Tamizh world too. She sings Hindi songs. She thinks that Iyengaar boys are better looking than Iyers. She did her Post-Graduation from Bombay. She had not heard of the movie Paruthiveeran till I told her about it. And she also thinks that going away to Bangalore is the best way to spend her weekend.
I can’t relate to any of that. But let’s just say I am not spoilt for choice here at work. So I have chosen to like her. At least, more often that not, we speak the same language.
However, I was wondering last week, why would she want to hang-out with me? I think, now I know.
I, she and a batch-mate from Journalism school went to see this play at the Museum Theatre, Flame of the Forest, based on Kalki Krisnamurthi’s novel, Sivagamiyin Sabatham. Of course it is a wonderfully nuanced story, seeped in Tamizhness and English can never do it adequate justice. But M kept whining all through. The sudden rains were a problem. The audi was a problem. The music and dance were a problem. And she kept referring to Sivakami as a moron. I found it annoying. How can we complain about North Indians making fun of Rajni, if we don’t love our heroes?
When we met at work on Monday, M tells me, you know I cannot wear my Tamizhness as a badge.
She is perceptive and I am not terribly subtle, I suppose.
Having spent a few years in the North of India, she thinks that being overtly Tamizh is both unattractive and also makes other people dub you a racist. When she was 20 and traveled from Bombay to Madras in a train, co-passengers would be shocked that she was from Madras, because she was pretty and fair. Rather, fair and therefore implied prettiness. That opened the world of non Tamizh to her.
And then she tells me that secretly she would love to have my little Tamizh world view, but simply cannot because she wants to please more number of people and be loved by them.
It is a bit strange. I somehow feel sorry for her that she must sing Hindi songs so that more people can be happy. But she is a very clever journalist. I hope to grow up and become like her. So, I must forgive her. I must like her also.
If she were a Hindi songs singing Tamizh boy, I would find it much more difficult to handle.
The good part is, I finally seem to have become somebody’s sun.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Dum Dum Dum
I am not an effervescent social butterfly. Since I am not made to be one, I more often than not try and avoid being one. But the last week has seen way too many opportunities to meet people spring up. It seems everyone is getting married. The single population among the Tamizh people must have seen a sharp decline in the last one week.
Everyone is getting married in AC Kalaynam Mandapams. It’s been raining in Madras for the last few days. The A/C had to be switched off on a number of occasions, because we don’t handle cold so well. I wonder if there is a clause that ensures some money back under such circumstances.
The rain notwithstanding, AC Kalyanam Mandapams are very annoying. With the some ten thousands of Kancheepuram Pattu generating immense quantities of heat, the whole exercise is futile. And then the homam anyway needs cross ventilation, so the AC is just to make the payyan veedu people happy, I suppose.
Weddings do serve two purposes though:
1. The Kalayanam Saapaadu
2. The Kutcheri
The first is the key purpose of a wedding, from the point of view of people besides the bride and the groom. It is also the best way to evaluate if a wedding went well and the likely happiness in married life of the couple. The paayasam, rasam and thayir are the most important things that one must evaluate. The paayasam needs to be thickened adequately. The subtle flavour of perungayam and kothamalli in the rasam must give you a high. And the thayir should neither be too sour or too bland. And it should not be that gooey annoying texture or have lumps. Oh and the temperature is critical, even if it can’t be served cold, it should most certainly not be warm.
However, one notices a trend that is slightly alarming. The paal paayasam is getting endangered. All kinds of things besides rice are getting used – like aval, semiya, javvuarassi. If one were to evaluate this from an economic point of view, it makes no sense. A kilo of ponni rice is priced at rupees 22 at the Murugan Stores in T Nagar and is probably even cheaper at Subhiksha. In contrast, javvuarassi costs rupees 35. From a calorific point of view also one makes no savings. And the taste drops down by a few notches. It is just the laziness of the caterer that has resulted in such a thing. The gooeyness of the texture of the javvuarassi creates the illusion that the milk has been thickened.
Of course, one of the weddings that we went to had splendid food. As we walked out eating the beeda, amma made a quick dash to the kitchen and got the card of the contract person.
Thankfully all the kalyanams we went to had the reception after the Muhurtham. I am just too conservative and pessimistic, I suppose. What if the thaali does not get tied and you click many pictures with strange man? So much can happen over one night.
The kutcheris were mostly bearable, barring one that featured something called “Light” music. Light music = Much noise and heavily breathing into a mike. Besides it is hardly exciting to hear a song that has anyway been ruined by Udit Whatizname anyway.
The others did not feature any of the biggies though. No TM Krishna or Sudha Ragunathan sorts, but many young artists performed. Every kalyanam apparently featured an alleged ‘prodigy’. Too many prodigical Tamizh artistes one might derive.
The saddest part is, nobody ever listens to these kutcheris. Ever. People sit in the front row and talk very very loudly. Me and appa always make it a point to at least listen to two songs, no matter how obscure and bad the artist be. Even if it meant that I had to go through the ordeal of listening to one, not a prodigy anymore lady kill one of our family favorite songs, immortalized by the late DK Pattammal, Eppadi Padinaro. The Karnataka Devagandhari went so awry, it probably reached Karnataka or even more North than that.
Of course, the only purpose of a wedding is to show off potential brides and grooms to potential “other” gothram people. During the Oonjal, amma made sure that I was among the crowd that sang, Gauri / Sita Kalyanam. Amma can be such an embarrassment at times.
However, I had my moment of revenge. Many maamis came up to me and asked me, Enna height? It is a little embarrassing to be this Tamizh girl who is taller than most Tamizh boys. I mumbled some outrageously incorrect number. Like the elders always say, a hundred lies are legitimate when it comes to gothram migration. People lie about skin tone, weight, IQ and non existent skills. One might argue that you cannot lie about your height, but if amma says I can, then I can. And I will. And I must. By the time, I got to the fourth wedding, I was bored of lying. And besides I am twenty three, I can’t marry now. All single Tamizh boys are 28 and above. I would rather wait till I am 25, when I will meet the now 26 but then 28 year old boys. So I tell maami at the fourth wedding that I am 5’8”. Of course, I am not. But she believes me. And seemed sufficiently disgusted even. Amma was livid. In her anger, we almost forgot to take the Taambolam Pai and the oddly shaped stainless steel dabba. But some helpful person spotted us walking away empty handed and gave us the same.
Kalyanams are great place to spot trends and understand the mood of the people. After the dull and subtle colours that one saw during the last year wedding season, thanks to slightly posh stores such as Sundari Silks and RMKV, it seems Pothy’s and Nalli’s have stuck back this year. The gaudy and bright colours are back. Tradition is back. Mambazham Yellow, Parrot Green and MS Blue were omnipresent. Weddings are lovely, mostly because T Nagar sparkles, shimmers and dazzles you from every corner.
The loot at the end of the week has been – 14 coconuts, 4 stainless steel dabbas, two blouse pieces, one silver lamp and a number of plastic and paper bags with Vinayagar of all shapes embedded into them.
Amma is still mad at me.
I have learnt to SMS and when I write to T Anna saying that, Amma is fuming, the intelligent dictionary in my mobile phone helpfully suggests that instead of Amma, I should type, Bomb.
Everyone is getting married in AC Kalaynam Mandapams. It’s been raining in Madras for the last few days. The A/C had to be switched off on a number of occasions, because we don’t handle cold so well. I wonder if there is a clause that ensures some money back under such circumstances.
The rain notwithstanding, AC Kalyanam Mandapams are very annoying. With the some ten thousands of Kancheepuram Pattu generating immense quantities of heat, the whole exercise is futile. And then the homam anyway needs cross ventilation, so the AC is just to make the payyan veedu people happy, I suppose.
Weddings do serve two purposes though:
1. The Kalayanam Saapaadu
2. The Kutcheri
The first is the key purpose of a wedding, from the point of view of people besides the bride and the groom. It is also the best way to evaluate if a wedding went well and the likely happiness in married life of the couple. The paayasam, rasam and thayir are the most important things that one must evaluate. The paayasam needs to be thickened adequately. The subtle flavour of perungayam and kothamalli in the rasam must give you a high. And the thayir should neither be too sour or too bland. And it should not be that gooey annoying texture or have lumps. Oh and the temperature is critical, even if it can’t be served cold, it should most certainly not be warm.
However, one notices a trend that is slightly alarming. The paal paayasam is getting endangered. All kinds of things besides rice are getting used – like aval, semiya, javvuarassi. If one were to evaluate this from an economic point of view, it makes no sense. A kilo of ponni rice is priced at rupees 22 at the Murugan Stores in T Nagar and is probably even cheaper at Subhiksha. In contrast, javvuarassi costs rupees 35. From a calorific point of view also one makes no savings. And the taste drops down by a few notches. It is just the laziness of the caterer that has resulted in such a thing. The gooeyness of the texture of the javvuarassi creates the illusion that the milk has been thickened.
Of course, one of the weddings that we went to had splendid food. As we walked out eating the beeda, amma made a quick dash to the kitchen and got the card of the contract person.
Thankfully all the kalyanams we went to had the reception after the Muhurtham. I am just too conservative and pessimistic, I suppose. What if the thaali does not get tied and you click many pictures with strange man? So much can happen over one night.
The kutcheris were mostly bearable, barring one that featured something called “Light” music. Light music = Much noise and heavily breathing into a mike. Besides it is hardly exciting to hear a song that has anyway been ruined by Udit Whatizname anyway.
The others did not feature any of the biggies though. No TM Krishna or Sudha Ragunathan sorts, but many young artists performed. Every kalyanam apparently featured an alleged ‘prodigy’. Too many prodigical Tamizh artistes one might derive.
The saddest part is, nobody ever listens to these kutcheris. Ever. People sit in the front row and talk very very loudly. Me and appa always make it a point to at least listen to two songs, no matter how obscure and bad the artist be. Even if it meant that I had to go through the ordeal of listening to one, not a prodigy anymore lady kill one of our family favorite songs, immortalized by the late DK Pattammal, Eppadi Padinaro. The Karnataka Devagandhari went so awry, it probably reached Karnataka or even more North than that.
Of course, the only purpose of a wedding is to show off potential brides and grooms to potential “other” gothram people. During the Oonjal, amma made sure that I was among the crowd that sang, Gauri / Sita Kalyanam. Amma can be such an embarrassment at times.
However, I had my moment of revenge. Many maamis came up to me and asked me, Enna height? It is a little embarrassing to be this Tamizh girl who is taller than most Tamizh boys. I mumbled some outrageously incorrect number. Like the elders always say, a hundred lies are legitimate when it comes to gothram migration. People lie about skin tone, weight, IQ and non existent skills. One might argue that you cannot lie about your height, but if amma says I can, then I can. And I will. And I must. By the time, I got to the fourth wedding, I was bored of lying. And besides I am twenty three, I can’t marry now. All single Tamizh boys are 28 and above. I would rather wait till I am 25, when I will meet the now 26 but then 28 year old boys. So I tell maami at the fourth wedding that I am 5’8”. Of course, I am not. But she believes me. And seemed sufficiently disgusted even. Amma was livid. In her anger, we almost forgot to take the Taambolam Pai and the oddly shaped stainless steel dabba. But some helpful person spotted us walking away empty handed and gave us the same.
Kalyanams are great place to spot trends and understand the mood of the people. After the dull and subtle colours that one saw during the last year wedding season, thanks to slightly posh stores such as Sundari Silks and RMKV, it seems Pothy’s and Nalli’s have stuck back this year. The gaudy and bright colours are back. Tradition is back. Mambazham Yellow, Parrot Green and MS Blue were omnipresent. Weddings are lovely, mostly because T Nagar sparkles, shimmers and dazzles you from every corner.
The loot at the end of the week has been – 14 coconuts, 4 stainless steel dabbas, two blouse pieces, one silver lamp and a number of plastic and paper bags with Vinayagar of all shapes embedded into them.
Amma is still mad at me.
I have learnt to SMS and when I write to T Anna saying that, Amma is fuming, the intelligent dictionary in my mobile phone helpfully suggests that instead of Amma, I should type, Bomb.
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