Is it cold there, S Maami asks?
The winters must have set in there, Iyengaar Maami adds knowingly.
I heard that there was a frost warning two weeks back, Alacrity Maami announced.
Amma has returned and the T Nagar Maamis seem to be under the belief that Amma is some kind of a weather satellite that they had sent out to monitor the global climate. The burning question in their minds is, did the investment on the thermal-wear from Naidu Hall pay off?
Amma looked overwhelmed and tired as a result of all the attention. Six months have aged her considerably. She is surprisingly quiet. She chooses her words carefully and all her movements seem to be deliberate and in slow-motion. The suitcase is yet to be unpacked and the boxes of Ziploc bags and assorted stuff manufactured in Asia and retailed in discount stores in America are yet to make an appearance. So, I remain unsure how successful the trip has been for Amma. Yet, I would like to hazard a guess, and say that, the American Dream doesn't seem to have worked for her.
Six months is a long time. Appa, who had been at the receiving end of my domestic experiments will vouch for that. But, it must have been longer for Amma. Six months of vacuuming a large and empty house must be tiring. Six months of doing cleaning and assorted household work must be boring. If the only outlet to unwind is a visit to the local library, six months must indeed be a long time. Six months of religiously playing the sport of fattening your children must be tiresome. Six months of waiting for weekends to meet them, must be pathos inducing. And most importantly, six months away from T Nagar must be heart-breaking.
How is M Manni, G Periamma asks Amma, in a gleeful tone. Everyone looks at Amma with some interest. Now, that should get her talking. There must be a dozen reasons at least, why M Manni is not good enough for the precious T Anna. Amma surprised G Periamma and me when she said, M Manni is an affectionate girl. Amma stresses on affectionate, the way she does when English words slip into whatever she says.
Did you know M Manni wears contact lenses, Amma asked me suddenly? Deceit, I think, I wonder how Amma would have reacted when she saw M Manni with glasses for the first time. I would have liked to have been there. But it seems, that is not enough reason to launch an attack against the daughter-in-law and Amma said, nowadays you get disposable lenses, they are very comfortable, you know. She adds further, it stablises the power. She is trying to convince T Anna to get one too. Amma sounds satisfied, like her son is now in good hands. I am just a little shocked. I am also happy and a little jealous. I don't get that kind of approval after twenty-five years.
Where all did you go, S Maami asks. Did you go to the Coca Cola factory in Atlanta, 106 Maami asks? What about Lake Tahoe, another Maami almost breathlessly asks, lest some other Maami beat her to it. What about the Grand Canyon and Niagara Falls, G Periamma asks, as she tries to remember some photographs that her brother had shown her some years ago. I hope you went to Boston and saw Harvard, Alacrity Maami said in an almost indignant tone. What about Las Vegas, S Maami suggested playfully.
I rolled my eyes as the Maami's questions traveled effortlessly across coasts and with scanty regard for distances and T Anna's financial ability to fund this wanderlust. All of this, just so that, they could show off their own knowledge. I decide that I couldn't take this anymore and got ready to leave the room. It was Amma's response that made me pause, as she said, we didn't go out very much. T Anna is having some tension at work.
N Chitappa who was watching the TV on mute (he believes that TV is merely a visual medium. Though the theory floating around in the family is, he is partially deaf and cannot listen in to the conversation among the women-folk, usually gossiping in the next room if the TV is also on.). Anyway, he perked up at Amma's statement and asked her, Recession aa, clucking his tongue like he was biting into a juicy and sweet jangri from Suriya Sweets.
Apdi ellam onnum illai, Amma said,just a tad too quickly. Some general tension only, she offered in manner of explanation of her earlier statement.
At least, he didn't shoot you and M Manni, G Periamma added, rather unkindly, as the colour drained out of Amma's face. The Maamis got into a discussion on how shocking it was that a Tamil Brahmin boy that too from IIT would be involved in something as macabre. Personally, I am glad. Not glad that people got killed or that people are moved to such desperation. But, at least, T Anna and his friends will not get into a match-the dormitory/hostel-game, Over the years, I have noticed, every occasion when some IIT alumni has achieved any success, there is an almost pathological need to match dormitories or hostels that they might have shared, even if it was twenty-five years apart. Notorious alumni, don't make you do that. Yes, I am somewhat pleased.
Too much pressure in IIT these days, 106 Maami says, as she thinks about her own son from the hallowed walls.
Yes yes, N Chitappa offers. You can't be that smart and not be a little insane, hanh. All boys and girls who go to IIT must be at least 10% insane.
I can't suppress the giggle and wonder about several things, like – how did N Chitappa arrive at this figure, what is the upper limit of this insanity percentage and what level does he peg T Anna and S at. N Chitappa suddenly notices me and asks me to come and talk to him. I know it is not going to be very pleasant, but with little choice, I go and sit next to him. So, what does the Indian media think about this global financial crisis, hanh, he wants me to tell him.
Ummm, I say. I hate it when my views are supposed to represent a group of individuals, more so when they don't know that they are being represented. And especially my views on a subject that I have very limited knowledge about.
All the Maamis now turn their attention to me and for the first time in the day seem to notice my presence in the room. I strain to think back about all the news reports that I might have read or the snatches of conversation thread that I might have heard but not really listened. But, I draw a blank and all I can recall is how M and I discussed about the Mangayar Malar's hundred Deepavali sweets. Hundred sweets made up with the ration shop sugar, Aaavin cooking butter and cheap cashews bought from Burma Bazaar in Trichy don't suggest a recession, do they?
It is terrible, I say finally. Rather stupidly. The Maamis look a little disappointed and mostly satisfied that they need not re-evalaute their opinion about me. Oblivious to my misery and not wanting to lose his captive audience, N Chitappa continues, it is worse than terrible, do you know Iceland has become bankrupt. The knowledge of an an entire country going bankrupt makes them feel horrified and strangely excited at the same time. So, what is this recession about, S Maami asked?
And so, N Chitappa launched into his idiot's guide to the sub-prime crisis. I am not sure if N Chitappa had ever had such large bunch of captive women audience. Madras Thatha, had come into the room by then and we couldn't help but exchange a smile as N Chitappa spoke about Ninja borrowers, Federal Reserve, Washington Mutual, confidence crisis, bankrupt investment banks, government bail-out and the works. The Maamis are agog with curiosity and questions tumble out. Some are logical. Aren't the banks legally bound to pay the investment banks even if their customers defaulted, Alacrity Maami demands to know. Some are merely trying to get their voice heard and will ask any kind of question. Who is a Ninja Warrior, S Maami wishes to know. The Japanese Kamal in Dasavatharam of course, 106 Maami says. After a minor digression that involved discussing each of the avataarams, it was concluded that Japanese Ninja Avataaram was clearly the worst. G Periamma had only one thing to ask, so why did Karthik kill himself and his family? That too a Fulbright scholar son, Amma said in an offended tone. All the Maamis agreed that it would be quite alright if stupid children were killed. Not liking the way the conversation was going, I decided to leave the room.
In my room, I Googled for stuff and found this, it was less dramatic and more informative than whatever N Chitappa was getting at. And most importantly it didn't establish a relationship between loan defaulters and inevitable death.
I wonder, why would any of this impact T Anna. He was not an investment banker or any other kind of banker. The only explanation I can think of is that, he is probably one of those debtors who didn't pay back the money and was in some way responsible for this crisis. He had bought a house recently, hadn't he?
Amma comes to my room and her blank expression is now replaced with the I-don't-like-what-I-see expression as she looks at my hair. I think, for six months you must not have applied any oil, she pronounces disgustedly. I want to protest and tell her that, I have been religiously following the oil and Meera herbal powder routine with poor results to show for. But, I hold back. After all, she has just traveled time-zones, have a dream shattered and a global worry in the back of her mind that refuses to go away.
We should go to the Vadaplani Kovil tomorrow. It is only Asthami but that is okay, she says peeping into the day ahead on the Rani Muthu calendar. Yes, I agree meekly. Also go and get that bottle of oil, let me see what you have done without me, she says in her assured tone. I can see that it is already working. And probably a god seated on a blue peacock, 10 ml of oil and few days of the T Nagar air is all that she needs to convince herself about her infallibility.
After which, she will forget about a global crisis and tell us the real story behind the horrific discovery of her daughter-in-law's glasses and the likely impact of this on the eye-sight of the grandchild who might someday be named after her.
Showing posts with label Amma. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Amma. Show all posts
Monday, October 20, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
Disease, Doctors, Drugs, Devils and Death
Seventy-five years is no age to stay up late and watch television, G Periamma scowled and let everyone know. She looks far from gruntled as she pureed the rice and paruppu concoction for Paati. She looks at me, S and Appa accusingly, as she is now the sole person in-charge of Paati’s well being. Of course, she is not, but we let her to these little delusions.
I have twenty-five percentage heart blockage, she says almost triumphantly, as Appa guiltily averts her gaze.
All of this is T Anna’s fault. No. Really.
Among the many things that Amma had to go through, as preparation before her USA trip, was a MHC (Master Health Check-Up) at the Apollo Hospitals in Chennai.
All of us were shocked. In my family, nobody went to hospitals without a cause. Of course, the sick children made the occasional trip to Child Trust and menopausal women folk went to Vijaya Hospital. For aches and pains, there is the alternative medicine believer Rama Krishna, who recommends Virbhadrasana as the cure for all problems.
Then there is Thatha, who goes to Dr Krishnan, the partly senile and mostly very funny doctor. His diagnosis includes suggestions such as:
1. Sit in temple and say Shiva, Shiva
2. Sit in temple and say Rama, Rama
3. Langanam Parama Aushadam, there are few ailments that can’t be cured by skipping a meal
So, we were naturally shocked at this blatant disregard for tradition, Dr Krishnan and his homeopathic doctor son. Not just this, but the same had to happen at the Apollo Hospitals – the largest money making and tourist attracting destination of the city.
However, three things convinced Amma that she indeed had to go in for an MHC:
1. M Manni’s Amma had got one done prior to her USA visit
2. Since T Anna suggested that the cost of medical facilities were very high in USA, she didn’t want to discover some sudden ailment and burden her son
3. Amma fancies herself as a trend setter of sorts and didn’t want to lose out on an opportunity to be the first in something
The MHC promised to test every known and unknown ailment to mankind. On an impulse G Periamma also decided to get one done too. After all, being a few years senior to Amma meant that she was at a higher risk. Also, she didn’t want Amma to beat her.
I took both Amma and G Periamma for the first round of tests. There was palpable excitement and both Amma and G Periamma decided to do a quick stopover at the Pilayar Kovil before we went to the hospital.
Amma and Periamma had a rather animated discussion on the several possible problems that they might have. Even Chettiar who was riding our auto, looked most amused.
I will definitely have BP, so much tension because of ATP and S, Amma said confidently.
G Periamma volunteered to be the brand ambassador for spondylitis and back problems. Only I know how much I suffer, she said mournfully.
Amma said with empathy, I know what you mean, I know I have arthritis but I can’t stop working because of that. Five years ago, I would run up the Malai Kotai, now I dread at the thought.
Periamma sighed tragically and in manner of her Brahmastram said, but you know, I am sure to have a serious heart problem. So many times I wake up in the middle of the night with such a bad chest pain and your Anna (Periapppa) says that, it is only gas and gives me a Digene. And before he goes back to sleep, he will suggest that I put less paruppu in the sambhar.
Amma thought hard for a retort to beat that, but thankfully for all of us, we reached Apollo just then.
Inside, several maamis and maamas who were possibly going to America were getting their MHCs done too. Amma and Periamma were quick to befriend a random maami. I caught snatches of the conversation, as they behaved like some long lost siblings:
T Nagar va? Yay ! Texas va! Yay. Tirunelveli va ? Yay. My daughter is a journalist but my son is an engineer. Yay! What! That is a polycotton sari va? Amma and G Periamma asked shockingly. Polycot Maami brightened and said conspirationally, there is a store called Shri Aishwarya Sarees at Arcot Street. Yay, Amma and G Periamma gushed and the fans of Shri Aishwarya Sarees had a happy reunion and wondered how they hadn’t run into each other until then.
Before things got more painful, the stern looking nurse came and whisked away Amma and Periamma for the basic tests. So, blood was drawn, urine and stool samples taken and some more blood was drawn.
After these, came the biggie, the tests to ascertain the well-being of the heart. The same happened at the specialty heart hospital close by. The ECG went fine and Periamma looked surprised, disappointed even. The Echo Cardiogram showed a little variation for both Amma and Periamma. Periamma had an I-told-you expression on her face and Amma looked rather anxious.
Will you do the treadmill, the assistant asked? Both Amma and Periamma looked horrified. Amma insisted on going back home and Periamma was ready to weep any moment. Suddenly, inspirationally almost, Periamma asked me to call N Akka, Madras Atthais’s daughter and the only doctor in our extended family.
Isn’t she an ENT doctor, Amma asked? But she is STILL a doctor, Periamma said firmly. Luckily for us, she was around and came to our rescue pronto.
She tried to convince Amma and Periamma to go ahead with the treadmill. Periamma was worried that her Mysore silk Saree was not conducive for huffing and puffing on the treadmill, besides as the eldest daughter-in-law, she thought that Amma should go first. Amma finally relented (and cotton sarees helped her cause) and was given a clean chit because she did admirably well. Between performance anxiety and desire to outdo her sister-in-law Periamma wanted a more humane way to check the condition of her heart. N Akka recommended the 64 Slice CT Scan, which immediately appealed to Periamma. She reasoned that, since eight was her lucky number, the square of it must be twice as lucky. The technicians said that Periamma had a mild problem, but nothing to worry about.
Not to take the opinion of someone who didn’t go through the rigour of five years of medical school, Periamma spent the next two days doing some cutting edge research on the matters of the heart.
Finally, when it was time to show the reports to the doctor, he recommended a minor lifestyle change and some blood thinning medication. Periamma looked less than convinced. Don’t I need a stent, she demanded to know. Not really, the young doctor said, you need to stop using Google though.
I have a twenty-five percent heart blockage, she tells everyone now. She says so with pathos, drama and triumph.
And so, Amma lost and Periamma won.
But Amma also won, as she crossed the last of the hurdles to visit the land of opportunity. And so in the auto drive back home, she went through her mental check-list all over again. Podis: Check. Manoharam: Check. Mug: Check. Sri Rama Jayam Notebook: Check. Lalita Sahasra Namam CD: Check. TM Krishna CD: Check. Grand Sweets Broken Thathai: Check. Special NRI packet of Appalam and pickles from Meena Stores: Check. Ashwini Hair Oil: Check. Multiple copies of ATP’s Jadagam: Check.
Contrary to what Amma thought, we were managing fine. At least until the day before yesterday, when a call came from Periamma. At 4am.
Who might have died, I wondered, as Appa went to pick up the phone. Paati has fainted, Periamma said excitedly, and asked us to come immediately. We rushed and dragged the bewildered S, who was in the middle of some complex Physics problems.
Thatha was asked to repeat the same story and answer the same questions. What did she eat last night? How did you discover that she had fainted? What did you do after that? Was she behaving any differently last evening?
Thatha looked broken, scared and lonely. Thankfully, the doctor came then and told us that all was well with Paati and that it was a minor stress and tiredness related ailment.
Has she been doing something that she ought not to have been doing, Dr Krishnan asked?
Well, yes. She is watching the late night movies on Sun TV. Old B&W movies that are being screened as part of the 75th year of Tamil Cinema, Thatha said.
Who watches late night movies, Periamma thunders? And before I can think of a sharp retort she dramatically clutches her heart.
S and cousin D insisted that we get Tamil movie VCDs, this so that Paati could watch movies sans advertising and during the day. I agreed to the plan and asked Paati what movies she wanted to see. She said, Server Sundaram and Vietnam Veedu.
Vietnam Veedu is our family favourite. Prestige Padmanabha Iyer, the patriarch played by Sivaji evoked much mirth and was Thatha’s role model of sorts.
Thatha cheered as Sivaji came up with yet another out of context English quotation, Disease, Doctors, Drugs, Devil and Death.
Paati snorts derisively, as by now, she has completely recovered.
Thatha instead of reacting, ignores her.
S, the astute one asks Paati if she and Thatha have had a fight?
Yes, she said.
Why, we all asked curiously, temporarily ignoring the movie.
Paati is silent, her lips pursed and looking somewhat guilty.
You won’t believe what Paati has done, Thatha blurted suddenly. She has asked the newspaper vendor to stop The Hindu and gives Times of India from Tamil New Year’s day, because she has got a bag.
What, I say.
How could you do that, I asked Paati accusingly.
Paati looks guilty and then says, you can keep the bag, it is very nice.
I then called the newspaper guy and tell him that we would subscribe to both the newspapers.
Thatha looks pacified and Paati relieved.
Periamma wished to know who would read two newspapers.
S volunteers to read TOI, most generously.
But Paati is now seriously worried that the Rs 300 has turned out to be a wasted investment.
In a bid to be nice her I say, don’t worry Paati we will make more money when we sell old papers. It will be heavy with advertisements.
Hmppfh, Periamma says and demands to know what we shall do with all that money?
Why, we will fund your heart surgery with it, what else, Thatha tells laughingly.
As if on cue, Sivaji laughs loudly, clutches his chest dramatically and dies.
Paati laughed too.
I have twenty-five percentage heart blockage, she says almost triumphantly, as Appa guiltily averts her gaze.
All of this is T Anna’s fault. No. Really.
Among the many things that Amma had to go through, as preparation before her USA trip, was a MHC (Master Health Check-Up) at the Apollo Hospitals in Chennai.
All of us were shocked. In my family, nobody went to hospitals without a cause. Of course, the sick children made the occasional trip to Child Trust and menopausal women folk went to Vijaya Hospital. For aches and pains, there is the alternative medicine believer Rama Krishna, who recommends Virbhadrasana as the cure for all problems.
Then there is Thatha, who goes to Dr Krishnan, the partly senile and mostly very funny doctor. His diagnosis includes suggestions such as:
1. Sit in temple and say Shiva, Shiva
2. Sit in temple and say Rama, Rama
3. Langanam Parama Aushadam, there are few ailments that can’t be cured by skipping a meal
So, we were naturally shocked at this blatant disregard for tradition, Dr Krishnan and his homeopathic doctor son. Not just this, but the same had to happen at the Apollo Hospitals – the largest money making and tourist attracting destination of the city.
However, three things convinced Amma that she indeed had to go in for an MHC:
1. M Manni’s Amma had got one done prior to her USA visit
2. Since T Anna suggested that the cost of medical facilities were very high in USA, she didn’t want to discover some sudden ailment and burden her son
3. Amma fancies herself as a trend setter of sorts and didn’t want to lose out on an opportunity to be the first in something
The MHC promised to test every known and unknown ailment to mankind. On an impulse G Periamma also decided to get one done too. After all, being a few years senior to Amma meant that she was at a higher risk. Also, she didn’t want Amma to beat her.
I took both Amma and G Periamma for the first round of tests. There was palpable excitement and both Amma and G Periamma decided to do a quick stopover at the Pilayar Kovil before we went to the hospital.
Amma and Periamma had a rather animated discussion on the several possible problems that they might have. Even Chettiar who was riding our auto, looked most amused.
I will definitely have BP, so much tension because of ATP and S, Amma said confidently.
G Periamma volunteered to be the brand ambassador for spondylitis and back problems. Only I know how much I suffer, she said mournfully.
Amma said with empathy, I know what you mean, I know I have arthritis but I can’t stop working because of that. Five years ago, I would run up the Malai Kotai, now I dread at the thought.
Periamma sighed tragically and in manner of her Brahmastram said, but you know, I am sure to have a serious heart problem. So many times I wake up in the middle of the night with such a bad chest pain and your Anna (Periapppa) says that, it is only gas and gives me a Digene. And before he goes back to sleep, he will suggest that I put less paruppu in the sambhar.
Amma thought hard for a retort to beat that, but thankfully for all of us, we reached Apollo just then.
Inside, several maamis and maamas who were possibly going to America were getting their MHCs done too. Amma and Periamma were quick to befriend a random maami. I caught snatches of the conversation, as they behaved like some long lost siblings:
T Nagar va? Yay ! Texas va! Yay. Tirunelveli va ? Yay. My daughter is a journalist but my son is an engineer. Yay! What! That is a polycotton sari va? Amma and G Periamma asked shockingly. Polycot Maami brightened and said conspirationally, there is a store called Shri Aishwarya Sarees at Arcot Street. Yay, Amma and G Periamma gushed and the fans of Shri Aishwarya Sarees had a happy reunion and wondered how they hadn’t run into each other until then.
Before things got more painful, the stern looking nurse came and whisked away Amma and Periamma for the basic tests. So, blood was drawn, urine and stool samples taken and some more blood was drawn.
After these, came the biggie, the tests to ascertain the well-being of the heart. The same happened at the specialty heart hospital close by. The ECG went fine and Periamma looked surprised, disappointed even. The Echo Cardiogram showed a little variation for both Amma and Periamma. Periamma had an I-told-you expression on her face and Amma looked rather anxious.
Will you do the treadmill, the assistant asked? Both Amma and Periamma looked horrified. Amma insisted on going back home and Periamma was ready to weep any moment. Suddenly, inspirationally almost, Periamma asked me to call N Akka, Madras Atthais’s daughter and the only doctor in our extended family.
Isn’t she an ENT doctor, Amma asked? But she is STILL a doctor, Periamma said firmly. Luckily for us, she was around and came to our rescue pronto.
She tried to convince Amma and Periamma to go ahead with the treadmill. Periamma was worried that her Mysore silk Saree was not conducive for huffing and puffing on the treadmill, besides as the eldest daughter-in-law, she thought that Amma should go first. Amma finally relented (and cotton sarees helped her cause) and was given a clean chit because she did admirably well. Between performance anxiety and desire to outdo her sister-in-law Periamma wanted a more humane way to check the condition of her heart. N Akka recommended the 64 Slice CT Scan, which immediately appealed to Periamma. She reasoned that, since eight was her lucky number, the square of it must be twice as lucky. The technicians said that Periamma had a mild problem, but nothing to worry about.
Not to take the opinion of someone who didn’t go through the rigour of five years of medical school, Periamma spent the next two days doing some cutting edge research on the matters of the heart.
Finally, when it was time to show the reports to the doctor, he recommended a minor lifestyle change and some blood thinning medication. Periamma looked less than convinced. Don’t I need a stent, she demanded to know. Not really, the young doctor said, you need to stop using Google though.
I have a twenty-five percent heart blockage, she tells everyone now. She says so with pathos, drama and triumph.
And so, Amma lost and Periamma won.
But Amma also won, as she crossed the last of the hurdles to visit the land of opportunity. And so in the auto drive back home, she went through her mental check-list all over again. Podis: Check. Manoharam: Check. Mug: Check. Sri Rama Jayam Notebook: Check. Lalita Sahasra Namam CD: Check. TM Krishna CD: Check. Grand Sweets Broken Thathai: Check. Special NRI packet of Appalam and pickles from Meena Stores: Check. Ashwini Hair Oil: Check. Multiple copies of ATP’s Jadagam: Check.
Contrary to what Amma thought, we were managing fine. At least until the day before yesterday, when a call came from Periamma. At 4am.
Who might have died, I wondered, as Appa went to pick up the phone. Paati has fainted, Periamma said excitedly, and asked us to come immediately. We rushed and dragged the bewildered S, who was in the middle of some complex Physics problems.
Thatha was asked to repeat the same story and answer the same questions. What did she eat last night? How did you discover that she had fainted? What did you do after that? Was she behaving any differently last evening?
Thatha looked broken, scared and lonely. Thankfully, the doctor came then and told us that all was well with Paati and that it was a minor stress and tiredness related ailment.
Has she been doing something that she ought not to have been doing, Dr Krishnan asked?
Well, yes. She is watching the late night movies on Sun TV. Old B&W movies that are being screened as part of the 75th year of Tamil Cinema, Thatha said.
Who watches late night movies, Periamma thunders? And before I can think of a sharp retort she dramatically clutches her heart.
S and cousin D insisted that we get Tamil movie VCDs, this so that Paati could watch movies sans advertising and during the day. I agreed to the plan and asked Paati what movies she wanted to see. She said, Server Sundaram and Vietnam Veedu.
Vietnam Veedu is our family favourite. Prestige Padmanabha Iyer, the patriarch played by Sivaji evoked much mirth and was Thatha’s role model of sorts.
Thatha cheered as Sivaji came up with yet another out of context English quotation, Disease, Doctors, Drugs, Devil and Death.
Paati snorts derisively, as by now, she has completely recovered.
Thatha instead of reacting, ignores her.
S, the astute one asks Paati if she and Thatha have had a fight?
Yes, she said.
Why, we all asked curiously, temporarily ignoring the movie.
Paati is silent, her lips pursed and looking somewhat guilty.
You won’t believe what Paati has done, Thatha blurted suddenly. She has asked the newspaper vendor to stop The Hindu and gives Times of India from Tamil New Year’s day, because she has got a bag.
What, I say.
How could you do that, I asked Paati accusingly.
Paati looks guilty and then says, you can keep the bag, it is very nice.
I then called the newspaper guy and tell him that we would subscribe to both the newspapers.
Thatha looks pacified and Paati relieved.
Periamma wished to know who would read two newspapers.
S volunteers to read TOI, most generously.
But Paati is now seriously worried that the Rs 300 has turned out to be a wasted investment.
In a bid to be nice her I say, don’t worry Paati we will make more money when we sell old papers. It will be heavy with advertisements.
Hmppfh, Periamma says and demands to know what we shall do with all that money?
Why, we will fund your heart surgery with it, what else, Thatha tells laughingly.
As if on cue, Sivaji laughs loudly, clutches his chest dramatically and dies.
Paati laughed too.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
A Mail-Box and a Red Box
In between all of amma’s packing and our hunt for large suitcases, I am feeling a bit tired. Buying boxes to take to America is very expensive. T Anna very generously sent the tickets. It would have been nice if he would have also sent some money for the luggage and thermal-wear that amma needed to buy from Naidu Hall. Appa suggested that we borrow a suitcase from Nagam Akka, who had gone to Moscow during the 1980 Olympics (or sometime before I was born). In what was widely believed to be the most vulgar display of wealth by my extended family, a giant red box was procured. Later, the box accompanied the globe trotting Nagam Akka, along with her three-stoned diamond nose pin across several countries.
When I was younger, it fascinated me because, it was so large that perhaps, the dwarf sized Nagam Akka would herself fit into it. We used to hear so many Moscow stories from her, it was fascinating. And when T Anna told me that Nagam Akka was actually a cosmonaut, in my naiveté I believed him.
S and I dragged the box to our third-floor apartment. It looked as old and worn out as Nagam Akka did. Surprisingly, the number-lock still worked.
888, amma whispered, lest the household help were to hear us.
Podis are being packed. Will she get past with all those concoctions through security, we wonder. Will she get lost at some big American airport, S wants to know. Will T Anna not even come to pick her up, I wonder briefly.
What will you do there for the entire day, Indira Maami wants to know? You need to develop some hobby, she tells amma firmly.
Fifty five years and two cities later, Amma will set her feet out of Tamizh land for the very first time. That requires some help from the good Iyer gods.
Tomorrow we will go to the Vadapalani Kovil and break some coconuts, so that we can ward of any possibilities of the evil eye.
I have realized that going to a foreign land for the first time is like being a first time mother. Everyone has an opinion on it and suggestions on what you should do.
Amma says that while she is there, I should email T Anna everyday. I should tell them everything. What I cook, how quickly the rasam podi is getting over, if S is eating well, if Appa is going for his walks, if Paati is eating figs, if Thatha is going for a walk in the terrace, if G Periamma is feeding us anything, family gossip, neighbourhood gossip, Madras gossip and so on.
One can’t help but wonder why she is going at all?
I will write emails, I promise for the nth time. We fold several Garden saris that she is carrying. For the last few months she has been saving her Garden (that is a generic name for any sari that is made with polyester like substance) saris.
One can’t wear them in Madras, she announces.
Yeah, right.
Don’t forget the emails, amma reminds me again.
She also tells that S to email. Amma doesn’t trust me with emails. Apparently T Anna and M Manni both complain about the time-lag in my emails and the taciturn tone when I do write. I don’t like emailing very much, probably because I was a late bloomer when it came to the Internet.
T Anna was the first person to introduce the computer and the possibilities of the Internet to us. There was something mildly putting off about his Isaac-Newton-apple-just-fell-on-my-head tone, which left me a little cold.
G Periamma was the first relative in our family to have a PC with Internet. Every other day, I was sent to Periamma’s house to type out some email to T Anna, which had some hurried instructions written by Amma on a copy of Aval Vikatan or The Hindu.
I resented T Anna for the walk that I had to do from Boag Road to Tirumalai Road.
Finally, G Periamma got a new computer with a faster processor, and her old one, we inherited.
I opened my mail-box twice each day to read about T Anna’s tough yet happy life and also his alleged culinary prowess. Nobody else emailed me. And so, losing passwords was my favourite hobby.
Over years, I acquired some friends who were email worthy, but I am easily bored and quickly lose in touch with them. I am sure when they get married, they will find me. And that will do.
However, things are different now. And I do get mails from Blog readers. I am not sure if they are Bloggers. If they are, it is very likely that they email from an id that screams SPAM!
earful.giver@gmail.com says that, he/she loves me.
What joy?
putative17652karthiksiva@gmail.com says that, I need more sex in my life. Wait, he (I am certain actually) says that I need sex. The more prefix would suggest that there might be something already, which he confidently dismisses as an unlikely event. Glorious Tamil sex, he recommends.
Very useful.
I will be happy to give any of the ladies his contact details.
whining.srimurthy@gmail.com asks me as to why he doesn’t feature on my Blogroll. He (again I am sure) goes on to say that I am being anti Madras by featuring two Bloggers who have Bengloor included in their url.
Thank you for opening my eyes.
meenakshi.sundaresan0987@gmail.com wishes to let me know that, she is ashamed to share my gothram. If she knows of any single boys from some other Gothram, she should get in touch with amma.
kanimozhi.balaji098765@gmail.com also complains. She talks at length about some North Indian cricketer and compares him to me. And me to him. She proclaims that I am a bad advertisement for Tamizh Penns across the world.
Several other people wish to know if I am the sister of a certain Tamizh Penn blogger (who is my favourite), the daughter of a male blogger (whom many are obsessed with), a software programme written by a particularly clever blogger (whom everyone loves), and so on.
All of it is mildly amusing. Of course, I never reply to these emails. I mean, I am the biggest proponent of equal opportunity hate. And like she rightly points out, this is the only thing I ever have to say.
However, whether Bloggers email or not, what I do know is that, they talk. They talk to other bloggers. They talk to your colleagues. And some of them talk to amma.
Therefore, I find myself in a somewhat unhappy situation, that of being selectively anonymous.
I have chosen to be anonymous and would like it to stay that way. And now I am a little tired of people trying to out me. It is boring, silly, pointless and is mostly annoying.
And therefore, I can’t help but feel that -- between this, that and everything else, I am all Blogged out.
When I was younger, it fascinated me because, it was so large that perhaps, the dwarf sized Nagam Akka would herself fit into it. We used to hear so many Moscow stories from her, it was fascinating. And when T Anna told me that Nagam Akka was actually a cosmonaut, in my naiveté I believed him.
S and I dragged the box to our third-floor apartment. It looked as old and worn out as Nagam Akka did. Surprisingly, the number-lock still worked.
888, amma whispered, lest the household help were to hear us.
Podis are being packed. Will she get past with all those concoctions through security, we wonder. Will she get lost at some big American airport, S wants to know. Will T Anna not even come to pick her up, I wonder briefly.
What will you do there for the entire day, Indira Maami wants to know? You need to develop some hobby, she tells amma firmly.
Fifty five years and two cities later, Amma will set her feet out of Tamizh land for the very first time. That requires some help from the good Iyer gods.
Tomorrow we will go to the Vadapalani Kovil and break some coconuts, so that we can ward of any possibilities of the evil eye.
I have realized that going to a foreign land for the first time is like being a first time mother. Everyone has an opinion on it and suggestions on what you should do.
Amma says that while she is there, I should email T Anna everyday. I should tell them everything. What I cook, how quickly the rasam podi is getting over, if S is eating well, if Appa is going for his walks, if Paati is eating figs, if Thatha is going for a walk in the terrace, if G Periamma is feeding us anything, family gossip, neighbourhood gossip, Madras gossip and so on.
One can’t help but wonder why she is going at all?
I will write emails, I promise for the nth time. We fold several Garden saris that she is carrying. For the last few months she has been saving her Garden (that is a generic name for any sari that is made with polyester like substance) saris.
One can’t wear them in Madras, she announces.
Yeah, right.
Don’t forget the emails, amma reminds me again.
She also tells that S to email. Amma doesn’t trust me with emails. Apparently T Anna and M Manni both complain about the time-lag in my emails and the taciturn tone when I do write. I don’t like emailing very much, probably because I was a late bloomer when it came to the Internet.
T Anna was the first person to introduce the computer and the possibilities of the Internet to us. There was something mildly putting off about his Isaac-Newton-apple-just-fell-on-my-head tone, which left me a little cold.
G Periamma was the first relative in our family to have a PC with Internet. Every other day, I was sent to Periamma’s house to type out some email to T Anna, which had some hurried instructions written by Amma on a copy of Aval Vikatan or The Hindu.
I resented T Anna for the walk that I had to do from Boag Road to Tirumalai Road.
Finally, G Periamma got a new computer with a faster processor, and her old one, we inherited.
I opened my mail-box twice each day to read about T Anna’s tough yet happy life and also his alleged culinary prowess. Nobody else emailed me. And so, losing passwords was my favourite hobby.
Over years, I acquired some friends who were email worthy, but I am easily bored and quickly lose in touch with them. I am sure when they get married, they will find me. And that will do.
However, things are different now. And I do get mails from Blog readers. I am not sure if they are Bloggers. If they are, it is very likely that they email from an id that screams SPAM!
earful.giver@gmail.com says that, he/she loves me.
What joy?
putative17652karthiksiva@gmail.com says that, I need more sex in my life. Wait, he (I am certain actually) says that I need sex. The more prefix would suggest that there might be something already, which he confidently dismisses as an unlikely event. Glorious Tamil sex, he recommends.
Very useful.
I will be happy to give any of the ladies his contact details.
whining.srimurthy@gmail.com asks me as to why he doesn’t feature on my Blogroll. He (again I am sure) goes on to say that I am being anti Madras by featuring two Bloggers who have Bengloor included in their url.
Thank you for opening my eyes.
meenakshi.sundaresan0987@gmail.com wishes to let me know that, she is ashamed to share my gothram. If she knows of any single boys from some other Gothram, she should get in touch with amma.
kanimozhi.balaji098765@gmail.com also complains. She talks at length about some North Indian cricketer and compares him to me. And me to him. She proclaims that I am a bad advertisement for Tamizh Penns across the world.
Several other people wish to know if I am the sister of a certain Tamizh Penn blogger (who is my favourite), the daughter of a male blogger (whom many are obsessed with), a software programme written by a particularly clever blogger (whom everyone loves), and so on.
All of it is mildly amusing. Of course, I never reply to these emails. I mean, I am the biggest proponent of equal opportunity hate. And like she rightly points out, this is the only thing I ever have to say.
However, whether Bloggers email or not, what I do know is that, they talk. They talk to other bloggers. They talk to your colleagues. And some of them talk to amma.
Therefore, I find myself in a somewhat unhappy situation, that of being selectively anonymous.
I have chosen to be anonymous and would like it to stay that way. And now I am a little tired of people trying to out me. It is boring, silly, pointless and is mostly annoying.
And therefore, I can’t help but feel that -- between this, that and everything else, I am all Blogged out.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
When the gods wait
Obsessed with grades and mathematics marks, my school had a Parent-Teacher meeting every now and then. This so that, they could assess and take stock of our progress and gauge if any of us would get a stamp sized photograph of ours published in The Hindu, when Brilliants Tutorials put up its advert.
After my disastrous Saturday tests, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that I was not going to be one of them. However, that didn’t stop Amma and Viajayalakshmi Madam, my mathematics teacher, to continue having expectations from me. The bright kids always got a hundred in maths. The average but hard-working ones got in the 90s. The ones who didn’t have the aptitude or the inclination got less than 70s. And there were some of us, who were always languishing in the early 80s.
She makes too many silly mistakes, is what Viji Madam said term after term.
Amma used to be very upset when she would get home from these meetings. Not only was I making mistakes and thereby ruining my future, I was doing that in a most silly manner. Unlike me, T Anna never made any mistakes. And when he did, it was certainly not a “silly” mistake. He would misunderstand a relatively simple question and come up with a more complicated answer than necessary. Occasionally Viji Madam would not cut his marks for mere ingenuity. But I was not being a worthy successor of this legacy and would compute the age of the father when clearly they asked the age of the son. Or, I would calculate the circumference when clearly it was a question on volume. Or, I would figure patterns among numbers where there was no evidence of such a series existing.
For most of the school years, Amma’s efforts were directed in converting me from – silly mistakes maker to mere mistakes maker.
However, it didn’t really work.
In sheer despair, Amma got in touch with Mambalam Maama – our family astrologer, thatha’s ex colleague from the Murugappa group, who now helped to match horoscopes and provide solutions to defy planetary ill influences.
Mambalam Mama, on seeing my horoscope said that, Guru – the planet of optimism and success was weak for me and that I needed to work on that to get some success. Amma was provided with a two pronged solution to win over Guru.
- Step one was simple. Every Thursday, Amma was to visit a Dakshinamoorthy temple and offer the god a garland made out of soaked chik-peas (the kadalai malai)
- Step two was a little more complex. As it involved that I do something. I was to recite the Hayagriva Sthotram eleven times every morning.
I sulkily refused and even told Amma that Hayagriva was a Vaishnavite god. However, she would have none of it and I was asked to recite the shlokas.
The problem was that, there was no time for sholkams in the morning. I had maths tuitions early in the morning and then Chettiar would come and pick me up to go to school. Amma came up with the brilliant idea that I recite the sholkams in my school van. However, there were a couple of problems there:
1. She could not be sure that I actually recited those shlokams
2. The other children might catch on and there might be an overload on dear lord Hayagriva’s attention
Paati suggested that, I recite the shlokams in the evening. But there was paatu class, my evening meeting with Poongothai and some TV viewing to take care of. So I used to recite them just before I went to sleep.
Amma was upset with this. For one, I was not pure and fresh enough by the end of the day and also, it was a maamiyaar suggestion.
How can you make god wait, she would mutter?
Viji Madam wasn’t the only one who complained about me. There was the paatu bagavathar who came home to teach me and A Akka, who complained about how easily I was distracted. My shlokam teacher to whom I went for Bhagwad Geethai classes also complained about how I disturbed the other fine children. Even my non-maths teachers complained about, how I never had any questions, and during the exams, I never seemed to know all the answers.
But, I survived through all of it. With a little help from Paati, who would smuggle some figs (that were bought for her, to ease her bowel movements) for me when I was sulking or weeping.
Amma and Appa have been contemplating going to USA and spend sometime with T Anna and M Manni. S and I have been encouraging them. We think that, they need the change and also might enjoy traveling to another country when they are relatively younger.
T Anna has been the good soon and is asking Amma to come and spend time with them. He has bought a five-bedroom apartment and his house is apparently now as big as his heart. He also wants Amma to teach M Manni how to make samayal like namma veedu.
Amma’s heart swells with pride at the mention of her famed white dosais and just right flavoured takali rasam.
However, a mother with two daughters can’t have it easy. And between S’s IIT aspirations and my ticking biological clock, amma felt that a trip at this point in time would be incorrect.
To add further insult to her disappointment, M Manni’s Amma and Appa decided to enjoy the hospitality of their daughter and son-in-law.
M Manni’s paati fell down in the bathroom for the third time in the last six months. And this fall was bad enough for M Manni’s parents to cut short their trip and come back to Madras.
Yesterday morning, they came to visit us, to give us a first-hand account of how their trip was and the assessment of the son-in-law.
It seems, T Anna is no good. M Manni’s Amma not so subtly or tactfully complained about T Anna and the fact that his laptop is his first wife. Or that, unlike the other fine Tamil Iyer NRI boys who help their wives by running the dish-washer, T Anna does no such thing. He also wakes up each morning and sits with his laptop and demands M Manni bring him kaapi. Once he drinks his kaapi, he leaves the tumbler next to him and M Manni needs to pick it up. He is lazy and unhelpful.
Amma was livid when M Manni’s parents left. Send him an email and ask him to call us, she said.
T Anna called early this morning, he said that M Manni was doing her poojai. So, she does poojai in the evening also, amma asked? And in spite of herself, she was impressed.
Not really, T Anna said, she does the poojai only in the evenings, Mornings she is too busy, you see.
M Manni works at the university and needs to leave home really early. So, the praying to the gods happens in the evening.
How can you make god wait, Amma asks silkily?
T Anna ho-hums and wants to know, if there has been any progress with my case? On being presented with her pet topic, Amma forgets the grouse.
But not for long. When the family ritual of the post phone call analysis happens, Amma is upset that M Manni is doing her poojais in the evening. How can she? How can she?
I suggested to amma that, in fact, she is praying when it is morning for us, so it is actually not such a bad thing.
Amma is not impressed.
I can’t help but feel amused at this. And in spite of the many packets of Hersheys Kisses, Sundried Prunes and Ziploc Bags that T Anna brings me each time, to win over my sisterly affections (like those are the things that I need); I suddenly feel kinship with him.
I also feel a kinship with M Manni and I am convinced that she is indeed the right choice for our family.
As Amma prepares to leave for the USA next month, me and S are wondering, if our sister-in-law needs to be warned?
Interesting times ahead.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Why odd numbers are never perfect?
Starting today would be the nine day assault of the digestive system and the beginning of chickpea induced woes.
Sundal, odd numbered padis, maamis, Devi Kritis, pattu podavais, stainless steel dabbas, fancy thamboolam pais, and did I mention Sundal?
Groan.
M Manni is having a kolu too. Amma is happy.
M Manni is going to have only three padis. Amma is not so happy.
At least five padis should have been kept, the maamiyaar says.
Undoubtedly T Anna will click pictures of each padi and send it to us. I suggested to amma that it might be incorrect to photograph the gods and goddesses. She does not think so, and tells me that we love kolu pictures as much as we love Amman films.
Most worrying this is.
But really, I don’t like the festival very much. For one, it goes on forever. Then there is all that singing that one needs to do. S - the little sister and astute mathematician tells me that every ponnu/maami must be on an average - visiting eighteen houses. These visits are typically spread across three or four days. These houses can be classified into three categories:
- The 7 to 11 padi household - few
- The 3 to 5 padi household – several
- The no padi household – most
The complexity and rarity of the raagam and song that you pick is governed very often by the number of padis in the house. For example, if you are going to a type 3 house, you normally get away with the very common Srichakraraja Simhasaneswari in Raagamalika. Type 2 means, you pick something like Maamavatu Sri Saraswati in Hindolam. In the rare instance that you went to a Type 1 house you sing the Navavarnam of Sri Kamalambike, the complexity accentuated by the fact that you sing in a different raagam depending on the day.
I do like music and even singing, but now that I am older and not in regular touch with music, it is not very easy. The voice is rusty and the words don’t roll out as easily. As a teenager, amma would make sure that I was better turned out than the daughters of other maamis for these occasions. Now she focuses on S, who anyway is made for such an occasion. It is mostly annoying when teenage girls will correct your singing. Even though I am sure that I must have been one of them myself.
But certainly the worst part about this festival is the assault of the digestive system. One year’s protein requirement of an individual is attempted to be consumed over nine days. Amma will proudly show us her culinary skills by sundalifying anything that can be and sometimes not. Cooked too much at times or too poorly at other times, it is most annoying to eat them. And the generous garnish of coconut doesn’t help either. If that is not bad enough, G Periamma will also come with a big bowlful of Sundal in the evenings. And coincidentally, it would be the same sundal that amma has made.
Whose Sundal is better, amma will demand to know?
This year shall be no different. I have prepared myself with adequate number of antacid strips.
Amma wants to know if she should make extra Sundal so that I take it to office! NO, I warn her.
I think she will have her revenge planned over the next few days.
Sometimes I wish that T Anna was in Madras too. Amma could have had more occasions to play maamiyaar and spare me of some of her evilness.
Amma also wants to know what new thing I will start during Vijayadashami day. I tell her that at age twenty-four there are very little things that I can start.
She thinks that I should start studying Maths and enroll for some GRE tutorial classes.
I ask her why she thinks that I must study for GRE exams. So that you score high marks, she tells me matter-of-factly.
I am baffled. S tells me that this was Indira Maami’s suggestion. Apparently, since I have no hope of getting a job outside of Madras city, my only option is to study some obscure course. This I believe will fool some man into thinking that my job attractiveness and resultant financial worthiness shall improve -- making me more marriageable.
I should have married that North Indian Bhaskaran fellow. Sigh.
Indira Maami has invited me to the Kolu in her house. I must kill her. Or better still, I must woo her son – Vasanth. Rather dull fellow, but he shall just be the means to an end. And besides, he must be one of the few people who is under thirty, single, male and not destined to get a job in any other city besides Madras. Wonder why nobody saw this until now?
I will sing songs to woo him. That will work. Which one though? I need to be subtle, like a good Tamizh Ponnu. May be something in Vasantha Raagam. Andhi mazhai pozhigiradhu? Illayaraja + Vairamuthu + Rain + Cashew in Indira’s Garden -- what Tamizh Payyan can resist that?
Well what did you expect anyway? Today is day 1 of Navratri, celebrating Shakti after all. And it is a nine-day long arduous journey, interspersed with several cups of semi boiled pulses to gain supreme wisdom.
Sundal, odd numbered padis, maamis, Devi Kritis, pattu podavais, stainless steel dabbas, fancy thamboolam pais, and did I mention Sundal?
Groan.
M Manni is having a kolu too. Amma is happy.
M Manni is going to have only three padis. Amma is not so happy.
At least five padis should have been kept, the maamiyaar says.
Undoubtedly T Anna will click pictures of each padi and send it to us. I suggested to amma that it might be incorrect to photograph the gods and goddesses. She does not think so, and tells me that we love kolu pictures as much as we love Amman films.
Most worrying this is.
But really, I don’t like the festival very much. For one, it goes on forever. Then there is all that singing that one needs to do. S - the little sister and astute mathematician tells me that every ponnu/maami must be on an average - visiting eighteen houses. These visits are typically spread across three or four days. These houses can be classified into three categories:
- The 7 to 11 padi household - few
- The 3 to 5 padi household – several
- The no padi household – most
The complexity and rarity of the raagam and song that you pick is governed very often by the number of padis in the house. For example, if you are going to a type 3 house, you normally get away with the very common Srichakraraja Simhasaneswari in Raagamalika. Type 2 means, you pick something like Maamavatu Sri Saraswati in Hindolam. In the rare instance that you went to a Type 1 house you sing the Navavarnam of Sri Kamalambike, the complexity accentuated by the fact that you sing in a different raagam depending on the day.
I do like music and even singing, but now that I am older and not in regular touch with music, it is not very easy. The voice is rusty and the words don’t roll out as easily. As a teenager, amma would make sure that I was better turned out than the daughters of other maamis for these occasions. Now she focuses on S, who anyway is made for such an occasion. It is mostly annoying when teenage girls will correct your singing. Even though I am sure that I must have been one of them myself.
But certainly the worst part about this festival is the assault of the digestive system. One year’s protein requirement of an individual is attempted to be consumed over nine days. Amma will proudly show us her culinary skills by sundalifying anything that can be and sometimes not. Cooked too much at times or too poorly at other times, it is most annoying to eat them. And the generous garnish of coconut doesn’t help either. If that is not bad enough, G Periamma will also come with a big bowlful of Sundal in the evenings. And coincidentally, it would be the same sundal that amma has made.
Whose Sundal is better, amma will demand to know?
This year shall be no different. I have prepared myself with adequate number of antacid strips.
Amma wants to know if she should make extra Sundal so that I take it to office! NO, I warn her.
I think she will have her revenge planned over the next few days.
Sometimes I wish that T Anna was in Madras too. Amma could have had more occasions to play maamiyaar and spare me of some of her evilness.
Amma also wants to know what new thing I will start during Vijayadashami day. I tell her that at age twenty-four there are very little things that I can start.
She thinks that I should start studying Maths and enroll for some GRE tutorial classes.
I ask her why she thinks that I must study for GRE exams. So that you score high marks, she tells me matter-of-factly.
I am baffled. S tells me that this was Indira Maami’s suggestion. Apparently, since I have no hope of getting a job outside of Madras city, my only option is to study some obscure course. This I believe will fool some man into thinking that my job attractiveness and resultant financial worthiness shall improve -- making me more marriageable.
I should have married that North Indian Bhaskaran fellow. Sigh.
Indira Maami has invited me to the Kolu in her house. I must kill her. Or better still, I must woo her son – Vasanth. Rather dull fellow, but he shall just be the means to an end. And besides, he must be one of the few people who is under thirty, single, male and not destined to get a job in any other city besides Madras. Wonder why nobody saw this until now?
I will sing songs to woo him. That will work. Which one though? I need to be subtle, like a good Tamizh Ponnu. May be something in Vasantha Raagam. Andhi mazhai pozhigiradhu? Illayaraja + Vairamuthu + Rain + Cashew in Indira’s Garden -- what Tamizh Payyan can resist that?
Well what did you expect anyway? Today is day 1 of Navratri, celebrating Shakti after all. And it is a nine-day long arduous journey, interspersed with several cups of semi boiled pulses to gain supreme wisdom.
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.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Evil Eye
Amma and friendly neighborhood maamis think that I have become a victim of the insidious evil-eye syndrome. Why else would I fall prey to an illness one week after I started working?
Of course, it is not scientific at all. But I know better than to argue with amma about such things. The more I will protest, the more will I anger her. And at any rate, it is nicer that she attributes my problems to an ambiguous and undefined third-party as opposed to me.
This is a first for me. I mean, all through my growing up years, I had done nothing special that would evoke the wrath of the evil-eyed-souls. I have witnessed, Nagam Akka (the oldest woman in our neighborhood) pay a visit to our house on a number of occasions to help T Anna (most frequently), S (somewhat frequently), Appa (rarely) and Amma (even more rarely) overcome this problem by drawing circles in the air around your head.
I have felt inadequate and under-accomplished.
But it has happened finally. A viral fever attack and I seem to have done the family proud. Nagam Akka came and did her usual whoosh-whoosh and gave me a two-rupee coin at the end of it.
Once the problem was identified and the solution administered, the next tasks involved the following:
a) Determining who the perpetrators are and their motives to subject me to the evil eye
b) To minimize recurrence of the problem
Now, why would anyone be jealous of me is a question that nobody has an answer to. Let us take the most notable event in my life in the recent past, my job. All my journalism school batch-mates have taken up more glam jobs and some of them are already on TV, reading the weather bulletin. And here I am, not even having the first byline to my credit. And given the large scale mirth that my work-place evokes among everybody, I don’t get the reason for envy. Something that is deep and hidden must be working for me.
To minimize recurrence, we do what good Tamizh people do. Break coconuts. Go to important and large temples, preferably in the neighboring city or state and pledge to break coconuts. When done with much feeling and immense display of strength, god will stop bothering you. Wait, god will bother you anyway, she will just make sure that the people bothering you will desist in the future.
Amma says, this Saturday we shall visit the temple at Vadapalani and break a hundred coconuts. We don’t want god to think that we will only visit temples in T Nagar, so we picked the closest neighborhood. Besides, it is a Lord Muruga temple, the true Tamizh god.
Of course, one will break only two or three coconuts, to merely establish to god that the intent exists. For the remaining ninety odd coconuts, a suitable valuation is done, which has no correlation with the market price for coconuts and is paid in cash.
I am already feeling better, thanks to the medicines of Dr Prabhakar, the wicked doctor and Gomathi Maami’s Kashayam, so I am not sure, why god needs to be subjected to this tengai display of love.
People normally fling the tengais when something truly path breaking happens in their lives. You know things like, dream job, gothram migration, pro-creation, world peace and so forth. And here I am, doing all that for a five-day viral fever.
Doesn’t god deserve more complex problems?
Of course, it is not scientific at all. But I know better than to argue with amma about such things. The more I will protest, the more will I anger her. And at any rate, it is nicer that she attributes my problems to an ambiguous and undefined third-party as opposed to me.
This is a first for me. I mean, all through my growing up years, I had done nothing special that would evoke the wrath of the evil-eyed-souls. I have witnessed, Nagam Akka (the oldest woman in our neighborhood) pay a visit to our house on a number of occasions to help T Anna (most frequently), S (somewhat frequently), Appa (rarely) and Amma (even more rarely) overcome this problem by drawing circles in the air around your head.
I have felt inadequate and under-accomplished.
But it has happened finally. A viral fever attack and I seem to have done the family proud. Nagam Akka came and did her usual whoosh-whoosh and gave me a two-rupee coin at the end of it.
Once the problem was identified and the solution administered, the next tasks involved the following:
a) Determining who the perpetrators are and their motives to subject me to the evil eye
b) To minimize recurrence of the problem
Now, why would anyone be jealous of me is a question that nobody has an answer to. Let us take the most notable event in my life in the recent past, my job. All my journalism school batch-mates have taken up more glam jobs and some of them are already on TV, reading the weather bulletin. And here I am, not even having the first byline to my credit. And given the large scale mirth that my work-place evokes among everybody, I don’t get the reason for envy. Something that is deep and hidden must be working for me.
To minimize recurrence, we do what good Tamizh people do. Break coconuts. Go to important and large temples, preferably in the neighboring city or state and pledge to break coconuts. When done with much feeling and immense display of strength, god will stop bothering you. Wait, god will bother you anyway, she will just make sure that the people bothering you will desist in the future.
Amma says, this Saturday we shall visit the temple at Vadapalani and break a hundred coconuts. We don’t want god to think that we will only visit temples in T Nagar, so we picked the closest neighborhood. Besides, it is a Lord Muruga temple, the true Tamizh god.
Of course, one will break only two or three coconuts, to merely establish to god that the intent exists. For the remaining ninety odd coconuts, a suitable valuation is done, which has no correlation with the market price for coconuts and is paid in cash.
I am already feeling better, thanks to the medicines of Dr Prabhakar, the wicked doctor and Gomathi Maami’s Kashayam, so I am not sure, why god needs to be subjected to this tengai display of love.
People normally fling the tengais when something truly path breaking happens in their lives. You know things like, dream job, gothram migration, pro-creation, world peace and so forth. And here I am, doing all that for a five-day viral fever.
Doesn’t god deserve more complex problems?
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Ameer Can
I spoke to amma sometime back. She is forever concerned about my well-being and the possible major mishaps that might occur during the course of the day. So I must call her at least once from somewhere. This pattern has been established since the time I have started traveling by public transport alone. Or going to places that are, well, public.
Even if I am out in Washermenpet researching a story, I have to call. If I don’t call, amma will make calls to a few important people. Including Warren Road Pattu Maami (for purposes of differentiation, as there are three of them), whose claim to fame is that her husband was the former DIG of police. Of course, he was not really a DIG or anything like that, but he had some uniform involving job and so he became - DIG. DIG Maama is rather nice. Though for all I know, he might have been an Auto Payyan. May be, that is why he is nice.
Whenever I call, amma has broadly four concerns, which are universal amma-dom things, the syntax a little different:
- Did you eat? Enough? Too much? Did the curd get too sour? Did you spill the sambhar on your dress?
- Will you get late? Will you come the ‘usual’ time?
- Do you have change (of money that is)? One rupee coins? Ten rupee notes?
- Don’t fight with anybody today. You know auto payyans, friendly co-travelers, overzealous people one encounters and so on.
To be honest the answers to all those questions don’t matter, they are merely rhetoric. It is mildly claustrophobic. But she derives all her amma-dom pay-offs as a result. And I am very conformist like anyway.
There is also a “highlight” of the day that she must share. Involving something/somebody mad/wicked/both.
Yesterday was little sister’s turn to be the highlight. Apparently she had gone to see a film, Indi Paddam called Chinnikum, amma wailed. Featuring Amitabh Whatizname. With a pony-tail no less.
We are not exactly an anti Hindi household. We all take as much pride in clearing the various levels of the Hindi Prachar Sabha exams as much as the Maths Olympiad. But watching Indi Paddams is not the best of idea.
I have been trying to educate amma and appa that it is a futile battle that they are fighting. Because let us face it, in Madras it is easier and safer for Sixteen Year Old Penns to watch Indi Paddam. Little Sister as an impressionable 13 year old had to go through the ordeal of watching obscure movie called, Vaanam Vasappadum three years ago at the then done up Abirami theatre complex. Not entirely sure why we took S for this movie, but this was just a few months before Poongothai’s (the friend and not the actress) wedding and our renewed efforts to bond. The film was based on a Sujatha novel, was meant to be a brave and progressive look at justice against rape.
The movie was terrible. And may be it was that which put S off Tamizh movies. But she also got bottom pinched by some boy for the first time. Even mild mannered she was most upset. And she decided two things:
a) She will never watch a Tamizh Paddam in a theatre
b) She hated Tamizh Payyans
And so she watches Indi Paddams. Faithfully, religiously and obsessively. In our shared room, she has a poster of that Krissh Payyan with a mask. It is konjam scary. He has better hair and skin than I do. And no facial hair. Not exactly my idea of male beauty.
When she got back home, appa gave her an earful. Like always. By the time I got back home, appa was sulking, Sister was red eyed and amma was busy watching Mekhala the just started show on Sun, featuring Metti Oli Saro.
S has IIT aspirations. She studies for some 23 hours a day. The next two years will determine if she can shatter this male bastion (in our family that is). I explained to appa that, we must not create anymore stress than all the equations and formulae that she anyway needs to master. Appa who had to drop out of college, sees much logic in such an argument.
I heave a sigh of relief and send a little prayer upwards.
In a bid to get into S’s good graces, appa changes the channel to one of those Indi Paddam music channels. Three men with funny hats, longish hair and shiny skin are dancing. One is that Amitabh Whatizname, the other is his son and the third is somebody else. Appa asks most earnestly, Addu Ameer Can daane?
As far as appa is concerned, anything that is male, sings Hindi songs, dances and has good skin is, Ameer Can. And if there are three such people on the screen, probability must be in his favour no?
When I am sleeping during the night and I see S poring over some Physics problems, I am thankful that I never have to go through what she is going through. Ever again. There is infinite joy in being mediocre.
Even if I am out in Washermenpet researching a story, I have to call. If I don’t call, amma will make calls to a few important people. Including Warren Road Pattu Maami (for purposes of differentiation, as there are three of them), whose claim to fame is that her husband was the former DIG of police. Of course, he was not really a DIG or anything like that, but he had some uniform involving job and so he became - DIG. DIG Maama is rather nice. Though for all I know, he might have been an Auto Payyan. May be, that is why he is nice.
Whenever I call, amma has broadly four concerns, which are universal amma-dom things, the syntax a little different:
- Did you eat? Enough? Too much? Did the curd get too sour? Did you spill the sambhar on your dress?
- Will you get late? Will you come the ‘usual’ time?
- Do you have change (of money that is)? One rupee coins? Ten rupee notes?
- Don’t fight with anybody today. You know auto payyans, friendly co-travelers, overzealous people one encounters and so on.
To be honest the answers to all those questions don’t matter, they are merely rhetoric. It is mildly claustrophobic. But she derives all her amma-dom pay-offs as a result. And I am very conformist like anyway.
There is also a “highlight” of the day that she must share. Involving something/somebody mad/wicked/both.
Yesterday was little sister’s turn to be the highlight. Apparently she had gone to see a film, Indi Paddam called Chinnikum, amma wailed. Featuring Amitabh Whatizname. With a pony-tail no less.
We are not exactly an anti Hindi household. We all take as much pride in clearing the various levels of the Hindi Prachar Sabha exams as much as the Maths Olympiad. But watching Indi Paddams is not the best of idea.
I have been trying to educate amma and appa that it is a futile battle that they are fighting. Because let us face it, in Madras it is easier and safer for Sixteen Year Old Penns to watch Indi Paddam. Little Sister as an impressionable 13 year old had to go through the ordeal of watching obscure movie called, Vaanam Vasappadum three years ago at the then done up Abirami theatre complex. Not entirely sure why we took S for this movie, but this was just a few months before Poongothai’s (the friend and not the actress) wedding and our renewed efforts to bond. The film was based on a Sujatha novel, was meant to be a brave and progressive look at justice against rape.
The movie was terrible. And may be it was that which put S off Tamizh movies. But she also got bottom pinched by some boy for the first time. Even mild mannered she was most upset. And she decided two things:
a) She will never watch a Tamizh Paddam in a theatre
b) She hated Tamizh Payyans
And so she watches Indi Paddams. Faithfully, religiously and obsessively. In our shared room, she has a poster of that Krissh Payyan with a mask. It is konjam scary. He has better hair and skin than I do. And no facial hair. Not exactly my idea of male beauty.
When she got back home, appa gave her an earful. Like always. By the time I got back home, appa was sulking, Sister was red eyed and amma was busy watching Mekhala the just started show on Sun, featuring Metti Oli Saro.
S has IIT aspirations. She studies for some 23 hours a day. The next two years will determine if she can shatter this male bastion (in our family that is). I explained to appa that, we must not create anymore stress than all the equations and formulae that she anyway needs to master. Appa who had to drop out of college, sees much logic in such an argument.
I heave a sigh of relief and send a little prayer upwards.
In a bid to get into S’s good graces, appa changes the channel to one of those Indi Paddam music channels. Three men with funny hats, longish hair and shiny skin are dancing. One is that Amitabh Whatizname, the other is his son and the third is somebody else. Appa asks most earnestly, Addu Ameer Can daane?
As far as appa is concerned, anything that is male, sings Hindi songs, dances and has good skin is, Ameer Can. And if there are three such people on the screen, probability must be in his favour no?
When I am sleeping during the night and I see S poring over some Physics problems, I am thankful that I never have to go through what she is going through. Ever again. There is infinite joy in being mediocre.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Look Amma, I am joining the Hindu
Amma has seldom felt proud of me and my little achievements. Though I did do well for myself in school and college, it was always overshadowed by the bigger achievements in the family.
I have been happy with this arrangement. Unlike T Anna, I am not burdened with unrealistic expectations at least.
Appa was faintly indulgent towards my desire to be a journalist. Amma was a bit worried. Is this what Asal Tamizh Penn’s do, she wondered. But she had taken a special fondness for the super fake and immensely irritating Barkha Dutt and so she did have visions that I might also hug children who have been victims of an earthquake and look tragically into the camera.
But I have done better for myself. I am going to be working for – The Hindu. I start work from next week. I will meet insanely boring Iyengar men. But for once, Amma is happy. And inspite of myself, I can’t help the warm fuzzy feeling that parental appreciation leaves you with.
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