Appa was doing his annual spring cleaning routine, which involves going through his termites infested cupboard and pull out papers and old correspondence. The sorting process is elaborate and too many of these papers cannot be got rid of - just yet. May be next year, he would tell much to Amma's chagrin. Amma is due to return in another two weeks time and Appa decided to do the sorting out before she returned.
Several worn out pieces of paper jostle for space in the cupboard. These include some old Term Deposits, bank deposit slips, old telephone bills, house related bills, letters that were exchanged with some NBFI's that went bust in the late 90s, etc.
Why do you need these, I asked him? Shall I throw them away, I volunteered.
Appa very quickly pulled the papers from me and looked mortified at the thought of all these papers being thrown away. We CANNOT throw them away, he insisted.
What if we need them tomorrow, he persisted.
Yeah, sure.
What happens after I die, he demanded to know?
You mean to say that these companies will revive and pay us the money, I asked?
Appa looked a little defensive and then pulled out one letter and showed it to me. Look at this letter, Mr AK Katiar himself has promised that he will pay us back the money once RBI does something. Or else, he says pulling out another letter, this company has a office in Barakhamba Road and you could get my five thousand rupees from them.
Are you suggesting that I go to Delhi for this?
Looking up from the paper Thatha informs us rather excitedly that bombs went off in Barakhmaba Road. Paati joins in and asks me, what is the use of being a journalist if you can't help your own father?
I give up and instead start wildly swinging the broom to gt rid of the dust like powder accumulated and driving Paati and Thatha out of the room temporarily. Besides these yellowed papers of hope, there are also a few plastic covers and files that are marked as: T Anna, S and ATP.
What are those, I ask Appa?
Those are all the papers from the time you were born until now, he said.
Do you know we can register births and deaths online these days, Thatha butted in. After I die, you must register my death online. Thatha loves to talk and speculate about death and post death scenarios. I had visions of me logging into the Chennai Corporation website and have my entire extended clan crowding around me as I tried to find the register buttons to do the needful.
I told Appa that I will sort the file that said ATP and see what all I needed and what I didn't. Appa wouldn't hear any of that. You are not yet settled, we can't sort your file, he insisted.
I sighed. How about T Anna's then, I asked. Surely, he is settled, I said and ripped open the file. There were a million copies of T Anna's Class XII mark-sheet. So, he got fabulous marks, still what was the need for so many copies.
Well, one needs the Class XII mark-sheet for everything, Appa said. It was also because, at that time we lived at Thatha's house and Attestation Maama lived next door. He was the gazetted officer for all the inhabitants of our street and every week, someone or the other would ask Attestation Maami to ask her husband to bring the seal from office. Unfortunately, Attestation Maama died suddenly and S and I don't have the luxury of having a life-time supply of attested mark-sheets. Appa not so willingly agreed to get rid of the the mark-sheets. I think a little dead cockroach that dropped down from between the sheets is what did the trick.
The next was a bunch of certificates that T Anna had got from a non profit firm for allegedly contributing towards the welfare of the elderly. I really couldn't recall T Anna doing anything meaningful towards this cause. It then stuck that the school had given us a book of raffle tickets to sell, the proceeds of which were to go to some cause. While Poongothai and I divided the various houses of Boag Road between us, T Anna delegated the task to Paati. Paati got all the Maamis from the Paatu Group to buy a ticket each and T Anna was given an award.
Paati looked at the certificate and beamed with pride. T Anna was always such a conscious and caring boy, she said. I giggled and decided to not burst her bubble.
Then there were several copies of T Anna's horoscope. Now, that can be thrown. By all accounts, M Manni didn't look like she was going to divorce T Anna anytime soon, so why keep it. Before throwing them away, I decided to take a look at it, to see what fabulous qualities my brother possessed. Among references to his wheatish complexion, athletic built and gleaming gold medals, was a reference to his multiple hobbies and interests.
T Anna had interests, I thought with a feeling of wonder.
Apparently he does. Or did, at any rate. Among the many that were mentioned, included – Quizzing and Chess.
Quizzing? Quizzing? T Anna wasn't into any quizzing, I said indignantly.
Appa waved his hands dismissively and said that this particular hobby was a later addition. Apparently, there was too much pressure to add some extra curricular activities as part of the horoscope. A little bit of embellishment you see, Appa said.
But T Anna wasn't into quizzing. I said sounding like a spoilt record by now.
He wasn't, but could have been, Paati said with an air of finality.
You must admit, he could have been a quizzer if he wanted to, Appa continued. After all, he went to an IIT, followed obscure European league matches and spent more time reading the newspaper than any sub-editor did.
Correct, he was perfect for quizzing, Thatha said in a tone that said that we ought to close the discussion.
I was horrified at this make believe world that my family had created, attributing a wish-list of personality traits to their children. And if they were doing this to their perfect son, imagine what all embellishments went into mine.
I pulled out Version 2.0 of my horoscope and looked in. I knew most of the contents, but I still checked, and there it was. My hobbies included – Quizzing and Chess.
Chess brought back some humiliating memories. I must have been seven years old or so and on a lazy Sunday afternoon T Anna was teaching me how to play chess. When he was explaining the intricacies involved in moving the horse (knight, if you prefer), he said with exasperation, how difficult is it ATP? It is just 1-2-1. You have to move it in a yeLL shape. I didn't see the multiple yeLLs that T Anna was seeing. I didn't understand, why he said, 1-2-1 and not 1-2-3. But, I wanted to impress my brother. So, I tried. And tried some more. Eventually, T Anna walked away in disgust and left me there with tear filled eyes. I never tried playing chess after that. Unless you take into account the occasional game with Thatha, where he suggests moves for me too.
So, I suppose, I might get away with that.
Now on Quizzing, I don't even have the required Quizzing Personality. Surely this was a bit much. I confronted the family about it. Appa shrugged and said that, all bright Tamizh boys want girls who are into Quizzing.
Really? How do you know that, I asked.
Thatha offered an explanation, nowadays all the girls can tell the difference between Madhuvanti and Dharmavati, but if you also know about things like how candle light was used to ascertain the value of postage before the invention of stamps, that gives you an edge.
I am scared. I mean, saying my hobby is Kolam putting or kozhaktai making is not something that can be really tested in a first meeting with a boy. What if I am quizzed about something? I recall not so fondly the Bournvita Quiz contest book that N Chitappa gave me as a child. I was excited enough to write my name possessively on it. Of the thousand questions that the book had answers to, I had memorized just one. The first question that asked, what was the capital of Ghana. Accra, I would say over and over again. I had an Accra rule of making friends even. When I met new people, I asked them, what was the capital of Ghana. If they could answer that, they could be my friends. I even supported them during a World Cup. Not that I watched anything, but it was a conversation point.
Back to the cleaning, I take away all the papers that Appa has decided to discard this year. I put them into the dustbin before he changes his mind. I still can't get over the – ATP is an avid quizzer tag. After a while Appa tells me, it needn't be that complex you know. Most likely, the boy who claims he is into quizzing, could be a quizzer because his parents were trying to add some drama to his marriage resume.
It could be a case like T Anna, I concede.
Yes. And if he is in Madras, he probably went to the Landmark Quiz. As an audience, he adds.
I laugh at how wicked Appa is. And if some boy marries me for my alleged quizzing skills, serves him right even.
I tell Appa that now that we have got rid of so many papers, he can share T Anna's shelf and this cupboard be given to keep some other stuff.
Appa shakes his head and mutters something about how I am turning out to be more and more like Amma with every passing day.
I am horrified.
Showing posts with label Appa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Appa. Show all posts
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Indian Railways versus Elephant Yam
Yesterday, I nearly killed Appa. Or at any rate, I made a serious attempt to.
I won’t claim to be a domestic goddess, but like Appa tells me, you will get pass mark. My inherent mediocrity finds its way into all aspects of my life.
Some years ago, when we moved away from the joint family household, two things changed significantly. For one, we had to depend solely on Appa to provide for all of us, and the perils of being a single income household hit us hard. The other change was that Amma went on a training mode – to turn me into a woman and a human being.
As a teenager, with a mind of my own and erratic hormones, I didn’t take too well to this training. After a lot of resistance and deterioration in my mathematics marks, Amma decided to employ a maid to do the basic tasks.
But when it came to cooking, Amma would not have any of this outsourcing. And given that we could never afford a Samayal Maami, that was anyway not an option.
While I successfully resisted learning most of the domestic chores, but between Amma’s erratic pre-menopausal problems and Appa’s Brahminical sensibilities, I had no choice but to learn cooking.
I hold the large quantities of cooking that I needed to do, as the single biggest reason for the lack of academic brilliance in my life. The most tragic part of it was that, not only did I do badly in mathematics; I didn’t turn out to be such a great cook either.
Actually, I cook alright, but unfortunately, Amma is not a very flamboyant cook and I have learnt five recipes in all. Over the years, Amma churned the same five dishes across 365 days with utmost talent. We never really complained. Because we didn’t want to evoke the wrath of Amma, and mostly because nobody made these five dishes better than Amma did.
Amma wasn’t always like this. Before her wedding to Appa, she was apparently a multi-faceted cook. Trichy Paati had a Thanjavur gene and therefore more flair in her cooking. Trichy Thatha loved good food and was always open to his wife doing culinary experiments. And most importantly, there were no vegetables and fruits that were a taboo at Trichy Thatha’s house.
After marriage, Amma had to unlearn all the good work that Trichy Paati had managed to achieve and master the five essential dishes that appealed to the members of the Bharadwaja Gothram clan. In Trichy Thatha’s house everything was exotic, fried, high on carbs, high on spices, borrowed from other worlds and then fused with the Tamizh world.
In contrast, at Madras Paati’s house, the foods were cooked on a slow flame, high on Vitamins, low on carbs and fat, bland, soft, gooey and mildly flavoured.
Madras Paati tells us about an incident where Amma tried to kill all the men in the family over a Sunday morning brunch. Newly married, and with Periamma being down with a mild fever, Amma was in charge of the kitchen. In her attempt to show off her fine upbringing and Trichy Paati’s brilliant training, Amma decided to make Senai Kizhangu Fry. Fortunately for all the women of the house, the men ate first and it proved useful here. Barely two minutes into the first course of Sambhar Saadam, Madras Thatha threw up and Periappa began to develop an itch.
Amma got flustered and dragged the Periamma from her drug induced state. Periamma asked Amma if she had made something with Sepan Kizahnagu. No, Amma said relieved. On reaching the dining area, Periamma was shocked to see that Amma had made Senai Kizahngu.
She let out the loudest yell and Paati who was in the middle of her Ekadasai fast came running to check if her daughters-in-law were engaged in a cat-fight.
Dr Krishnan arrived and injected all the male folk with some anti-allergy drug.
That evening, Amma learnt her first lesson - if it is Kizhangu, we must avoid. And in all the Kizhangu crimes, Senai and/or Karunai Kizhangu was the biggest one to indulge in.
Every family has some quirks. My family has several urban legends. One of the most widely prevalent one is that – Kizhangus in one’s food intake must be kept to the minimum. There are two key reasons given in favour of this No Kizhangu Policy:
1. Kizhangu consumption dulls the brain. Therefore, if you have growing children, avoid Kizhangu. More so, if you have unrealistic expectations in the context of their academic achievements. Kill them with Vendakkai and Murungakkai Sambhar.
2. Many years back, Periappa Thatha developed a fascination for reading the Bhagavad Geetha. He learnt two important things in the process. One, every morning, before one eats, something needs to be offered to Lord Krishna as Neivedyam. Even if it is a glass of Horlicks, it is okay. Even if it made only with water, it is okay. Even if it is sugar free, it is okay. After all, it was god who created Horlicks and also gave Appa diabetes. The more important learning was that of going the path of Saatvik, the recommended path for god-like beings. While the men folk with their short fuses were not really suitable for the Saatvikness in the more important things, they adopted a Saatvik diet, which seemed easier to achieve. Root vegetables needed to be avoided, the women folk who married and came into the family were told so. No Kizhangu va, they asked bemusedly. But then, small price to pay when you are married to a god.
Of course, among all these Kizhangu, Senai was the vilest and alleged to lead the fine men of the clan to near death like situation. Sometimes when I accompanied Amma during her vegetable shopping trips, in a rare moment of candour, she would admit that, she missed the Senai Fry and Varuvval that her Amma lovingly made. When I would suspiciously look at that brown-black, oddly shaped and coated with mud vegetable and tentatively reach for it, Amma would sternly ask me to put it away and negotiate on the best price for the Vendakkai.
I first ate Senai Kizhangu Kola at Poongothai’s place. I didn’t like it very much, but I didn’t die. That got me suspicious. Were the men folk in my family truly allergic to Senai? Was this one of those myths created, just for fun? Was it created to make Madras Thatha feel less bad about his allergy to the vegetable? Did the lack of Senai in the diet lead to pre-mature balding of all the young men of the clan?
This anti Senai sentiment was widely prevalent across the extended family. So much so that, when weddings were fixed and negotiations were to happen, we didn’t ask for Arusuvai Natarjan or Chellapa to supply the food. No Senia Varuval and no Senai in the Avial please, is all that we humbly demanded.
Inspite of repeatedly impressing upon to the caterer that Senai was to be avoided, the women folk remained suspicious. The Periamma, Maamis, Chittis, Atthais and random Maamis formed a formidable Anti Senai Squad. They would spread themselves all over the mandapam and dining hall. They would jump on hapless boys from the clan, when they were heading towards the saapadu place and would tell them rather enthusiastically, don’t eat the Avial, for it has Senai.
Not having enough trust in the other members of the Maami Squad, every one of them would tell the boys to stay away from certain dishes. If there was no Senai, it was triumphantly announced to the men folk and they needed to feel grateful to the Maami who came bearing the good news.
Inspite of this rather foolproof method, some male member would end up not getting this message and even as one of the Mamais would spot him and dramatically run towards him shrieking to stop eating the Avial right then, it would be too late. Often, the men folk would come in an auto and leave in an ambulance.
The only good thing that came out of all of this was that, the women got to eat first.
I and S had always wondered what would happen if Appa and T Anna actually ate a little bit of Senai. Surely they wouldn’t die, would they?
Trichy Thatha had once told me, all of this was psychological and just like god created Horlicks he had also created Senai. And my Appa’s clan was merely hyperventilating. I must admit, I liked this theory.
And so when I got control of the house and the kitchen, I bought a Senai. While chopping, it did itch and irritate, but then, nothing that seemed life threatening. Indira Maami obliged me with her secret recipe and that and half a litre of oil later, the vegetable was done. I tasted it, was rather nice.
Appa was pre-occupied that morning. Some boy’s family wrote back saying that their son’s wedding got fixed. The boy’s Appa was in the Indian Railways and Appa was hoping that my marriage into that family would ensure that Amma got lower berths for the rest of her life. May be, that is why he didn’t notice the Senai that I liberally put in his plate. Some two minutes into eating, he threw up and his face turned red and began to grow to a monstrous size. I watched him horrified. I was thinking of Section 302 of the IPC. After a lot of drama and huge yelling that I got from Periamma and Periappa, Appa was taken to the hospital. He was sent back home after being given an injection. He was so sedated that, he immediately went to sleep. I decided that I would play nurse for the day and skip work.
Later that night, at the designated hour, Appa, I and S crowded around the computer to Skype with Amma. We had worked out a deal that, we will not report to Amma about the Senai mishap. Amma was informed about the loss of an Indian Railways father-in-law. She didn’t seem as heart-broken because she was brimming with the excitement of her own news. It seemed that some of my cousins had come home over the weekend before and Amma had dazzled them and made them her slaves forever by giving them Manoharam (that was broken and mildly flavoured with the naphthalene balls in her suitcase). And of course, her world renowned rasam.
We all made appreciative noises and logged off after fixing our next designated call’s date and time.
Appa looked tired and said he wanted to sleep. I was a little worried. He had been unusually silent the whole evening. It could be the drugs, but I wasn’t sure. I forced S to sleep and when I was sure she was asleep, I went to check on Appa. I was guilty. I was feeling stupid. And I was mostly scared. Sometimes, when he stopped snoring, I would tip-toe closer, to check if he was still breathing. And I didn’t feel anything like the twenty-four year old grown up woman. I was a child and my Appa was unwell. It was unfamiliar and unsettling. I wanted my Amma back. And I wanted to have Murungakka Sambhar and the other four dishes that she made, for the rest of my life. Really.
By morning, Appa was better and I woke up to the music of BBC World that Appa was watching. It annoyed me, like it always does.
I woke up a bewildered S violently and told her that, I didn’t need to marry a boy whose father was in the Indian Railways. But I needed to marry someone, who was not allergic to any Kizhangus, not even Senai.
S walked up to the Rani Muthu calendar and peeled away the earlier date. And then she said rather heavily, Amma is not back for another eighty-one days.
I won’t claim to be a domestic goddess, but like Appa tells me, you will get pass mark. My inherent mediocrity finds its way into all aspects of my life.
Some years ago, when we moved away from the joint family household, two things changed significantly. For one, we had to depend solely on Appa to provide for all of us, and the perils of being a single income household hit us hard. The other change was that Amma went on a training mode – to turn me into a woman and a human being.
As a teenager, with a mind of my own and erratic hormones, I didn’t take too well to this training. After a lot of resistance and deterioration in my mathematics marks, Amma decided to employ a maid to do the basic tasks.
But when it came to cooking, Amma would not have any of this outsourcing. And given that we could never afford a Samayal Maami, that was anyway not an option.
While I successfully resisted learning most of the domestic chores, but between Amma’s erratic pre-menopausal problems and Appa’s Brahminical sensibilities, I had no choice but to learn cooking.
I hold the large quantities of cooking that I needed to do, as the single biggest reason for the lack of academic brilliance in my life. The most tragic part of it was that, not only did I do badly in mathematics; I didn’t turn out to be such a great cook either.
Actually, I cook alright, but unfortunately, Amma is not a very flamboyant cook and I have learnt five recipes in all. Over the years, Amma churned the same five dishes across 365 days with utmost talent. We never really complained. Because we didn’t want to evoke the wrath of Amma, and mostly because nobody made these five dishes better than Amma did.
Amma wasn’t always like this. Before her wedding to Appa, she was apparently a multi-faceted cook. Trichy Paati had a Thanjavur gene and therefore more flair in her cooking. Trichy Thatha loved good food and was always open to his wife doing culinary experiments. And most importantly, there were no vegetables and fruits that were a taboo at Trichy Thatha’s house.
After marriage, Amma had to unlearn all the good work that Trichy Paati had managed to achieve and master the five essential dishes that appealed to the members of the Bharadwaja Gothram clan. In Trichy Thatha’s house everything was exotic, fried, high on carbs, high on spices, borrowed from other worlds and then fused with the Tamizh world.
In contrast, at Madras Paati’s house, the foods were cooked on a slow flame, high on Vitamins, low on carbs and fat, bland, soft, gooey and mildly flavoured.
Madras Paati tells us about an incident where Amma tried to kill all the men in the family over a Sunday morning brunch. Newly married, and with Periamma being down with a mild fever, Amma was in charge of the kitchen. In her attempt to show off her fine upbringing and Trichy Paati’s brilliant training, Amma decided to make Senai Kizhangu Fry. Fortunately for all the women of the house, the men ate first and it proved useful here. Barely two minutes into the first course of Sambhar Saadam, Madras Thatha threw up and Periappa began to develop an itch.
Amma got flustered and dragged the Periamma from her drug induced state. Periamma asked Amma if she had made something with Sepan Kizahnagu. No, Amma said relieved. On reaching the dining area, Periamma was shocked to see that Amma had made Senai Kizahngu.
She let out the loudest yell and Paati who was in the middle of her Ekadasai fast came running to check if her daughters-in-law were engaged in a cat-fight.
Dr Krishnan arrived and injected all the male folk with some anti-allergy drug.
That evening, Amma learnt her first lesson - if it is Kizhangu, we must avoid. And in all the Kizhangu crimes, Senai and/or Karunai Kizhangu was the biggest one to indulge in.
Every family has some quirks. My family has several urban legends. One of the most widely prevalent one is that – Kizhangus in one’s food intake must be kept to the minimum. There are two key reasons given in favour of this No Kizhangu Policy:
1. Kizhangu consumption dulls the brain. Therefore, if you have growing children, avoid Kizhangu. More so, if you have unrealistic expectations in the context of their academic achievements. Kill them with Vendakkai and Murungakkai Sambhar.
2. Many years back, Periappa Thatha developed a fascination for reading the Bhagavad Geetha. He learnt two important things in the process. One, every morning, before one eats, something needs to be offered to Lord Krishna as Neivedyam. Even if it is a glass of Horlicks, it is okay. Even if it made only with water, it is okay. Even if it is sugar free, it is okay. After all, it was god who created Horlicks and also gave Appa diabetes. The more important learning was that of going the path of Saatvik, the recommended path for god-like beings. While the men folk with their short fuses were not really suitable for the Saatvikness in the more important things, they adopted a Saatvik diet, which seemed easier to achieve. Root vegetables needed to be avoided, the women folk who married and came into the family were told so. No Kizhangu va, they asked bemusedly. But then, small price to pay when you are married to a god.
Of course, among all these Kizhangu, Senai was the vilest and alleged to lead the fine men of the clan to near death like situation. Sometimes when I accompanied Amma during her vegetable shopping trips, in a rare moment of candour, she would admit that, she missed the Senai Fry and Varuvval that her Amma lovingly made. When I would suspiciously look at that brown-black, oddly shaped and coated with mud vegetable and tentatively reach for it, Amma would sternly ask me to put it away and negotiate on the best price for the Vendakkai.
I first ate Senai Kizhangu Kola at Poongothai’s place. I didn’t like it very much, but I didn’t die. That got me suspicious. Were the men folk in my family truly allergic to Senai? Was this one of those myths created, just for fun? Was it created to make Madras Thatha feel less bad about his allergy to the vegetable? Did the lack of Senai in the diet lead to pre-mature balding of all the young men of the clan?
This anti Senai sentiment was widely prevalent across the extended family. So much so that, when weddings were fixed and negotiations were to happen, we didn’t ask for Arusuvai Natarjan or Chellapa to supply the food. No Senia Varuval and no Senai in the Avial please, is all that we humbly demanded.
Inspite of repeatedly impressing upon to the caterer that Senai was to be avoided, the women folk remained suspicious. The Periamma, Maamis, Chittis, Atthais and random Maamis formed a formidable Anti Senai Squad. They would spread themselves all over the mandapam and dining hall. They would jump on hapless boys from the clan, when they were heading towards the saapadu place and would tell them rather enthusiastically, don’t eat the Avial, for it has Senai.
Not having enough trust in the other members of the Maami Squad, every one of them would tell the boys to stay away from certain dishes. If there was no Senai, it was triumphantly announced to the men folk and they needed to feel grateful to the Maami who came bearing the good news.
Inspite of this rather foolproof method, some male member would end up not getting this message and even as one of the Mamais would spot him and dramatically run towards him shrieking to stop eating the Avial right then, it would be too late. Often, the men folk would come in an auto and leave in an ambulance.
The only good thing that came out of all of this was that, the women got to eat first.
I and S had always wondered what would happen if Appa and T Anna actually ate a little bit of Senai. Surely they wouldn’t die, would they?
Trichy Thatha had once told me, all of this was psychological and just like god created Horlicks he had also created Senai. And my Appa’s clan was merely hyperventilating. I must admit, I liked this theory.
And so when I got control of the house and the kitchen, I bought a Senai. While chopping, it did itch and irritate, but then, nothing that seemed life threatening. Indira Maami obliged me with her secret recipe and that and half a litre of oil later, the vegetable was done. I tasted it, was rather nice.
Appa was pre-occupied that morning. Some boy’s family wrote back saying that their son’s wedding got fixed. The boy’s Appa was in the Indian Railways and Appa was hoping that my marriage into that family would ensure that Amma got lower berths for the rest of her life. May be, that is why he didn’t notice the Senai that I liberally put in his plate. Some two minutes into eating, he threw up and his face turned red and began to grow to a monstrous size. I watched him horrified. I was thinking of Section 302 of the IPC. After a lot of drama and huge yelling that I got from Periamma and Periappa, Appa was taken to the hospital. He was sent back home after being given an injection. He was so sedated that, he immediately went to sleep. I decided that I would play nurse for the day and skip work.
Later that night, at the designated hour, Appa, I and S crowded around the computer to Skype with Amma. We had worked out a deal that, we will not report to Amma about the Senai mishap. Amma was informed about the loss of an Indian Railways father-in-law. She didn’t seem as heart-broken because she was brimming with the excitement of her own news. It seemed that some of my cousins had come home over the weekend before and Amma had dazzled them and made them her slaves forever by giving them Manoharam (that was broken and mildly flavoured with the naphthalene balls in her suitcase). And of course, her world renowned rasam.
We all made appreciative noises and logged off after fixing our next designated call’s date and time.
Appa looked tired and said he wanted to sleep. I was a little worried. He had been unusually silent the whole evening. It could be the drugs, but I wasn’t sure. I forced S to sleep and when I was sure she was asleep, I went to check on Appa. I was guilty. I was feeling stupid. And I was mostly scared. Sometimes, when he stopped snoring, I would tip-toe closer, to check if he was still breathing. And I didn’t feel anything like the twenty-four year old grown up woman. I was a child and my Appa was unwell. It was unfamiliar and unsettling. I wanted my Amma back. And I wanted to have Murungakka Sambhar and the other four dishes that she made, for the rest of my life. Really.
By morning, Appa was better and I woke up to the music of BBC World that Appa was watching. It annoyed me, like it always does.
I woke up a bewildered S violently and told her that, I didn’t need to marry a boy whose father was in the Indian Railways. But I needed to marry someone, who was not allergic to any Kizhangus, not even Senai.
S walked up to the Rani Muthu calendar and peeled away the earlier date. And then she said rather heavily, Amma is not back for another eighty-one days.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
How The Hindu makes my skin fairer
I have always wondered what people meant when they would say, I need to go and pick up XYZ from the station, where XYZ referred to an adult person.
I thought this business of picking up people was some kind of an elitist sport. Only the rich people went to pick up visiting friends and family. Of course, people have their reasons:
1. I am so excited about this person coming, so I go pick them up
2. What if they can’t find the house?
3. They have too much of luggage and will need help
4. How will they negotiate with the Madras Autokkarans?
5. Because guests are the avatarams of god
In my family, we don’t go and pick up people. If you come from Trichy and Nellai (where bulk of our visitors come from), you speak the language of the city. Therefore, you find your way. Our guests don’t carry too much of luggage. Also everyone finds their way around T Nagar anyway. And there are way too many gods that are jostling for our attention.
Exceptions are made only for our Delhi Atthai. Amma is a little hyper when it comes to her youngest sister-in-law. She is partly in awe of her, but mostly she dislikes her. Yet, appa feels strong kinship with his little sister and insists on picking her up each time she comes.
D Atthai came to town a few days back, when Madras was in the middle of a cloud-burst. As always, appa wanted to go and pick her up. But something came up, and I had to go instead.
We don’t own a car. In fact, we have never owned one. Some of it was to do with thatha’s conditioning us into believing that anything beyond two wheels was against everything that he stood for. Of course, it was largely to do with the fact that we could not afford one. So, when most of the families had a Fiat in the 80s and a Maruti 800 in the 90s, we were car-less. We usually walked, traveled by buses and occasionally took the trains. We avoided autos, unless it was to take T Anna to the hospital when he had an asthma attack.
That was when we met – Chettiar. Chettiar used to take me, Poongothai and half a dozen Srirams and Karthiks from Bazlullah Road to our school each day. His vehicle was a largeish auto (similar to the shared autos that we see in the city), that we used to call – Van. While we were sitting through Vijaylakshmi Mam's class, Chettiar would go and pick up flowers from the wholesale market to transport it to some store in T Nagar. When we would return home, the van would still have remnants of the smell of malli and samanthi. The heady sweetness would inevitably cause one of the Karthiks to faint. His name was obviously not Chettiar, but we began calling him so because of the enormous tummy that he had (unimaginative) and the name stuck.
Chettiar’s livelihood coincidentally evolved with my life-stage. There came a time when I became too old to travel in the van. I needed two things:
1. A more sophisticated method of transportation
2. Lesser boys
That was the time when Chettiar acquired a modern day auto. I, Poongothai, one Karthik and his sister began to travel in the same. The flower business then stopped and he needed an alternative source of income. After a conversation with amma, he developed a revenue model of chauffeuring the maamis of Bazlullah Road, TP Road and Habibullah Road. His affable nature won him many fans and his large stomach reassured everyone that he was safe and trustworthy. He knew where in T Nagar all our relatives lived and could go and deliver or pick up stuff from people. He would take Madras Thatha for his bi-monthly blood tests, he would drop amma at Egmore Station so that she could catch the Rock Fort express. He would book tickets for us, buy flowers; find us plumbers and electricians, the works.
One cannot imagine our life without Chettiar. When T Anna plays his NRI-Santa person, he gets Chettiar T-Shirts and some chocolates. When I got my first salary, Chettiar wanted me to buy him a T-Shirt. I bought him one, and while thanking me for it he told me that I should also become an NRI so that I can get him nicer T-Shirts.
While we were on the way to the station, I tried to impress Chettiar by telling him that I was a journalist. And therefore, I was an important person. He seemed less than convinced. He wanted to know why I didn’t become a TV journalist. He also told me that nobody reads the newspapers anyway.
I was considerably upset and distracted by this entire thing and I managed to find the platform and be there before D Atthai’s train whirred in. D Atthai had come with several bags; she announced that many of them were empty (so that she can pack all of T Nagar and Mylapore in those bags when she does go back to Delhi). I made polite elder sister type talk with my cousin (D Atthai’s daughter) and tried not to yelp with pain as I balanced two allegedly empty bags on my shoulders. That was when a lady stopped me – Platform ticket Ma, she said.
Ouch.
I realized then that I had done something that nobody in my family had ever done since the inception of Indian Railways – break a law. I tried to crack a lame joke. Did not work. Apologize. Did not work. Beg and plead. Did not work. Be mildly confrontational. Certainly did not work. By now the cousin was getting anxious, given that she has gone through a long, arduous journey to a place that perhaps alienates her at many levels, I figured a quick solution was needed. I also didn’t want her or the atthai to get on some kind of high ground by saying things like – how it is easier to bribe people in Delhi than Madras. Madras must not lose. Ever.
So, I agree to pay the fine of rupees three hundred. As I walked towards the counter meant for defaulters, law breakers and assorted criminals Chettiar also came in. Given that he knew D Atthai well enough, he was sure that she would have half a dozen bags at least. As always, he was there to rescue me. I explained to him what had happened and he seemed as horrified. He also felt repentant that, in some ways, he was responsible for distracting me with all his chatter. While we waited for the previous defaulters to pay up, I reassured Chettiar that he was not to blame. In front of us were two young girls – fair and petite. One of them had not bought a platform ticket and she and friend made bambi eyes and widely gesticulated trying to get their point across. Eventually they let the girls go. No fine imposed on them. Possibly because:
1. Guests are the avatrams of god, so it was time to show the goodness of our Tamizh heart
2. Because there is nothing like: fair and lovely. There is only: fair = lovely
My brown skin and ability to speak the same language meant that there was no escaping the fine. My Tamizh heart broke. While I was rummaging for the money through my wallet, Chettiar announced to no one in particular that he hoped I would be covering this in my news report. He suggested that I write down the details of all the officers and so on. If I was not feeling like a fool, I would have been amused. The people at the counter now looked a little unsure.
Who are you, they asked?
Very important journalist, Chettiar offered.
With The Hindu, Atthai suggested helpfully.
The man thought for a bit and then asked me to go. He said, today is Sunday, so I am letting you go.
Chettiar was thrilled. I am not sure, what worked – his contribution, it being Sunday, general niceness or the fact that the main boss at the counter was called – Parthasarathy.
Whatever it was, I felt fair and lovely.
When we came home, appa had his hand plastered. Apparently while wading through water and avoiding one of those monster vehicles on the road, he fell and broke a few things.
Amma was upset, I bet that secretly she must have blamed the atthai.
T Anna called up and was upset too. I will buy appa a car, he volunteered - as always, large hearted and impractical. S the clever child said that, even rich people need to go on a walk with their legs and not a car. Instead an expensive shoe from Nike was bought.
I have a humble request to all you people who drive big (and not so big cars in T Nagar).
At seven in the morning, if you see an elderly and somewhat frail man, wearing a navy blue - I Love New York T-Shirt (lovingly gifted by his son), a very expensive pink coloured (I know) Nike shoes (equal in value of the sum total of all the shoes owned by the same man over the last 57 years), carrying a blue coloured Sundaram Mutual Funds bag, walking along Usman Road – that is appa. Be considerate. We cannot afford a car. When it rains, there is too much water. You are in a hurry obviously. But please go a little slowly, just for a bit. If we get a car, Chettiar will lose his job. That would be sad. If you hit appa, you will need to deal with a very important journalist.
Thank you.
I thought this business of picking up people was some kind of an elitist sport. Only the rich people went to pick up visiting friends and family. Of course, people have their reasons:
1. I am so excited about this person coming, so I go pick them up
2. What if they can’t find the house?
3. They have too much of luggage and will need help
4. How will they negotiate with the Madras Autokkarans?
5. Because guests are the avatarams of god
In my family, we don’t go and pick up people. If you come from Trichy and Nellai (where bulk of our visitors come from), you speak the language of the city. Therefore, you find your way. Our guests don’t carry too much of luggage. Also everyone finds their way around T Nagar anyway. And there are way too many gods that are jostling for our attention.
Exceptions are made only for our Delhi Atthai. Amma is a little hyper when it comes to her youngest sister-in-law. She is partly in awe of her, but mostly she dislikes her. Yet, appa feels strong kinship with his little sister and insists on picking her up each time she comes.
D Atthai came to town a few days back, when Madras was in the middle of a cloud-burst. As always, appa wanted to go and pick her up. But something came up, and I had to go instead.
We don’t own a car. In fact, we have never owned one. Some of it was to do with thatha’s conditioning us into believing that anything beyond two wheels was against everything that he stood for. Of course, it was largely to do with the fact that we could not afford one. So, when most of the families had a Fiat in the 80s and a Maruti 800 in the 90s, we were car-less. We usually walked, traveled by buses and occasionally took the trains. We avoided autos, unless it was to take T Anna to the hospital when he had an asthma attack.
That was when we met – Chettiar. Chettiar used to take me, Poongothai and half a dozen Srirams and Karthiks from Bazlullah Road to our school each day. His vehicle was a largeish auto (similar to the shared autos that we see in the city), that we used to call – Van. While we were sitting through Vijaylakshmi Mam's class, Chettiar would go and pick up flowers from the wholesale market to transport it to some store in T Nagar. When we would return home, the van would still have remnants of the smell of malli and samanthi. The heady sweetness would inevitably cause one of the Karthiks to faint. His name was obviously not Chettiar, but we began calling him so because of the enormous tummy that he had (unimaginative) and the name stuck.
Chettiar’s livelihood coincidentally evolved with my life-stage. There came a time when I became too old to travel in the van. I needed two things:
1. A more sophisticated method of transportation
2. Lesser boys
That was the time when Chettiar acquired a modern day auto. I, Poongothai, one Karthik and his sister began to travel in the same. The flower business then stopped and he needed an alternative source of income. After a conversation with amma, he developed a revenue model of chauffeuring the maamis of Bazlullah Road, TP Road and Habibullah Road. His affable nature won him many fans and his large stomach reassured everyone that he was safe and trustworthy. He knew where in T Nagar all our relatives lived and could go and deliver or pick up stuff from people. He would take Madras Thatha for his bi-monthly blood tests, he would drop amma at Egmore Station so that she could catch the Rock Fort express. He would book tickets for us, buy flowers; find us plumbers and electricians, the works.
One cannot imagine our life without Chettiar. When T Anna plays his NRI-Santa person, he gets Chettiar T-Shirts and some chocolates. When I got my first salary, Chettiar wanted me to buy him a T-Shirt. I bought him one, and while thanking me for it he told me that I should also become an NRI so that I can get him nicer T-Shirts.
While we were on the way to the station, I tried to impress Chettiar by telling him that I was a journalist. And therefore, I was an important person. He seemed less than convinced. He wanted to know why I didn’t become a TV journalist. He also told me that nobody reads the newspapers anyway.
I was considerably upset and distracted by this entire thing and I managed to find the platform and be there before D Atthai’s train whirred in. D Atthai had come with several bags; she announced that many of them were empty (so that she can pack all of T Nagar and Mylapore in those bags when she does go back to Delhi). I made polite elder sister type talk with my cousin (D Atthai’s daughter) and tried not to yelp with pain as I balanced two allegedly empty bags on my shoulders. That was when a lady stopped me – Platform ticket Ma, she said.
Ouch.
I realized then that I had done something that nobody in my family had ever done since the inception of Indian Railways – break a law. I tried to crack a lame joke. Did not work. Apologize. Did not work. Beg and plead. Did not work. Be mildly confrontational. Certainly did not work. By now the cousin was getting anxious, given that she has gone through a long, arduous journey to a place that perhaps alienates her at many levels, I figured a quick solution was needed. I also didn’t want her or the atthai to get on some kind of high ground by saying things like – how it is easier to bribe people in Delhi than Madras. Madras must not lose. Ever.
So, I agree to pay the fine of rupees three hundred. As I walked towards the counter meant for defaulters, law breakers and assorted criminals Chettiar also came in. Given that he knew D Atthai well enough, he was sure that she would have half a dozen bags at least. As always, he was there to rescue me. I explained to him what had happened and he seemed as horrified. He also felt repentant that, in some ways, he was responsible for distracting me with all his chatter. While we waited for the previous defaulters to pay up, I reassured Chettiar that he was not to blame. In front of us were two young girls – fair and petite. One of them had not bought a platform ticket and she and friend made bambi eyes and widely gesticulated trying to get their point across. Eventually they let the girls go. No fine imposed on them. Possibly because:
1. Guests are the avatrams of god, so it was time to show the goodness of our Tamizh heart
2. Because there is nothing like: fair and lovely. There is only: fair = lovely
My brown skin and ability to speak the same language meant that there was no escaping the fine. My Tamizh heart broke. While I was rummaging for the money through my wallet, Chettiar announced to no one in particular that he hoped I would be covering this in my news report. He suggested that I write down the details of all the officers and so on. If I was not feeling like a fool, I would have been amused. The people at the counter now looked a little unsure.
Who are you, they asked?
Very important journalist, Chettiar offered.
With The Hindu, Atthai suggested helpfully.
The man thought for a bit and then asked me to go. He said, today is Sunday, so I am letting you go.
Chettiar was thrilled. I am not sure, what worked – his contribution, it being Sunday, general niceness or the fact that the main boss at the counter was called – Parthasarathy.
Whatever it was, I felt fair and lovely.
When we came home, appa had his hand plastered. Apparently while wading through water and avoiding one of those monster vehicles on the road, he fell and broke a few things.
Amma was upset, I bet that secretly she must have blamed the atthai.
T Anna called up and was upset too. I will buy appa a car, he volunteered - as always, large hearted and impractical. S the clever child said that, even rich people need to go on a walk with their legs and not a car. Instead an expensive shoe from Nike was bought.
I have a humble request to all you people who drive big (and not so big cars in T Nagar).
At seven in the morning, if you see an elderly and somewhat frail man, wearing a navy blue - I Love New York T-Shirt (lovingly gifted by his son), a very expensive pink coloured (I know) Nike shoes (equal in value of the sum total of all the shoes owned by the same man over the last 57 years), carrying a blue coloured Sundaram Mutual Funds bag, walking along Usman Road – that is appa. Be considerate. We cannot afford a car. When it rains, there is too much water. You are in a hurry obviously. But please go a little slowly, just for a bit. If we get a car, Chettiar will lose his job. That would be sad. If you hit appa, you will need to deal with a very important journalist.
Thank you.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Murungakka Sambhar
The comments on the last few posts cannot be ignored. Especially the ones by a number of vegetables. I didn’t comprehend a number of them, but the vegetables itself reminded me of my pet grouse.
Amma makes sambhar very often, once in a day usually. I am not much of a sambhar fan. I like rasam much more - it is lighter and is unlikely to contain any vegetable that one dislikes.
Appa says it is illegal to make sambhar without the vendakkai. While it tastes rather nice, I don’t like it. Vendakkai is the vegetable that allegedly improves one’s performance in any mathematics exam. It helps to process complex problems and get you the elusive, Centum in Maths. However, no amount of Vendakai consumption helped me or my friend Poongothai. So I concluded that, it didn’t work. And just so that, amma didn’t put too much pressure on me by saying, why after so much of vendakkais also your maths scores don’t improve, I chose to boycott the vegetable completely.
However, slightly more difficult to ignore was – murungakka. We had a tree and T Anna got glasses when he was six. So murungakka found its way into every meal of ours. It is the most annoying vegetable. The flavour, while being nice, completely overwhelms every other taste. A small bit can sometimes get stuck in your throat and make you feel that you might choke to death. It is a bit annoying to watch people eat a murungakka, there is something brutal about it. It is a bit of a social embarrassment.
However a big part of my dislike for murungakka was to do with the fact that the men always ate/ still eat before the women in my house. I am okay with that also. It is too small a thing to rebel and get self righteous about, I think. The not so pleasant part was to clear the plates after the men were done with the eating. I had to usually do it and I used to hate the days when it was murungakka on the menu. The violently chewed on remnants of the erstwhile good looking vegetable, which I needed to throw before washing the plates would gross me out. I must have cursed T Anna a million times at least; appa was a little more delicate.
Since then, I made a promise to myself that when I get married, I shall never cook the murungakka. At least T Anna and Appa are my blood and gothram, imagine doing this for some strange man?
Amma makes sambhar very often, once in a day usually. I am not much of a sambhar fan. I like rasam much more - it is lighter and is unlikely to contain any vegetable that one dislikes.
Appa says it is illegal to make sambhar without the vendakkai. While it tastes rather nice, I don’t like it. Vendakkai is the vegetable that allegedly improves one’s performance in any mathematics exam. It helps to process complex problems and get you the elusive, Centum in Maths. However, no amount of Vendakai consumption helped me or my friend Poongothai. So I concluded that, it didn’t work. And just so that, amma didn’t put too much pressure on me by saying, why after so much of vendakkais also your maths scores don’t improve, I chose to boycott the vegetable completely.
However, slightly more difficult to ignore was – murungakka. We had a tree and T Anna got glasses when he was six. So murungakka found its way into every meal of ours. It is the most annoying vegetable. The flavour, while being nice, completely overwhelms every other taste. A small bit can sometimes get stuck in your throat and make you feel that you might choke to death. It is a bit annoying to watch people eat a murungakka, there is something brutal about it. It is a bit of a social embarrassment.
However a big part of my dislike for murungakka was to do with the fact that the men always ate/ still eat before the women in my house. I am okay with that also. It is too small a thing to rebel and get self righteous about, I think. The not so pleasant part was to clear the plates after the men were done with the eating. I had to usually do it and I used to hate the days when it was murungakka on the menu. The violently chewed on remnants of the erstwhile good looking vegetable, which I needed to throw before washing the plates would gross me out. I must have cursed T Anna a million times at least; appa was a little more delicate.
Since then, I made a promise to myself that when I get married, I shall never cook the murungakka. At least T Anna and Appa are my blood and gothram, imagine doing this for some strange man?
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.
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