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 Tamizh Boys. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tamizh Boys. Show all posts
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Lotus feet of Rama
Thatha looked up from his newspaper and grimaced. He then started, ATP, have you noticed how the quality of writing has deteriorated lately?
I groaned inwardly and pretended to be watching with rapt attention a boxing match between an Ukranian and someone from Dominican Republic. I don’t much care for any sport and most certainly not for one that is legitamised form of violence, but I wasn’t going to be drawn into an argument with Thatha.
Why do you think the quality has dropped, Thatha perused and shoved the newspaper down my nose. Read this, he commanded.
Resigned, I pulled the offensive page and began to read. Page twenty one, a column on the left hand bottom and it went thus:
Janaki, Age 82, Railways, West Mambalam attained the Lotus feet of Lord Rama. Deeply mourned by one and all.
Shanmugham (63), father of Chakravarthy passed away on Saturday 2nd August at Thiruvamiyur. Deeply mourned by wife, two sons and Latha, CPWD.
I said a little prayer for the two souls and asked Thatha what the problem was. People died and those left behind felt a compelling need to inform about this to the world. The obituary columns did a far better job of reminding us of our mortality than bombs going off somewhere.
Don’t you see, Thatha said in that shocked tone, the obituaries are ambiguous and incomplete?
The boxing match had got over and the DD Sports anchor, wearing too much of bling appeared and launched into some incomprehensible Hindi. So, I turned my attention back to Thatha and told him that I didn’t see any problem with the obituaries.
He then began to list his exceptions:
• What was Janaki’s connection with the Railways?
• Why is Janaki mourned in a generic sort of way? Why are there no names attached to the “one and all”?
• Janaki didn’t have an initial, name of husband, name of parents, name of village, name of children, nothing. How will one identify which Janaki had died?
• If Shanmugham had two sons, why was he only the father of Chakravarthy?
• And who is Latha, CPWD?
• And is CPWD mourning his death?
Paati, who was grating coconuts, was horrified with Thatha’s analysis and doubts. She went and did three sit-ups in front of Pilayar and asked for forgiveness on his behalf.
Thatha and Paati are staying with us these days, so every morning; Thatha spends fifteen minutes going through every obituary. The scary part is that, Appa is getting involved in this game too.
Yaaradu poyitaala, he asks?
A couple of days after this, Appa was reading out aloud some of the obituaries to Thatha. And between the deaths of a lady, who had left for her heavenly abode, a young man, who had untimely passed away, was also a small almost curt piece of information about a Mr S, mere sixty two years of age and survived by a wife and a daughter.
As it was being read aloud, the name stuck me as being familiar, but I let it pass. While I was getting my dilapidated Scooty to start, Iyengaar Maami came out and almost breathlessly announced, Hindu Paatiya?
I rolled my eyes and decided to put off the ignition as this was clearly going to take long.
What is the matter, I asked her?
S Sir Poyitaarey. Paavum, she added.
Then it stuck me, the familiar name was that of S Sir, my accountancy and mathematics tutor from Classes XI to XII and perhaps the man responsible for my passing the examinations.
Meanwhile, Iyengaar Maami continued in her excited fashion and also told me that she has Skyped and informed Prahlad (or Prack-Laad as my Paati says) about the sad news. Prahlad had reassured his mother that he would wash his hair before he went to bed.
Prahlad is Iyengaar Maami’s son, my class-mate from school and the boy whose batting average was better than the marks that he scored. Which is why, Amma and Iyengaar Maami formed a strange kinship over their stupid children. It was in their efforts to constantly add value to our academic lives that, S Sir was discovered. Amma wasn’t keen to have a home tutor for me; she felt that I will lose out on the competitiveness that a larger peer group can infuse. However, when Prahlad’s Unit Tests scores showed an upward trend, S Sir’s services were employed. Also, S Sir, working as an Accounts Officer in some government department, didn’t believe in charging any fees. Teaching is only my service to society, he had said most saintly.
When S Sir came home for the first time, we were surprised. He didn’t look like a teacher or a mathematician. He was short, roundish in shape and wore his trousers around his chest and had a wide smile plastered on his face.
Kanakku Vadiyaar aa, Paati shook her head in disbelief. Weren’t they supposed to look mean, thin and wear glasses?
The classes started and S Sir would heartily launch into the intricacies of a Balance Sheet and Suspense Account.
Unlike the teachers who taught me at school or the tuition classes, S Sir didn’t talk down to me. He acknowledged that, it was very likely that my P&L accounts wouldn’t really be accurate and that my balance sheets may not balance. His mission was to reduce the number of mistakes that I was likely to make. That approach helped and my accountancy marks, inched towards some amount of respectability.
S Sir was not merely an Accountancy and Mathematics whiz; he was clearly a man of many parts. He could do some josiyam, he had a secret to making better adhirasms and he could drink kaapi from a tumbler from a height of twenty centimeters above his mouth.
Since, he wasn’t accepting any fee from us; Amma decided that we should feed him everyday. Given that Amma had a repertoire of a mere four dishes, the food was outsourced. So some special murukkus were procured from Gomathi Shankar. While, I was dying to polish off a few murukkus, and wistfully stared at them while doing the Suspense Account, S Sir continued to ignore it. When he was leaving, Amma asked him, why he had not tried the murukku? He told Amma that it looked too oily.
The next day, Amma produced some more murukkus, this time from Suswaad, with their special technology of soaking out all the oil and ruining the taste beyond all imagination. Same story, as I ate the soggy remains of it after S Sir left.
Rhomba aacharam aa irukkum, paati said. So, it was decided that something ought to be made at home.
Freshly fried ribbon pakodams were served hot, after Amma dabbed away the excess oil with a tissue.
That was left too.
May be, he wont eat at our house, I suggested. But as always, when presented with an uncomfortable point of view, everyone dismissed and denied.
The next day, I asked S Sir, why don’t you eat the food we give? My Amma is heart-broken.
S Sir looked embarrassed and told me, I don’t like noisy food.
What?
It seems, S sir was a bit of an Englishman. His father had lived in England for a while, and on returning to India, he had been horrified with the noisy eating patterns of Tamizh Brahmin men. Korka burka, karu muru and slurp, is this any way for civilized people to eat, he had asked of them? Not to mention the long burp that is left at the end of the meal to express the Brahmincal satisfaction with the food.
Over the next few days, observing Appa, Periappa, Thatha, etc, I had to agree with S Sir’s point of view.
How can anybody eat food without making noise, I asked him during my next lesson on Realisation Account. Don’t people in England eat potato wafers, I asked.
Of course not, the English have healthy food habits. My Appa had only porridge every single day that he was there, S Sir informed me.
Surely that must be like thayir saadam, and slurpy noises must be generated, I wondered.
No, you see, they close their mouths and eat. The air doesn’t escape and sound cannot be generated in vacuum, he informed.
Needless to say, I was grossed out by S Sir and thought of him as an anti-national person.
Thankfully, school got over and one veshti and half sleeves shirt later, I didn’t see him.
And now, he is dead.
His house is in Mambalam, Iyengaar Maami told me impatiently. I will come with you, she announced. I figured that doing a Mambalam detour with Maami riding pillion wasn’t a pleasant option. Worse was the coming home to take hair bath. I will go on Sunday, I told her.
Not having the option of a free ride made Maami also drop out.
Sunday almost went by and I forgot. That afternoon, when I met Amma on Skype and having exhausted every possible topic of conversation, I suddenly remembered about S Sir. I told her that he had passed away. We discussed his noiseless food eating patterns for a bit and then Amma asked how was his wife doing.
I told her that I had no clue.
As always, Amma got hyper and insisted that I make a visit to offer my condolences rightaway. After all, because of him you got eighty four in accounts, she said. Given that, the eighty four (which is useless of course) was the high point of my academic life and given that I was a girl who made the balance sheet first and then do a P&L statement, that was HUGE. And in my effort to save a few liters of fuel and an extra sachet of shampoo, I had avoided the visit.
I asked Iyengaar Maami if she wanted to come, she said that Prahlad had sent a long condolence letter and that would suffice. Relieved, I left for S Sir’s house. It was rainy and the weather was lovely in Madras. Even going through Doraiswamy Bridge and dodging the shoppers was pleasant. But, I was going for a condolence, I kept reminding myself.
When I reached the building where he lived, and climbed up the three flights of stairs (why does everyone I know stay on the third floor?), I saw an elaborate and fresh kolam outside. I also heard the TV on. The door opened finally and I stood facing S Sir.
His round face lit up with a big smile and he invited me in.
This cant be for real, I thought.
S Sir seemed genuinely happy to see me as we discussed all maters of national importance and otherwise. His wife offered me some mixture and sweet Maida chips. I refused and drank the synthetic orange juice instead.
S Sir asked me about T Anna and Prahlad. I reassured him that both were fine. I contemplated telling him about Prahlad’s letter, but decided against it. How do you tell a man that, I heard you were dead?
When I walked down, I peeped into the letter box of Flat No. C32, there were a few envelopes, but I couldn’t be sure if any of them had a foreign stamp. Meanwhile the watchman was looking at me suspiciously so I beat a hasty retreat.
I went straight to Paati and told her everything that had happened. Paati said that, it was actually a good omen. S Sir will live for very long, she said.
I repeated the tale to the men folk who were having dinner. It was dinner at Periamma’s house. Thatha jumped on me and said; didn’t I tell you that the quality of obituary writing is not the same any more? I nodded and watched with fascination, how in an almost synchronized fashion, Appa, Thatha, Periappa, Chitappa and S Anna artistically gathered the the mor saadam in their palms and noisily gulped it down.
If ever there is a Tamil Olympics, this ought to be an event.
I groaned inwardly and pretended to be watching with rapt attention a boxing match between an Ukranian and someone from Dominican Republic. I don’t much care for any sport and most certainly not for one that is legitamised form of violence, but I wasn’t going to be drawn into an argument with Thatha.
Why do you think the quality has dropped, Thatha perused and shoved the newspaper down my nose. Read this, he commanded.
Resigned, I pulled the offensive page and began to read. Page twenty one, a column on the left hand bottom and it went thus:
Janaki, Age 82, Railways, West Mambalam attained the Lotus feet of Lord Rama. Deeply mourned by one and all.
Shanmugham (63), father of Chakravarthy passed away on Saturday 2nd August at Thiruvamiyur. Deeply mourned by wife, two sons and Latha, CPWD.
I said a little prayer for the two souls and asked Thatha what the problem was. People died and those left behind felt a compelling need to inform about this to the world. The obituary columns did a far better job of reminding us of our mortality than bombs going off somewhere.
Don’t you see, Thatha said in that shocked tone, the obituaries are ambiguous and incomplete?
The boxing match had got over and the DD Sports anchor, wearing too much of bling appeared and launched into some incomprehensible Hindi. So, I turned my attention back to Thatha and told him that I didn’t see any problem with the obituaries.
He then began to list his exceptions:
• What was Janaki’s connection with the Railways?
• Why is Janaki mourned in a generic sort of way? Why are there no names attached to the “one and all”?
• Janaki didn’t have an initial, name of husband, name of parents, name of village, name of children, nothing. How will one identify which Janaki had died?
• If Shanmugham had two sons, why was he only the father of Chakravarthy?
• And who is Latha, CPWD?
• And is CPWD mourning his death?
Paati, who was grating coconuts, was horrified with Thatha’s analysis and doubts. She went and did three sit-ups in front of Pilayar and asked for forgiveness on his behalf.
Thatha and Paati are staying with us these days, so every morning; Thatha spends fifteen minutes going through every obituary. The scary part is that, Appa is getting involved in this game too.
Yaaradu poyitaala, he asks?
A couple of days after this, Appa was reading out aloud some of the obituaries to Thatha. And between the deaths of a lady, who had left for her heavenly abode, a young man, who had untimely passed away, was also a small almost curt piece of information about a Mr S, mere sixty two years of age and survived by a wife and a daughter.
As it was being read aloud, the name stuck me as being familiar, but I let it pass. While I was getting my dilapidated Scooty to start, Iyengaar Maami came out and almost breathlessly announced, Hindu Paatiya?
I rolled my eyes and decided to put off the ignition as this was clearly going to take long.
What is the matter, I asked her?
S Sir Poyitaarey. Paavum, she added.
Then it stuck me, the familiar name was that of S Sir, my accountancy and mathematics tutor from Classes XI to XII and perhaps the man responsible for my passing the examinations.
Meanwhile, Iyengaar Maami continued in her excited fashion and also told me that she has Skyped and informed Prahlad (or Prack-Laad as my Paati says) about the sad news. Prahlad had reassured his mother that he would wash his hair before he went to bed.
Prahlad is Iyengaar Maami’s son, my class-mate from school and the boy whose batting average was better than the marks that he scored. Which is why, Amma and Iyengaar Maami formed a strange kinship over their stupid children. It was in their efforts to constantly add value to our academic lives that, S Sir was discovered. Amma wasn’t keen to have a home tutor for me; she felt that I will lose out on the competitiveness that a larger peer group can infuse. However, when Prahlad’s Unit Tests scores showed an upward trend, S Sir’s services were employed. Also, S Sir, working as an Accounts Officer in some government department, didn’t believe in charging any fees. Teaching is only my service to society, he had said most saintly.
When S Sir came home for the first time, we were surprised. He didn’t look like a teacher or a mathematician. He was short, roundish in shape and wore his trousers around his chest and had a wide smile plastered on his face.
Kanakku Vadiyaar aa, Paati shook her head in disbelief. Weren’t they supposed to look mean, thin and wear glasses?
The classes started and S Sir would heartily launch into the intricacies of a Balance Sheet and Suspense Account.
Unlike the teachers who taught me at school or the tuition classes, S Sir didn’t talk down to me. He acknowledged that, it was very likely that my P&L accounts wouldn’t really be accurate and that my balance sheets may not balance. His mission was to reduce the number of mistakes that I was likely to make. That approach helped and my accountancy marks, inched towards some amount of respectability.
S Sir was not merely an Accountancy and Mathematics whiz; he was clearly a man of many parts. He could do some josiyam, he had a secret to making better adhirasms and he could drink kaapi from a tumbler from a height of twenty centimeters above his mouth.
Since, he wasn’t accepting any fee from us; Amma decided that we should feed him everyday. Given that Amma had a repertoire of a mere four dishes, the food was outsourced. So some special murukkus were procured from Gomathi Shankar. While, I was dying to polish off a few murukkus, and wistfully stared at them while doing the Suspense Account, S Sir continued to ignore it. When he was leaving, Amma asked him, why he had not tried the murukku? He told Amma that it looked too oily.
The next day, Amma produced some more murukkus, this time from Suswaad, with their special technology of soaking out all the oil and ruining the taste beyond all imagination. Same story, as I ate the soggy remains of it after S Sir left.
Rhomba aacharam aa irukkum, paati said. So, it was decided that something ought to be made at home.
Freshly fried ribbon pakodams were served hot, after Amma dabbed away the excess oil with a tissue.
That was left too.
May be, he wont eat at our house, I suggested. But as always, when presented with an uncomfortable point of view, everyone dismissed and denied.
The next day, I asked S Sir, why don’t you eat the food we give? My Amma is heart-broken.
S Sir looked embarrassed and told me, I don’t like noisy food.
What?
It seems, S sir was a bit of an Englishman. His father had lived in England for a while, and on returning to India, he had been horrified with the noisy eating patterns of Tamizh Brahmin men. Korka burka, karu muru and slurp, is this any way for civilized people to eat, he had asked of them? Not to mention the long burp that is left at the end of the meal to express the Brahmincal satisfaction with the food.
Over the next few days, observing Appa, Periappa, Thatha, etc, I had to agree with S Sir’s point of view.
How can anybody eat food without making noise, I asked him during my next lesson on Realisation Account. Don’t people in England eat potato wafers, I asked.
Of course not, the English have healthy food habits. My Appa had only porridge every single day that he was there, S Sir informed me.
Surely that must be like thayir saadam, and slurpy noises must be generated, I wondered.
No, you see, they close their mouths and eat. The air doesn’t escape and sound cannot be generated in vacuum, he informed.
Needless to say, I was grossed out by S Sir and thought of him as an anti-national person.
Thankfully, school got over and one veshti and half sleeves shirt later, I didn’t see him.
And now, he is dead.
His house is in Mambalam, Iyengaar Maami told me impatiently. I will come with you, she announced. I figured that doing a Mambalam detour with Maami riding pillion wasn’t a pleasant option. Worse was the coming home to take hair bath. I will go on Sunday, I told her.
Not having the option of a free ride made Maami also drop out.
Sunday almost went by and I forgot. That afternoon, when I met Amma on Skype and having exhausted every possible topic of conversation, I suddenly remembered about S Sir. I told her that he had passed away. We discussed his noiseless food eating patterns for a bit and then Amma asked how was his wife doing.
I told her that I had no clue.
As always, Amma got hyper and insisted that I make a visit to offer my condolences rightaway. After all, because of him you got eighty four in accounts, she said. Given that, the eighty four (which is useless of course) was the high point of my academic life and given that I was a girl who made the balance sheet first and then do a P&L statement, that was HUGE. And in my effort to save a few liters of fuel and an extra sachet of shampoo, I had avoided the visit.
I asked Iyengaar Maami if she wanted to come, she said that Prahlad had sent a long condolence letter and that would suffice. Relieved, I left for S Sir’s house. It was rainy and the weather was lovely in Madras. Even going through Doraiswamy Bridge and dodging the shoppers was pleasant. But, I was going for a condolence, I kept reminding myself.
When I reached the building where he lived, and climbed up the three flights of stairs (why does everyone I know stay on the third floor?), I saw an elaborate and fresh kolam outside. I also heard the TV on. The door opened finally and I stood facing S Sir.
His round face lit up with a big smile and he invited me in.
This cant be for real, I thought.
S Sir seemed genuinely happy to see me as we discussed all maters of national importance and otherwise. His wife offered me some mixture and sweet Maida chips. I refused and drank the synthetic orange juice instead.
S Sir asked me about T Anna and Prahlad. I reassured him that both were fine. I contemplated telling him about Prahlad’s letter, but decided against it. How do you tell a man that, I heard you were dead?
When I walked down, I peeped into the letter box of Flat No. C32, there were a few envelopes, but I couldn’t be sure if any of them had a foreign stamp. Meanwhile the watchman was looking at me suspiciously so I beat a hasty retreat.
I went straight to Paati and told her everything that had happened. Paati said that, it was actually a good omen. S Sir will live for very long, she said.
I repeated the tale to the men folk who were having dinner. It was dinner at Periamma’s house. Thatha jumped on me and said; didn’t I tell you that the quality of obituary writing is not the same any more? I nodded and watched with fascination, how in an almost synchronized fashion, Appa, Thatha, Periappa, Chitappa and S Anna artistically gathered the the mor saadam in their palms and noisily gulped it down.
If ever there is a Tamil Olympics, this ought to be an event.
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.
Friday, September 21, 2007
How the bald men from Tirunelveli conquered Thanjavur
Now that the wedding is over and the new Manni is not so new any longer, two things occupy our minds.
1. Preparations and hyper activities are underway to send T Anna and M Mani to USA
2. Going through the photo albums and wedding videos over and over again
The latter is most fun. Everyone has an opinion and loves to make snide comments involving: body mass and the lack of hair. After a point, you can almost predict what the joke is going to be. Going through the albums, one notices that there are several bald men.
For a long while I thought that only the men in my family had this, baldness quality. Everyone was bald or getting there. May be it was to do with the Bharadwaja lineage. Madras Thatha, Periappas, Chitappas, Chitappa Thathas -- every one of them bald. Even the young men of the family are mostly bald. When me and S met (more like, saw) any bald man, we wondered if he was related to us.
As one goes through the wedding albums one realizes that most of the men in general are bald. Not just our side, but also the men from M Mani’s side seem to share this quality. Most photographs therefore, show a glinting bald head. Sometimes, when the orange light of the videographer focuses on bald patch, one can see a halo.
The baldness aside, the wedding was as chaotic as one can imagine it to be. Inspite of being from the payyan veetu, we had our own share of drama. Sulking relatives, some chaos, lost keys, upset (allegedly) older unmarried cousins, nosey old maamis, only one ac room for the boys side, the works.
Thankfully for us, the wedding happened at one of the T Nagar mandapams. This was useful as we could run across to the house each time we needed something or just wanted to get away. It also proved useful for the guests who were aged over seventy (who formed a significant proportion of our guest list one noted). This helped as they were brought in to pelt flowers and blessings and sent back after a cup of paayasam. Inspite of this proximity, four cars were needed – three of which were arranged for by the ponnu side. However, four ambassadors proved to be insufficient to carry the load of the extended family and their often frail egos.
The key consideration was to ensure that balance was maintained and feathers remain unruffled. I realised that - amma is actually a goddess. The detailed itinerary that she planned, the complex road map that she drew and the permutations that she worked out made me think that, she and not S should take a shot at the JEE exam.
For example, let’s take thatha’s elder brother – Kitchu Periappa Thatha who stays in Tiruvanmiyur and thatha’s younger brother – Vichu Chitappa Thatha who stay in Mylapore. Given that these were thatha’s brothers, their presence for this Gothram migration was important. Since both of them, had their own minor clan who needed to come for the wedding, each needed one ambassador car to be sent to them. One then needed to factor in that Tiruvamiyur was further away from Myalpore. However, given that the periappa thatha was the oldest member of the clan he needed to reach before anybody else did. And therefore, the cars needed to be managed and sent out at the right times. So, amma and T Anna worked out a complex algorithm and shared the same with S. Inspite of S’s brilliant execution, at least three people were offended, of which only one of them expressed their crib directly to us. Amma and Appa profusely apologized and made sure that T Anna and M Mani did one special round of namaskaram for all these offended relatives. Though, it is somewhat ironical that one must seek blessings of someone who is unhappy with you. It really doesn’t bode too well for T Anna and M Mani.
Next was the distribution of bakshanam and dividing the paruppu thengai. It seemed that M Mani’s family had cheated us by not giving us the number of murukkus, ladoo and mysore paaku that we had asked for. So me and Dubai Atthai who were in charge of the distribution, did some cheating of our own and gave some of the people only ladoo and deliberately didn’t give anything to some people. However Gomathi Periamma who takes a special dislike for Dubai Atthai yelled at her and took over. What had happened earlier was, since Dubai Atthai needed air-conditioning (given that is what she was used to) she was specifically given this soft task. However, as far as Gomathi Periamma was concerned, Dubai Atthai had failed. To add insult to injury, she took one look around the room and triumphantly pulled out one more cardboard carton of bakshanam that mine and Atthai’s partial blindness had missed. After which D Atthai sat in the corner of the room and wept. She refused to leave the room till the wedding got over. In a bid to cover up we started giving bakshanam to people who were not part of the original list. This, as the ones who had to be given the same, had left by then. Amma will never be able to live this down. However, everyone knows that the happiness of a marriage is ensured only if there is at least one unpleasant moment at the wedding.
I saw the wedding only in small doses. T Anna made for an enthusiastic and charming groom. He remembered inane details of random relatives and made polite conversation with several people. However, during the Kasi Yatrai he almost disappeared with the umbrella as he very briskly and purposefully walked towards the nearby Kasi Arcade. M Mani’s appa must have had an anxious moment for a brief period.
I also realise that my extended family has very limited faith in my ability to tie a knot. The number of people who asked me if I was ready to solemnize the wedding actually began to make me anxious. The pin-thali photograph has my face focused with utmost concentration and all the chittis, periammas, atthais, other women I don’t recognize watching closely and looking impatient. After getting my sari for having done the deed, I managed to escape.
Of course how can a wedding really be complete without some other-gothram-people-spotting. Amma had planted her reliable (!) sources – Indira Maami (neighbour and soul sister) and Alamelu Periamma (the real sister) to do the job for her. When the elder sibling gets married, the younger unmarried siblings are potentially at risk. It didn’t help very much that I was going to turn twenty-four soon.
Amma is very hopeful and ambitious for me. However in a huge departure from family tradition, she has decided that I must find a not-bald person to get married to. Don’t mistake us now. We are a bald-men-friendly family, but two reasons prompt amma in her quest for a not-bald groom:
1. She needs to do better than G Periamma’s quest for a son-in-law
2. Nagam Akka, the neighbourhood busybody often spouts this piece of wisdom – the problem with bald men is that they always look the same. One can never make out what their true age is.
We like to age gracefully and well, so we shall look for boy with hair now, so that he can go bald later.
I am feeling somewhat wistful now when I look at T Anna’s wedding pictures. There is this particularly brilliant photograph which has – Appa, T Anna, Periappa, Chitappa 1, Chitappa 2, Chitappa 3, Madras Thatha, Periappa Thatha, Chitappa Thatha and Shastrigal. It captures an intense moment, with all of them staring intently at the homam. Their brown and shiny heads gleam like some rare gems. Such beauty and symmetry is to be found only in rare architecture. Pity then that - my kalyanam shall not have such photographs.
1. Preparations and hyper activities are underway to send T Anna and M Mani to USA
2. Going through the photo albums and wedding videos over and over again
The latter is most fun. Everyone has an opinion and loves to make snide comments involving: body mass and the lack of hair. After a point, you can almost predict what the joke is going to be. Going through the albums, one notices that there are several bald men.
For a long while I thought that only the men in my family had this, baldness quality. Everyone was bald or getting there. May be it was to do with the Bharadwaja lineage. Madras Thatha, Periappas, Chitappas, Chitappa Thathas -- every one of them bald. Even the young men of the family are mostly bald. When me and S met (more like, saw) any bald man, we wondered if he was related to us.
As one goes through the wedding albums one realizes that most of the men in general are bald. Not just our side, but also the men from M Mani’s side seem to share this quality. Most photographs therefore, show a glinting bald head. Sometimes, when the orange light of the videographer focuses on bald patch, one can see a halo.
The baldness aside, the wedding was as chaotic as one can imagine it to be. Inspite of being from the payyan veetu, we had our own share of drama. Sulking relatives, some chaos, lost keys, upset (allegedly) older unmarried cousins, nosey old maamis, only one ac room for the boys side, the works.
Thankfully for us, the wedding happened at one of the T Nagar mandapams. This was useful as we could run across to the house each time we needed something or just wanted to get away. It also proved useful for the guests who were aged over seventy (who formed a significant proportion of our guest list one noted). This helped as they were brought in to pelt flowers and blessings and sent back after a cup of paayasam. Inspite of this proximity, four cars were needed – three of which were arranged for by the ponnu side. However, four ambassadors proved to be insufficient to carry the load of the extended family and their often frail egos.
The key consideration was to ensure that balance was maintained and feathers remain unruffled. I realised that - amma is actually a goddess. The detailed itinerary that she planned, the complex road map that she drew and the permutations that she worked out made me think that, she and not S should take a shot at the JEE exam.
For example, let’s take thatha’s elder brother – Kitchu Periappa Thatha who stays in Tiruvanmiyur and thatha’s younger brother – Vichu Chitappa Thatha who stay in Mylapore. Given that these were thatha’s brothers, their presence for this Gothram migration was important. Since both of them, had their own minor clan who needed to come for the wedding, each needed one ambassador car to be sent to them. One then needed to factor in that Tiruvamiyur was further away from Myalpore. However, given that the periappa thatha was the oldest member of the clan he needed to reach before anybody else did. And therefore, the cars needed to be managed and sent out at the right times. So, amma and T Anna worked out a complex algorithm and shared the same with S. Inspite of S’s brilliant execution, at least three people were offended, of which only one of them expressed their crib directly to us. Amma and Appa profusely apologized and made sure that T Anna and M Mani did one special round of namaskaram for all these offended relatives. Though, it is somewhat ironical that one must seek blessings of someone who is unhappy with you. It really doesn’t bode too well for T Anna and M Mani.
Next was the distribution of bakshanam and dividing the paruppu thengai. It seemed that M Mani’s family had cheated us by not giving us the number of murukkus, ladoo and mysore paaku that we had asked for. So me and Dubai Atthai who were in charge of the distribution, did some cheating of our own and gave some of the people only ladoo and deliberately didn’t give anything to some people. However Gomathi Periamma who takes a special dislike for Dubai Atthai yelled at her and took over. What had happened earlier was, since Dubai Atthai needed air-conditioning (given that is what she was used to) she was specifically given this soft task. However, as far as Gomathi Periamma was concerned, Dubai Atthai had failed. To add insult to injury, she took one look around the room and triumphantly pulled out one more cardboard carton of bakshanam that mine and Atthai’s partial blindness had missed. After which D Atthai sat in the corner of the room and wept. She refused to leave the room till the wedding got over. In a bid to cover up we started giving bakshanam to people who were not part of the original list. This, as the ones who had to be given the same, had left by then. Amma will never be able to live this down. However, everyone knows that the happiness of a marriage is ensured only if there is at least one unpleasant moment at the wedding.
I saw the wedding only in small doses. T Anna made for an enthusiastic and charming groom. He remembered inane details of random relatives and made polite conversation with several people. However, during the Kasi Yatrai he almost disappeared with the umbrella as he very briskly and purposefully walked towards the nearby Kasi Arcade. M Mani’s appa must have had an anxious moment for a brief period.
I also realise that my extended family has very limited faith in my ability to tie a knot. The number of people who asked me if I was ready to solemnize the wedding actually began to make me anxious. The pin-thali photograph has my face focused with utmost concentration and all the chittis, periammas, atthais, other women I don’t recognize watching closely and looking impatient. After getting my sari for having done the deed, I managed to escape.
Of course how can a wedding really be complete without some other-gothram-people-spotting. Amma had planted her reliable (!) sources – Indira Maami (neighbour and soul sister) and Alamelu Periamma (the real sister) to do the job for her. When the elder sibling gets married, the younger unmarried siblings are potentially at risk. It didn’t help very much that I was going to turn twenty-four soon.
Amma is very hopeful and ambitious for me. However in a huge departure from family tradition, she has decided that I must find a not-bald person to get married to. Don’t mistake us now. We are a bald-men-friendly family, but two reasons prompt amma in her quest for a not-bald groom:
1. She needs to do better than G Periamma’s quest for a son-in-law
2. Nagam Akka, the neighbourhood busybody often spouts this piece of wisdom – the problem with bald men is that they always look the same. One can never make out what their true age is.
We like to age gracefully and well, so we shall look for boy with hair now, so that he can go bald later.
I am feeling somewhat wistful now when I look at T Anna’s wedding pictures. There is this particularly brilliant photograph which has – Appa, T Anna, Periappa, Chitappa 1, Chitappa 2, Chitappa 3, Madras Thatha, Periappa Thatha, Chitappa Thatha and Shastrigal. It captures an intense moment, with all of them staring intently at the homam. Their brown and shiny heads gleam like some rare gems. Such beauty and symmetry is to be found only in rare architecture. Pity then that - my kalyanam shall not have such photographs.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Chennai Man and Pineapple Rasam
Enigmatic, bold, brilliant, handsome... Well, these are how men are portrayed. Men who haven’t set foot in the arena of fashion, will find this opportunity exciting, for they get this never before chance to express their mystifying personality. The search for the 'Chennai Man' – an ideal combination of brain and brawn begins here...
I want to quit my job.
And I wish to become the judge of this contest.
Imagine how much fun it shall be?
May be, they will have a Veshti Round. Hot Tamizh boys, wearing white jarigai veshti will be too much. A master-stroke. The most brilliant marketing strategy.
Pity that T Anna is not in Madras. Else, he could have tried. I am certain that he would have had a good chance. After all, he is tall, is Bharadwaja Gothram and believes in world peace. Really. He does. What else can explain that he drove for four hours, while being swamped under work, to go and meet a visiting chitti. Not because he was dying to meet the chitti, but because she was making Pineapple Rasam. Yes, that is why. And he would also win the coveted, Loving Nephew/Niece in USA contest.
This act certainly proves that he is an advocate of world peace. I mean:
• We never eat Pineapple rasam in “our” house. You are being unfair to both the rasam and to yourself
• T Anna is actually allergic to pineapples
• T Anna is somewhat allergic to the chitti. I think, the feeling is mutual
• And chitti is not a great cook or anything. What I am saying is, she is a terrible cook
But he still went. Because amma asked him to. And that is what good Tamizh Brahmin boys do.
T Anna is forever raising the bar. I wish amma will understand that, I cannot have this unquestioning love for Pineapple rasam or for the chittis who rustle them up for you.
I suppose, which is why, I will never be Miss Chennai.
I want to quit my job.
And I wish to become the judge of this contest.
Imagine how much fun it shall be?
May be, they will have a Veshti Round. Hot Tamizh boys, wearing white jarigai veshti will be too much. A master-stroke. The most brilliant marketing strategy.
Pity that T Anna is not in Madras. Else, he could have tried. I am certain that he would have had a good chance. After all, he is tall, is Bharadwaja Gothram and believes in world peace. Really. He does. What else can explain that he drove for four hours, while being swamped under work, to go and meet a visiting chitti. Not because he was dying to meet the chitti, but because she was making Pineapple Rasam. Yes, that is why. And he would also win the coveted, Loving Nephew/Niece in USA contest.
This act certainly proves that he is an advocate of world peace. I mean:
• We never eat Pineapple rasam in “our” house. You are being unfair to both the rasam and to yourself
• T Anna is actually allergic to pineapples
• T Anna is somewhat allergic to the chitti. I think, the feeling is mutual
• And chitti is not a great cook or anything. What I am saying is, she is a terrible cook
But he still went. Because amma asked him to. And that is what good Tamizh Brahmin boys do.
T Anna is forever raising the bar. I wish amma will understand that, I cannot have this unquestioning love for Pineapple rasam or for the chittis who rustle them up for you.
I suppose, which is why, I will never be Miss Chennai.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Karthik, Sriram and Murali
I met him first, when I was in UKG. I didn’t like him at all. He used to drool. Euck.
I met him again, when I was in Class IV. I didn’t like him at all. He used to untie my shoe-laces. Gah.
I met him again, when I was in Class IX, I didn’t like him at all. He had a funny laugh and was most shifty eyed. Grrr.
I met him again in college during an inter-college festival. He was trying orrey the hard. I was rather put off.
Then again I met him at work last week. I have not found a reason to hate him. Yet.
Some names are never meant to be disliked and some always. During my years of schooling, tuitions and assorted classes, I have met at least 20 Karthiks, 16 Srirams, 14 Muralis.
They have all been very annoying. Without exception.
Over years, to minimize my effort, I decided that anybody who is named any of that must be disliked. Why waste time giving people a chance right?
S, the astute mathematician that she is, tells me, I have eliminated 70% of the single Tamizh Boys population in the process. I am not sure how to explain this to S, but all selection is normally based on elimination and not a preference. Mathematics assumes a certain amount of parity to begin with, which is not how it is.
And besides, irrational dislike for people is a good thing. It is better than, what I heard from the family grapevine just now. Amma and Maami are discussing about the attempts of one of the girls in the neighborhood - A akka to get married (what else).
Seems that A akka who is a rather nice sort usually, has turned down a boy recently. Her rationale was that, the boy’s house had no furniture and too many ugly plastic flowers. She thinks that it suggests that the boy’s family is not very progressive enough.
Amma is of course thankful that A Akka was Bharadwaja Gothram and was never in contention, but she is a little worried for T Anna. He is destined to die single, she is convinced.
I just hope we never have to get rid of the immensely ugly plastic beads gopuram (that I had created many years back during a summer vacation) and solar wood malai kotai just to get T Anna married. It is not worth it.
I also take this opportunity to tell amma, at least I don’t have such problems.
Being irrational is way cooler than being a snob.
I met him again, when I was in Class IV. I didn’t like him at all. He used to untie my shoe-laces. Gah.
I met him again, when I was in Class IX, I didn’t like him at all. He had a funny laugh and was most shifty eyed. Grrr.
I met him again in college during an inter-college festival. He was trying orrey the hard. I was rather put off.
Then again I met him at work last week. I have not found a reason to hate him. Yet.
Some names are never meant to be disliked and some always. During my years of schooling, tuitions and assorted classes, I have met at least 20 Karthiks, 16 Srirams, 14 Muralis.
They have all been very annoying. Without exception.
Over years, to minimize my effort, I decided that anybody who is named any of that must be disliked. Why waste time giving people a chance right?
S, the astute mathematician that she is, tells me, I have eliminated 70% of the single Tamizh Boys population in the process. I am not sure how to explain this to S, but all selection is normally based on elimination and not a preference. Mathematics assumes a certain amount of parity to begin with, which is not how it is.
And besides, irrational dislike for people is a good thing. It is better than, what I heard from the family grapevine just now. Amma and Maami are discussing about the attempts of one of the girls in the neighborhood - A akka to get married (what else).
Seems that A akka who is a rather nice sort usually, has turned down a boy recently. Her rationale was that, the boy’s house had no furniture and too many ugly plastic flowers. She thinks that it suggests that the boy’s family is not very progressive enough.
Amma is of course thankful that A Akka was Bharadwaja Gothram and was never in contention, but she is a little worried for T Anna. He is destined to die single, she is convinced.
I just hope we never have to get rid of the immensely ugly plastic beads gopuram (that I had created many years back during a summer vacation) and solar wood malai kotai just to get T Anna married. It is not worth it.
I also take this opportunity to tell amma, at least I don’t have such problems.
Being irrational is way cooler than being a snob.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Work-Place Notes: 1
9:30 am
Enthusiastic Twenty Year Old Payyan: My akka is just back from USA. She was in Florida, she has got chocolates. I will open it later.
Me: Huh
10:30 am
Me: (To nobody in particular) I am hungry
Enthusiastic Twenty Year Old Payyan: My akka is back from Florida, I will be opening chocolates later.
Me: Grrr
So on..
At 1:30 pm, Chocolates are revealed – Ta-Da - BOUNTY
Enthusiastic Twenty Year Old Payyan: Don’t you love Bounty?
Me: (Idukku poyi ivlo scene aa?! The lovely Murugan Stores stocks ample numbers of it) I don’t like Bounty. It is too coconut(y).
Enthusiastic Twenty Year Old Payyan: Bounty is the best, it is just like kozhakatai. My akka always buys it for me.
Me: Aiyyoo.
**
Overzealous Colleague: Your brother is in Texas? Even my brother is there, studying at A&M University. He is into Advanced Mathematics.
Me: Ummm, how nice.
Overzealous Colleague: So where all in USA have you visited?
Me: Umm, I have never gone to any place North of Bangalore.
Overzealous Colleague: Bangalore is not in the North.
Me: See, I am from Tirunelveli. Even Madras is North for me. So...
Overzealous Colleague: You need to see the world, you know. Paavam nee.
**
Overzealous Colleague 2: You don’t look like a Tamilian.
Me: In what way, please explain.
Overzealous Colleague 2: I don’t mean to offend you. Just that you don’t look like an Iyer.
Me: You know Tamizh > Iyer (applause)
Overzealous Colleague 2: That is not what I meant. You look like an Iyengaar.
Me: Ah, right!
Overzealous Colleague 2: I mean, I am an Iyengaar too.
Me: Of course. Amma tells me, it is Tamaraparani River that makes people from Tirunelveli look non Iyer.
Overzealous Colleague 2: Okay. I hope you are not offended. I only meant. Just. Nothing.
Me: Free aa vidu. (Tirunelveli ke Alwaa aa, Dhatt!)
I so fit in here, I mean you can run, deny and what not - but never hide. I am lovin’ it.
I shall wait for twenty-year old to grow up.
Enthusiastic Twenty Year Old Payyan: My akka is just back from USA. She was in Florida, she has got chocolates. I will open it later.
Me: Huh
10:30 am
Me: (To nobody in particular) I am hungry
Enthusiastic Twenty Year Old Payyan: My akka is back from Florida, I will be opening chocolates later.
Me: Grrr
So on..
At 1:30 pm, Chocolates are revealed – Ta-Da - BOUNTY
Enthusiastic Twenty Year Old Payyan: Don’t you love Bounty?
Me: (Idukku poyi ivlo scene aa?! The lovely Murugan Stores stocks ample numbers of it) I don’t like Bounty. It is too coconut(y).
Enthusiastic Twenty Year Old Payyan: Bounty is the best, it is just like kozhakatai. My akka always buys it for me.
Me: Aiyyoo.
**
Overzealous Colleague: Your brother is in Texas? Even my brother is there, studying at A&M University. He is into Advanced Mathematics.
Me: Ummm, how nice.
Overzealous Colleague: So where all in USA have you visited?
Me: Umm, I have never gone to any place North of Bangalore.
Overzealous Colleague: Bangalore is not in the North.
Me: See, I am from Tirunelveli. Even Madras is North for me. So...
Overzealous Colleague: You need to see the world, you know. Paavam nee.
**
Overzealous Colleague 2: You don’t look like a Tamilian.
Me: In what way, please explain.
Overzealous Colleague 2: I don’t mean to offend you. Just that you don’t look like an Iyer.
Me: You know Tamizh > Iyer (applause)
Overzealous Colleague 2: That is not what I meant. You look like an Iyengaar.
Me: Ah, right!
Overzealous Colleague 2: I mean, I am an Iyengaar too.
Me: Of course. Amma tells me, it is Tamaraparani River that makes people from Tirunelveli look non Iyer.
Overzealous Colleague 2: Okay. I hope you are not offended. I only meant. Just. Nothing.
Me: Free aa vidu. (Tirunelveli ke Alwaa aa, Dhatt!)
I so fit in here, I mean you can run, deny and what not - but never hide. I am lovin’ it.
I shall wait for twenty-year old to grow up.
Monday, June 4, 2007
In an Auto in Madras
Why do Tamizh boys fight so much? With each other? With Non Tamizh boys? With Tamizh girls?
Can somebody shed more light on this subject?
Anyway, in a few hours, I shall embark on my transition from student to worldly working woman. I am excited, nervous and without a helmet. So I will need to take an auto today.
But unlike most people, I love the autos in Madras. No problems there. I always have always had visions of a Rajni like auto-driver, who will not just take me from point A to point B, but will do so:
… in a super-fast manner
… hit some of those moronic Ford Ikon drivers on the road
… ensure that 29C doesn’t run over me
… and most importantly protect me from the wicked world that is floating around and just waiting to get me
The safest place to be in Madras, is inside an auto.
Back to work, if I survive, and don’t become one of them, I will be back with more accounts.
Yes, including my meetings with Iyengaar boys. One hopes they are more peace loving though.
I recommend that all Tamizh boys be given one week of free admission into the – Auto Payyans School of Fine Etiquette.
Can somebody shed more light on this subject?
Anyway, in a few hours, I shall embark on my transition from student to worldly working woman. I am excited, nervous and without a helmet. So I will need to take an auto today.
But unlike most people, I love the autos in Madras. No problems there. I always have always had visions of a Rajni like auto-driver, who will not just take me from point A to point B, but will do so:
… in a super-fast manner
… hit some of those moronic Ford Ikon drivers on the road
… ensure that 29C doesn’t run over me
… and most importantly protect me from the wicked world that is floating around and just waiting to get me
The safest place to be in Madras, is inside an auto.
Back to work, if I survive, and don’t become one of them, I will be back with more accounts.
Yes, including my meetings with Iyengaar boys. One hopes they are more peace loving though.
I recommend that all Tamizh boys be given one week of free admission into the – Auto Payyans School of Fine Etiquette.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Tamizh Penn - Quiz No. 1
Since the people who read this Blog seem to be nice enough to let me know what they feel about my posts and are far more articulate than I can ever hope to be, I thought that I should check with them on some questions that have troubled me the last few days.
Almost a week of Blogging and I have concluded that the world is truly a global village, and the men, no matter where from, seem to be the same.
So, I wish to ask the women readers of this Blog, who seem to be so much nicer and far more intelligent, the following:
Who is likely to feel the most brave when he is anonymous?
1) Disproportionate amount of Foreign Direct Investment into the state
2) The very very unattractive Tamizh women
3) The auto drivers of Chennai
4) Our fantastic sense of self perception
And while we are it, can somebody tell me, why does nobody complain about unattractive Tamizh men as a reason to dislike the place?
Can one therefore derive that Tamizh Payyans are very studmuffin like? Should we not use that to our advantage then? We must export our men, out of Tamizhland. It has three advantages the way I see it:
a) Tamizhland will be a better place by getting rid of` them. The women will either be much happier or begin to appreciate the men more (parting ~ heart fonder; also ditto for men). Win:Win either way.
b) The rest of non Tamizhland will also convert to Tamizh by virtue of being patriarchal societies
c) The lack of Tamizh boys will lead to large scale Tamizh women-Non Tamizh men pro-creation. The strength of the Tamizh woman gene will ensure that we produce children who are as ugly as we are. The world will be uniformly unattractive in a Tamizh way. World peace huh?
What fun no?
By the way, a quick clarification seems to be in order. I will be damned if I need to feel apologetic about my being an Iyer, a Brahmin, of Bharadwaja Gothram, being from Thirunelveli and of course being a T Nagarwaasi. You can choose to agree, disagree, agree to disagree, disagree to agree or whatever else works for you. But please do not – WHINE.
And all of those things are my currency for Tamizhness, and I shall feel superior about it also. If you don’t feel superior about your Tamizhness, nobody else can do it for you on your behalf.
Also, my request to some of the people who commented, please don’t refer to me as “dee/di”. Even amma never says that to me. Thank You.
Almost a week of Blogging and I have concluded that the world is truly a global village, and the men, no matter where from, seem to be the same.
So, I wish to ask the women readers of this Blog, who seem to be so much nicer and far more intelligent, the following:
Who is likely to feel the most brave when he is anonymous?
a) Iyengaar BoysWho is likely to be the most moronic of all these boys when they leave a comment?
b) Nadar Boys
c) Non Bharadwaja Iyer Boys
d) Other Non Brahmin Tamizh Boys
e) North Indian Boys
a) Iyengaar BoysAnd my third question is open to all Tamizh people. Which of these are the most likely reasons for the non Tamizh people to have as a complaint against Tamizhland:
b) Nadar Boys
c) Non Bharadwaja Iyer Boys
d) Other Non Brahmin Tamizh Boys
e) North Indian BoysBrahmin Tamizh Boys
1) Disproportionate amount of Foreign Direct Investment into the state
2) The very very unattractive Tamizh women
3) The auto drivers of Chennai
4) Our fantastic sense of self perception
And while we are it, can somebody tell me, why does nobody complain about unattractive Tamizh men as a reason to dislike the place?
Can one therefore derive that Tamizh Payyans are very studmuffin like? Should we not use that to our advantage then? We must export our men, out of Tamizhland. It has three advantages the way I see it:
a) Tamizhland will be a better place by getting rid of` them. The women will either be much happier or begin to appreciate the men more (parting ~ heart fonder; also ditto for men). Win:Win either way.
b) The rest of non Tamizhland will also convert to Tamizh by virtue of being patriarchal societies
c) The lack of Tamizh boys will lead to large scale Tamizh women-Non Tamizh men pro-creation. The strength of the Tamizh woman gene will ensure that we produce children who are as ugly as we are. The world will be uniformly unattractive in a Tamizh way. World peace huh?
What fun no?
By the way, a quick clarification seems to be in order. I will be damned if I need to feel apologetic about my being an Iyer, a Brahmin, of Bharadwaja Gothram, being from Thirunelveli and of course being a T Nagarwaasi. You can choose to agree, disagree, agree to disagree, disagree to agree or whatever else works for you. But please do not – WHINE.
And all of those things are my currency for Tamizhness, and I shall feel superior about it also. If you don’t feel superior about your Tamizhness, nobody else can do it for you on your behalf.
Also, my request to some of the people who commented, please don’t refer to me as “dee/di”. Even amma never says that to me. Thank You.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Tamizh Boys
One of the reasons why being a Tamizh Penn sucks, is to do with the boys that we meet. They are usually – loud, crass and boring. Make that, very boring.
I am twenty-three. Rather old for these times that we live in. And yet, I have not met a single nice Tamizh boy.
So I went to a school that had only the Padipps (aspiring to study in obscure Engineering colleges) type boys. And the only occasion when one of them spoke to me was when they wanted to borrow my Physics notes. So, I started taking very neat and copious notes and interspersed them with some clever doodling. I would religiously copy out elaborate kollam patterns. I was sixteen then and wanted to seem non-threatening to the boys. Only an Asal Tamizh Penn would do that. As luck would have it, no boy really asked for my notes after that and the only thing which happened was amma had to give me ten rupees to buy a new notebook every other week. I have still kept the notebooks. Will give them to my daughter.
Passed out of school and in a cruel twist of fate ended up in all girls’ college, the one with kind, helpful sisters committed to turning us into fine ladies. The only Tamizh boys one met were during the IIT-M festivals. But there were too many complexities there. For one, there was the possibility of running into Gults, who were to be strictly avoided. And still worse, some North Indian chap. Nope those would not do. And besides, as a general rule, all things IIT ought to be avoided. Especially Tamizh men. Have you seen how socially challenged and at the same time moronic they are? My brother is one of those and therefore I must rest my case on that.
In my post-graduate course, there are very few Tamizh boys. Tamizh boys don’t want to become journalists. If they do, then they don’t come to my college.
There are a number of nice North Indian boys I have met though. I suspect that a couple of them are fond of me even. After all, I am sufficiently exotic, brown skinned, pretend to read important books and so fetchingly shy. Yes, there is this rather interesting guy in college who has a teeny-weeny crush on me even.
But even though Tamizh Payyans are boring and annoying, I can’t imagine spending anytime with a person who cannot understand the joys of drinking Kumbakonam Kaapi, trying to get tickets for Thalaiva’s padam before anyone else can and who cannot appreciate the fact that Kamal Hassan can beat Amitabh Whatizname any day when it comes to acting prowess. Designer stubble does not a great actor make.
And so, much as one hates them, Tamizh boys cannot be ignored. After all, I cannot mess with my Asal Tamil Penn identity can I?
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