Why Am I Scared of Chennai?

If there is one city I am slightly scared of it is Chennai. First of all this is one city where I am completely dependent on others. I don’t get the language. People typically refuse to understand what I am saying and worse of all, there is no use of recording my researches as I will never be able to understand what they mean. That does make me sharper when I listen to the translators though.

The worse part of doing research in Chennai is perhaps sitting at a group with a translator where people talk for approximately 15 minutes and then my translator looks at me and says, “Oh they like soaps of SNDU.” (In case you have forgotten I work for SNDU, Sabun, Nakhun and Datun Unlimited). So why do they like it? 15 minutes more and a lot of “ amma” and “seri seri” later I am told again, “good product”. Well, I may be exaggerating a bit but frankly, when I am in Karnataka or in Andhra, the discussions and the translations take approximately the same times. But in Chennai? Never. In that way, the city is a lot like Calcutta. Like Bongs, Tam women talk a lot and I am kept gasping. Anyway Mrs. Sen and I speak the same language and though she keeps telling me to get married, I can understand what she is saying. Anyway, back to Chennai. After the first few months at my work, I understood the importance of verbal banters with translators. That’s the only way to understand what the Mylapore Mamee is talking about. “Amma.”

Oh, the Mylapore Mamees! If there is one group of Indian women I would love to know all about, it must be them. The more I get to know them, the more awed I get. Such precision in their cooking, such adherence to their traditional ways of living is slowly fading out from the rest of our metros. Mylapore is so much like my North Calcutta, the one I miss so much, the one that is all but dead.

I also feel proud to be an engineer, if not by profession, but by qualification here. South of India is anyway the last refuge of engineering; North wouldn’t mind their children to go into Reality shows and host of interesting professions. East talks about IT and not the engineering variety, rather animation, West is finding a new love for entrepreneurship but the South! The Southern mothers are the last in India to decide that if I have a child, I must have an engineer.

My first visit to Chennai was as a student, landing in the city in the dead of the night, negotiating with an auto driver with me saying “anna, what da!” and he saying, “Illa illa” Then every other auto driver coming and saying “seri seri” and “long go”, while the sleepy Rana thinking that they are saying Sorry for asking such an exorbitant fare from us.

By the time we reached the competition, where I kept asking if he knew where to go and he kept nodding, all I could think of “Seri Seri”. After all I would like to believe I am a very agreeable person by nature.

The other thing that always scared me in Chennai was this intense scrutiny by people at the airport. I have a ritual at every airport I frequent. In Chennai, it is sitting on the massage chair for 5 minutes without a care about the world around me. But when the chair stops and straightens up and I open my eyes I see the world staring at me. Maybe it’s not Chennai but India that loves to stare. But then that happens in Chennai. I will miss S laughing every time this happened in the Chennai airport. I will miss travelling with her to random airports in the country in our common quest for the Holy Grail. I will miss a friend L

This time I saw Chennai in a new light. As soon as I entered the car, I realized that this city still loves its flowers. The bikers of Bangalore have all but killed the natural fragrance of the city, Hyderabad was never a flower child, but Chennai, Oh Chennai. In the evenings, the entire city is thick with the smells of flowers, the temples have their bells ringing and in some distance, beyond the honking of traffic, you can still hear the sounds of Tyagaraja Aradhana.

Chennai likes me, not the auto drivers maybe, but the normal people. They understand I am a lost visitor, I do not know the importance of Nalli Silks, but they appreciate that if I am in Chennai I will go to Murugan Idli Shop and the Saravana Bhawan and I will know the subtle differences between the sambhars in both the places.

Bangalore loves that I love its meals; Hyderabad appreciates my taste for Dum Biryani from Paradise over the normal, but Chennai, it hovers over me like a fussy mother hen ensuring that I don’t miss my idlis. (Well, no. The mother hen must still be the Andhra meal place in Bangalore where Halo and I used to go and have full meals at 17 rupees.)

After numerous visits to the city, I am probably no longer scared of Chennai. In fact, maybe one day I will live in Chennai as well and when you arrive in my house late one afternoon, will ask you, “Sore tingriya?”

Man vs. Nature

We looked up. It was achievable. The plan had gone awry. But we had done it millions of time. A small detour could not make us turn back. In any expedition, it’s the team that matters and I knew I was pulling down my partner.

It all started with the Fort. Standing up tall in the morning sunlight, it looked inviting. It reminded me of Rajputana. The Khetri Fort was once a second home. It was my SummerPalacewhere I used to take refuge in the cold but sunny winter afternoons.

The body had rusted with almost a year of misuse. It creaked with every step but then jungle trails were always easy. The unfortunate part was that the sense of tracking had died down in the concrete jungle. There was a point of time when I was one with Nature. I could sniff my way out like a wolf in the wilderness, a well nourished wolf hunting for prey.

This time, the route turned tricky. Somewhere, we lost the plot and missed the turn. Time was running out. The ascent was not even attempted.

And then it started - The climb to the top. The entire body started aching, safe till now in its sedentary lifestyle. But they always said, the mind is the centre of pain. You control the mind, you control pain. What they didn’t tell was that controlling the mind was a bloody tough thing to do.

We stopped, panting for breath. The summit was still far away. It was shameful. My first failed attempt to complete a trail. There were two options – to rest and go on or to turn back. But to rest would be to accept defeat anyway. The idea was to reach without a break.

We turned back. Defeated, dejected men bowed before Nature.

She was laughing.

Mountain of the Moon

Every Bengali kid who has been taught to read and love Bengali literature would have read the Book called Chander Pahar – The Mountain of the Moon. When I was a kid, I dreamt of going to the jungles of Africa and camping on the Mountain of the Moon. It spelt adventure for me. It meant mystery. It meant a life beyond the ordinary. The protagonist was not exactly my hero but he was the one who made me love the outdoors at an early childhood. It was this book that taught me that there was beauty even in the most dreaded surroundings. You only had to look for it.

Anyway, the point is Didi beat me to it. As I write, she called me to say that she is seeing the Mountain of the Moon through her hotel window. Well, maybe it’s just fair. She read the book before me. After all, it was her book.

Not wanting to be left behind, I decided to run off to the mountains. If not the Kilimanjaro ranges, I decided would make do with the Sahayadris. And there we were 11 of us travelling down the black asphalted road called the Mumbai Pune Expressway. The rains had come into Maharashtra and were filling up the mountains with new life. The cycle of life was safe for one more year. These days you can never be sure when the nuclear holocaust could strike. And of course, men are no better. We have poisoned the earth enough.

11 people, 2 cars, an unexplored terrain. The best thing about big groups is that they act as a living organism. Most of the time it is a single celled entity with common goals but suddenly the amoeba splits and each part goes off on their own ways, only to reunite again later. And that perhaps is the best way to operate. You can spend time with yourself or with your group.

I picked up the camera. It had been a long time since I had done some serious photography, A had her D60 with her too and that helped. But as snobbish as I can be I continued to experiment with my humble P&S and knew that if you could compose the pictures well, things look differently.

For some reason I was awake the entire night. And as I sat outside for sometime. I could see the mountain changing its colour. From a sombre black to a melancholic grey to a golden smile and finally breaking out into a riot of green, the mountains had it all. My mountain of the moon.

The next morning was an experience of a different kind. I floated on a mountain river and felt myself carried off by the current to reach the ultimate final goal. To reach the destiny, the ocean of peace. The birds flew above me. The mountains played hide and seek.

And life seemed beautiful again.

PS: three of the most difficult pictures. The series is called Riot of Colours. 1. Green and Gray 2. Black and White. 3. Green in all its shades

PPS: Chander Pahar picture courtesy - Soshu

A Tale of Two Cities

Bangalore has been a favourite city of mine for a long time now. I have lived in that city for a considerable period of time and have wonderful memories of the same. This time however I went back, I felt sad and nostalgic and irritated at the state of a city that I love so much and that actually is the Brand that everyone in the West associates India with after Snake Charmers, The Taj Mahal and Fakirs. The Bangalore Story is the Story of India, the Story of our Silicon Valley in the once sleepy city.

This time I went back to a city that has perhaps worsened in the past year. There is not yet any visible solution to the traffic menace. The autos are as rash as ever with no one with enough political will to control them. My favourite area in the city CMH Road now wears a completely deserted and desolate look. Indiscriminate shops have mushroomed in Indiranagar destroying one of the most beautiful residential areas I have seen in India. On the Ring Road, malls after malls are coming up without any proper approach roads being built. Perhaps I am too harsh but then I have always felt that one should be the biggest critic of the person one loves most.

And what’s wrong with the city planners? Why on earth can’t they keep both the airports running? The new Airport is almost in Chennai. It takes two and a half hours minimum to reach anywhere in the city and if they do not expand the capacity of the airport soon, the old ailment of long queues will continue to haunt all the early morning travellers who wake up at 3 in the morning to reach Delhi or Mumbai at a humanly acceptable hour. Did the authorities forget that if you want an airport to be considered amongst the best, you should try to make it hassle free? To come, work in the Bangalore market and travel out the same night is next to impossible if you decide to be rigourous in your execution and true to your job.

High points of the visit – Three jokers of yesteryear decided to sport a French beard at the same time. A friend happily settled and content with the lemonade life has given him. Another friend making me bear the brunt of his indigestible but utterly lovable PJs. A bro asking another bro why didn’t they have anything to say to each other anymore?

Hyderabad has been an enigma since 2001. In fact, when I was going through my Star Wars phase, I would look into the broken mirrors of the infamous Pilani Hostel Bathrooms and nod and say to myself, “The gult-ism is strong in this one.” Telugu was a language I fell in love with and after Bengali and Maithili I consider it the sweetest language in India. Hyderabadi too had its own special significance. As much as I loved Allahabadi or Lucknowi Hindi, Hyderabadi had its own charm. It was so very earthy compared to the natural Tehzeeb of UP.

This was my first trip to Hyd after the whirlwind trip a long time back for a friend’s marriage. I still love Prasad’s and Hussain Sagar Lake. It would be a nice place to go for a morning walk with Rover, my Golden retriever. But then, that might just be a figment of my imagination as Rover is. What’s the harm in dreaming anyway? My work took me to different parts of the city and I loved to be finally be in the city that I consider the birthplace of Modern Trade in India. If ever, we have a Sam Walton story being scripted in India, the seeds of that story would have been planted in Hyd. You find a Modern Trade outlet in almost every nook and corner of the city, but none of them seem to be able to differentiate themselves.

I journeyed a dark road alone at night feeling the darkness close in on me with only the lights of the sole headlight of my auto guiding me. I found myself lost in the by-lanes of Begumpet and in the crowd at Banjara Hills.

Hyd impressed me but I also realized why it will not be a Bangalore unless it changes itself. Just like Calcutta, Hyd is a laid back city. Things take their own sweet time. I have seen the grit and determination and diligence of the Telugu Race and yet, that zeal was missing from Hyd. Maybe, it’s becoming cosmopolitan and imbibing all that makes a cosmopolitan city fail to live up to the expectations it has created. Maybe, it’s just the Mumbaikar talking from within me. I think Hyd is a city that is finding it difficult to come to terms with the rapid pace of modernization. While Delhi has defined it, Mumbai has embraced it and Calcutta has accepted it, Hyd is still trying to grapple with the issue.

The flyovers are great, the pedestrian amenities are not. There is a clear disregard to traffic rules and simple road etiquette. The autos do not bother to take turns anywhere, even the cars follow their example at times. Speaking of etiquette, all through my life I considered Delhi to be the ‘horniest’ city in India. Hyd can give Delhi a run for its money. Everyone just honks. A 15 minute drive near the City Centre at Banjara Hills can give you the worst headache of your life. The airport thankfully is at an acceptable distance and has good approach roads. And the airport is beautiful. It’s undoubtedly one of the best I have seen and I really admire the work that has gone behind the planning and execution.

High Points of the Visit – It works only 97% of the times. Would you feel afraid to go back alone? I thought you would have at least been dressed differently. It was always written on your face, Banjo.

Read this sometime back, don’t remember where - No Snowflake in an avalanche feels responsible.......

Aati Kya Khandala

Ever since Aamir Khan and Rani Mukherjee immortalized Khandala, I have had this strange urge to go there. The sad part is I had no idea where it was. Khandala is not a place which you search and go to. You just pack your bags and reach there. At least that’s what I thought. One weekend, after getting bugged with Life, Universe and Everything in between I decided that it was time I moved out of Mumbai. It had been a long time since I had trekked or generally back packed. So in comes the 2^nd greatest travel planner I have known in my life and he decides that we should hit Lonavla. Now for all those who doesn’t know the claim to fame of Lonavla, it’s all about fudges and chikis. But more about that later.

After waking up on a lazy Saturday morning, we reached Dadar and picked the first bus that was available. It dropped us off at a highway and the helper said, “Lonavla bas saamne hi hain.” We decided to walk it down and to our great surprise found that we had got off at Khandala. Imagine; you have been living so close to a dream travel destination and you had no idea about it. While this got us all excited we also realized that Lonavla was still some 4 kms away. To make a long story short, we reached Lonavla and after dumping our bags we set off on exploring the mountains. The beauty of the Ghats and also of Konkan perhaps is best seen in the monsoons. It was raining all throughout yet no one bothered much about it. I guess we all realized that the greenery we saw all around us was a result of the rains that kissed the mountain slopes and gave rise to its numerous waterfalls. Also you should not miss the numerous lakes of Lonavla like the Tunagrli Lake, The Valvan Dam and The Lonavla Lake.

We all have some point of time in our lives have realized that it’s beautiful to just stand on top of a cliff, look down and believe that one day you too can fly, as you slowly soak in the white streams cutting through the lush green mountain slopes. Lonavla has its own share of Shooting Points, Duke’s Nose, Tiger’s Leap and other places where you stand with your girlfriend or your entire extended family and pose for photographs to show back home. And yes, it also has its fair share of spots where you can look philosophical and click your next orkut snap. Interestingly, this is one Hilly region where I did not find a suicide point. I guess it’s just too beautiful to go ahead and do something as dumb as killing yourself.

I believe that we were pretty close to Amby Valley where once Sahara had hoped that the rich and the famous would flock to. But unfortunately that was not to be and I feel that’s where the great Dance of Democracy that our country witnesses every five years (or even earlier at times) comes into play. It’s a bit of convoluted logic but I really believe that exclusivity in this country will always have a tough road to cover. The power of a billion dreams is too great to allow someone to closet oneself in one corner of the country. But this power has its downsides too. Classic example in Lonavla would be the Bhushi Dam. It’s a beautiful dam but completely spoilt by drunken men dancing topless under the waterfall, groups from Mumbai and Pune singing loudly and disturbing the peace and all in all making a ruckus in what could have been one of the most pristine places on our dying planet.

I really feel sorry for people who go on trips and sit in hotel rooms all day long to consume alcohol and get drunk. But worse than those are the losers who come out after their drinks and decide that they are superheroes and create a safety hazard for themselves and everyone around them, not to mention that they destroy the silence of the mountains. I am not being a puritan here but it becomes extremely irritating at times. Where have all the quiet philosophical drunkards gone?

Luckily for us our auto driver told us about the existence of another waterfall nearby. Given its tough approach roads along the mountain slopes, this waterfall is not visited by the general crowd. And thank The Heavens for that. We just sat there, oblivious to the world around us, to the world that we had left behind for a couple of days to escape into the heart of nature. I don’t know how the Liril Girl did it, but standing under a waterfall is actually a tough task. If the flow is rapid, the water can actually hurt.

Set had booked an awesome resort for us with a beautiful view of Lonavla from our window. At night we kept on reminiscing about ‘the good old days’ (the usual) and as expected everyone refused to wake up in the early morning. Only VJ and I walked down the roads to the temple nearby to click a few photographs. By the time we were back, it was time to get ready to leave. But we had one plan left. Khandala. So we went off to Khandala in the morning just to tell everyone that we had lived the “Aati Kya Khandala:” dream. Any day I’ll prefer Lonavla over Khandala. The magic is just not there in the slopes of Khandala, at least not without a guide constantly telling tourists nearby, “Wo dekhiye, wo Shahrukh ka Bangla tha.”.

All Bongs would know about the famous Maganlal Meghraj. Maganlal is present in Lonavla too. He’s the name that ninety percent of the chiki shops brandish. Being against a monopoly of any sort, we got chikis from one of the Maganlal franchisees, A1 Chiki and Purohit’s chikis. To my easily satisfied palate all of them tasted brilliant.

It was good to run away and I am glad that I clicked - With a Good camera - After a long long time. I’m happy – that’s all I can say.

Home is where the heart is

and who says heart can't be happily be torn between many. The India trip is going on well. It's just that the writing about it is not happening. I do realize how much an uninterrupted broadband service and a working keyboard mean to me. I might have become dependent on them but given the fact that I still survive without them makes me slightly hopeful.

But it'd be better if the customer care service of broadband connection providers were a little more technologically advanced than I am. And given my prowess that's not asking much.

Till date I have tried to keep most of the promises I have made, maybe even years later when the persons themselves have forgotten. And I shall therefore keep my promise. I shall write someday. Imagine the ordeals of a guy cut off from the rest of the world for six years, safe in his academic shell and then he's exposed to the vibrancy of life in India. It takes time to put the million colours such as them on paper.