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?”

Daya ko Bulao

So one weekend we decided to have a Dopy meet. Given that Dopy Standard Time has been known to linger on for quite some time and has never been a thing to be proud of, I was happily sitting and watching a Woody Allen movie when Crazy Photographer barged in hoping that others had gotten rid of DST.

But that was not to be. We started the meet 2 hours late and in the sweltering heat decided that the best place to go and plonk would be my pad. And there in typical Dopy Style I was introduced to C.I.D. I thought to myself how could I have lived without understanding how awesome this serial was. And I am prone to watching what Echha is doing at her new household.

Anyway, CID was so awesome I completely forgot that we were supposed to engage in Dopy gossip. It was of course sad that CP had no new gossip and all the new gossip was about people who I had never met.

But Daya, he was awesome. If only Hollywood knew what power was there in a strong one handed slap, they would never have hankered over Weapons of Mass Destruction. Who needs a Neo when Daya is there? One slap to the Architect and he would have let all the humans free. But what if Daya was an illusion too? Or worse an agent?

Anyway, the fact is even today if I look back, I can see myself saying to the kids who came down, “In you, Dopyness is strong. In Jaipur, where everyone comes to see forts, want to go to Mcdonadl’s your seniors did.” So we watched CID back to back till the visiting Dopyite called us to Theos. And then there was food and pastries and I don’t remember much…

The First Drops

It came. Like the soothing palm of mom when I was a child, it came to take away my worries. For the last couple of months, I have been restless, trying to find out answers to questions I never thought existed. Too many things were changing suddenly and too fast. Mumbai was draining my life blood. My sleep had averaged to about 5 hours and that too disturbed by worrisome, listless, meaningless thoughts.

For the first time in life I had nothing to dream about.

The world around me was changing and yet nothing changed. The only thing that kept me going was my work. I still loved it, it still gave me the challenges to look forward to on a Monday morning and I realized that like most working professionals I was becoming prone to having points of view. All my working life (sounds grand, doesn’t it?) I have maintained that there are multiple points of view and all of them must originate from the consumer. It was effortless in the beginning but today the lessons learnt from nearly two years are showing up as “I believe”.

The thing I kept telling myself, unless you are the TG, what you believe matters nothing in the end. You can just be a humble servant of the consumer and support her point of view and appreciate that she has the right to change any moment. You take a stand for her, not for anyone or anything else.

I know I am not making sense, but life wasn’t making sense either. India was acting like the ladies of the night giving promises of a fantastic future but most of them a mirage. The answers were not to be found. And if your life is full of mirages and false hopes, it slowly resembles a desert.

The soul was parched, thirsty for some succour. And then like many wasted memories of the past, I found myself in a hot and dry Bangalore, unlike the one of my youth. But as I was leaving the city the skies turned black and the first drops of rain fell on the ground. The earth did not respond. It hissed and spat out the fumes. It hated the gumption that things could change, that the Sun God can be challenged.

The flight took me to Hyderabad and the rains followed me there. But as I rushed around the city understanding what was happening in the markets, I missed it. It was as if a friend had held out a hand and I was too busy even to notice it. I rushed to Chennai.

The work I had was done around 10 in the night. I was travelling back to the city and then it came. First a few big drops and then the torrents. The earth protested and squirmed as if some uncalled for lover had touched her. She made her displeasure clear. The asphalted roads, like snakes on her body protested loudly. But the first rains had come and like an unstoppable emotion it swept the city off its feet. Lights began to go out in localities, I reached my guest house in complete darkness and it rained. The earth quenched her thirst, remembering once again what it meant to be loved.

Bent by worries that exist only in the mind I fell on my bed and slept like a child. Outside I could hear the pitter-patter of the rain drops. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter it went on like one of those Enid Blyton novels where children get excited by a Bacon and Eggs breakfast. The rains had come to tell me that life was beautiful and there was someone to take care of me. A song from “The Prince of Egypt” kept playing in my mind. I could not recollect the words but the tunes sent me to sleep.

The first drops had fallen. Soon, one day the monsoon would arrive. People would curse the rains as it would make traffic on the Mumbai streets unbearable. But I would not complain. I would sing, “Raindrops keep falling on my head”.

I slept, like I had not slept for ages and when I woke up to a brand new day, the heart sang out for the first time in ages. The soul was soothed. The Greater Power above had saved it once again.

And even though I can’t sing to save my life, “Singing in the rain, I’m singing in the rain. What a glorious day and I’m happy again.”

Pets, Food, Movies

Bearded Goon took me to learn “How to Train Your Dragon” and memories just rushed in. I never had a pet as a kid. Probably because no one thought I was capable enough to handle one but I would like to believe that it was because of my eclectic choice of pets. I was clear that I needed a pet. And like most things in my life I had also short listed my choice of pets. I either wanted a baby dragon or a baby elephant. Given that my sister is evil, she kept in hope saying that the lizards in the house might just turn into dragons one day. You see, for a really small kid, genetical engineering is a tough thing to comprehend. And well, elephants, sigh… That’s a story for another night.

Anyway, that’s the only reason why I loved the movie. Great animation, simple story, a long forgotten love for machines, caramel popcorn, all made it extremely magical. It ended with a beautiful thought – “We may have nothing and a very had life, but we have dragons as pets.”

Coming back to other things I loved as a child, if there was ever anything I loved more than books, it must have been food. And thus, I have decided I will make “Julie and Julia” a compulsory viewing for people who loved Food. A simple story but the way love for Food is celebrated in the movie is just out of this world. Amongst recent movies, the only other place I found such exotic display of culinary delights was in It’s Complicated. Meryl Streep beautifully created the joy of cooking. And yeah, I cooked last Sunday inspired by it.

Well Done Abba is a movie which could never have been a blockbuster but if you love a good story, if you love the way great directors have an eye for details, go and get a DVD for yourself. It tells you life is still simple, systems are corrupt but can be challenged, not all men in this world have learnt to accept bribes and that still in the heartlands of India a strong police force can evoke fear amongst the minds of the wrong doers.

Green Zone and Hurt Locker both disappoint. Guess any more movies on Iraq and War and WMDs and audiences will just retire hurt. After all, we can take night after night of IPL, but night after night of War movies. There has to be a limit.

Fortunately, one could watch Jane Kahan se Aayi Hain to just forget that such things exist and could just leave the brains behind and believe in a movie about love across planets. Not a bad movie I must admit.

Or one could watch Shutter Island and marvel at the unlimited horrors that the mind can create. Absolute Classic. Old Dogs however disappoint. You can’t take Robin Williams and John Travolta and dish out a half baked cake. That’s just unfair.

But coming back to pets and food, tonight I shall dream about Dragons and Desserts. It should be a good night.

The Birth of Edward

Henry bid goodbye to his friends. Good men all of them. They have been worried about him for sometime now. He knew they were concerned but he himself could not put his finger onto what was wrong with him. There have been strange dreams. He had been alive in those dreams, alive in a different way. Sometimes his hand inadvertently moved to harder liquor than his standard ginger ale. He couldn’t for the love of God figure out why. Speaking of God, he was once a regular to the Church and yet recently the sermons irritated him.

Power, passion, glory once held no meaning for him. He was enamoured with the seeking of knowledge but now his gait was changing. He desired attention, he desired prominence. Somewhere things were no longer the same. He tossed and turned in his bed wondering where life was leading him. He no longer knew. Yet it felt exhilarating. There was something intoxicating in dabbling with the immoral. The succour received from the dark of the night filled him with an unknown pleasure. And even then everything felt like a dream, one from which there was no turning back.

The question was did he want to turn back?

He knew what was going on in the minds of his friends. They missed the innocent, almost child like Henry. Yes, he did too. But then, every child has to grow up one day? Don’t they? Oh, God, he was so confused. He loved the moments when he could retaliate, give it back. He felt miserable later as he had always believed that it was such a waste of energy but something pushed him to do it. He was also being lately unable to leave behind emotions while dealing with people. He was no longer detached from the people around him. Earlier he felt at peace with himself, these days he left alive in an animal sort of way.

He waved goodbye to his friends. As he brushed his teeth, he saw Edward for the first time. It was a fleeting glance but he could never forget that face staring back at him from the mirror.

That night, they say Edward was born.

(But stories can change. New ages require new endings and we shall wait for ours)

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.

The Dada in Every Bengali

Before you worry, this post is not about Ganguly, neither is it about the “dadas” of Mumbai. This is about the dada who resides in the heart of every Bengali.

Dada is a nice person. He typically works in one of the offices around Esplanade. But before that there are important things he must attend to. In the morning, he goes to Manicktala market to buy the fish and on his way back he discusses the preparations for the upcoming Durga Puja, whatever time of the year it might be with the youth of the locality, who have just got admission to Presidency. He is back home by 7 and after a nice bath he walks out of his house to take stock of what’s happening in his ‘para’ (locality). Everyone knows him and likes him because if there is ever an issue, you just need to call Dada. He is apolitical, yet both Reds and Greens speak highly of Dada as he can get the locals to organize a cultural program in less than a week.

Dada lives mostly in North Calcutta, yet unsullied by the South and still having his childhood dreams of socialism intact. He shudders about leaving Calcutta and is often upset by all his younger cousins taking up jobs in Bangalore.

Dada today is sad. His ‘para’ is now a conglomeration of housing societies. The houses have all but vanished. As North Calcutta slowly undergoes its inevitable change, Dada is also fading out. Today’s younger kids still go to Presidency but would rather be seen with their bikes in the narrow bylanes of North Calcutta. Dada is no longer respected by them. They think he is an old good for nothing buffoon.

The other day I was in Calcutta for a few hours and post the Consumer Visits, as I was going around the Hatibagan Market, I noticed a crazy traffic congestion. A car was stuck in one of those narrow bylanes of Hatibagan. Dada was no longer there to help. The kids had parked their bikes on both sides of the road and given their attitude and behaviour few dared to speak to them.

The driver was an old man, looking helpless, there were a couple of kids in the backseat, desperate to reach home, tired after a long day at school.

I am not used to seeing apathy in Calcutta. I tightened my bag around my shoulders, went ahead and started pushing the bikes out of the way. No one seemed to be bothered much. Suddenly, the owners of these bikes appeared from nowhere and demanded an explanation why their bikes were being removed. It did feel a little scary.

But suddenly, Dada arrived. Not one, or two but a whole lot of them. Suddenly Dada remembered that years ago, he dictated the decorum in his para, not some hooligans. The bikers removed the bikes, the kids went home and I went on my way chuckling.

Dada still lives, maybe not for very long but then who knows.