Dedication

"A very good morning to my fellow students and esteemed members of the staff. My topic for today is dedication. The dictionary says dedication is..."

Thus would begin nine out of ten speeches in our school assembly. But y'all know that we do things differently around here. And also, dedication is not the topic of this post either. Well, not that dedication, at least. I need to get something off my chest and here is where I usually do it. Specifically, I'm here to rant against a clear and present danger. A growing menace that is happening somewhere even as I write this.

Picture this:

A terrible compere, complete with a pasted plastic smile, hands repeating artificial gestures and slurred Tamil pronunciation. Someone who has possibly gotten this assignment based solely on her relationship with the programming head or someone important in the channel. I mean, this is non-primetime TV compering that we're discussing here and it is not an acquirable skill and definitely not an art. Her ability(?) is to engage in phone conversations with complete strangers who are on the line because, um, they don't have a life? (The ones that go 'naan aaru varushama try pannren, innikki dhaan madam kedachudhu' and rush to introduce to the world their extended family.) And play songs that they request. Not a bad way to make money, mind you. After all there are all these morons out there, trying earnestly to get their time under the sun and an appropriate number of such plasticomperes out there, trying to cash in, thanks to Pepsi Uma.

My issue is not so much with trying to resuscitate an outdated idea of calling in for a song to die a respectable death. neyar viruppam (Listeners choice) on Vividhbharathi, a program wherein Arakkonam Prabha, Jyothi, Suresh and Kaveripakkam Raja and Gopi (made up or real) sent in their respective requests for a particular song that was played, had some relevance given the times. The call-in programs on TV in the day and age of internet, ipod and youtube are as appropriate as this:

(Image courtesy: www.wired.com)

But the marketing gurus today see some more juice to be squeezed out of this and so be it. My real problem is with this thing that is called dedication of the song. After the customary gushing, pointless banter and the song selection between Ms. Plasticompere and Mr. I've-time-to-kill comes the killer question:

"Sooberana song choose pannirukkeenga. sollunga Sekar, indha song-a yarukku dedicate panna aasa padreenga?" ("Who do you like to dedicate this song to?") I cringe.

"En friend Babu-kku indha saanga dedicate pannren madam." Sekar, without skipping a beat, announces to the rest of the world that his friendship with Babu is somehow captured in its entirety by a romantic number.

Ilayaraja, Vali and ManiRathnam combine their intellect to come up with a song that Mr. Sekar feels is a right choice to dedicate to Mr. Babu. Is there a more ideal example for the "kadai thengaya eduthu vazhi pillayar-ku odaikkardhu" proverb? Or, more appropriately, as Goundamani would put it, "Dei naaye nee enna da panna?" (English: Never mind, it ain't gonna sound half as funny.)

Song dedication is the TV equivalent of a hallmark card and should be stopped. At once. Sekar might as well say "I'm capable of nothing myself. And that is perhaps why I have the time to dial a number a million times to request for this song and dedicate it to you." Even an off-key rendition of the same song for a friend (in private space) amounts to some sort of dedication. But this? No.

Are my nerves, frayed by Sekar and plastic queen, allowed to rest when the song finally comes on? No. That is when the SMS messages start getting displayed at the bottom of the screen in a marquee. TV's answer to twitter. It is 2300 hrs and the messages are coming in thick and fast:

Sai, overhwhelmed by love, declares "Hai Kavi, i luv u da"

Naser, ever alert to the time of the night goes, "Farhana, gud nite"

"Hema, how r u?" asks Suresh, in need of urgent information regarding the well being of his sweetheart.

M/s. Sai, Naser and Suresh, I speak on behalf of most of TamilNadu when I say, "Shut the beep up! And good night!"

Somebody had to say it out aloud

Let's face it. Bangladesh is an ordinary team. Everybody knows that. From Shakib Al Hasan to Jamie Siddons to the most offended Bong cricket fan and journalist. Enough of the politically correct answers that get bandied about like "We respect the opponents" or "They can be a strong team at home" etc. that not only sound hollow but also make for bland reading. Much like the standard issue "...cordially solicit your august presence to grace the occasion of..." on wedding invitations that no one cares to read while all that is meant is "Wedding. Please come, bless and dine." May be not that nice looking, but that is what is truly meant.

The Bangladeshis have been (knocked) around long enough and if their results are anything to go by, what Sehwag told was the truth, as it were. Even if we lose this test, and as an Indian fan, I really hope we don't, what Sehwag has just said will remain true at least for the foreseeable future.

His press conferences, just like his innings, makes one look forward to something worthwhile.

Vignettes from a Chennai holiday

Mylai Karpagambal mess

There are somethings in life that should not change. One among them was the ambience, or character, of the Mylapore Karpagambal mess. The place, in its previous avatar, could be aptly described as a hole in the wall. Quite literally. Combined with its great food and a start studded customer list, the place was etched into Chennai-ites hearts. Complete with its unclean interiors and non-functional wash basins. On my regulation visit there this time, I walked right past a brightly lit facade where once stood the dour entrance. My brain simply refused to map this bright thing to the MKM image in store. In fact I crossed the road and scanned the row of buildings and not until I saw the nameboard did I completely believe that it was indeed MKM. Wearing bad make up. Thankfully, the food is still good, although I felt their avial could do with a lot more of vegetables. Service remains old world style too with unlimited access to the sambhar bucket and chutney containers. Yet, somehow it didn't feel right. But there is hope. The interiors, in spite of the face lift, are 'getting there' and it is only a matter of time before the wash basins get assistance from buckets of water and floating steel tumblers. I want my old MKM back, dammit!

Grand Master

While I was tucking into my 3rd keeravadai, doused with ample quantities of chutney and sambhar, Mr. and Mrs. Vishwanathan Anand and a few others parked themselves at the next table. Which explained why the MKM folks were guarding that table (in the A/C section, of course) like a fortress when we had entered. The greatest move that night was when we, as in self and Anand, got served our respective onion ravas by the same bare hand off the same plate. Shortly followed by our respective adais. But for his excellence in a certain board game, there was little that separated me and the master that night.(He he.) But the grandest master that night was inside the kitchen, making all the right moves!

Fast and curious

A long standing wish that got fulfilled - my maiden Shatabdi trip. Saved myself a lot of time, but the hype surrounding the quantity and quality of on-board food was completely deconstructed by Messrs. Southern Railways themselves. Maybe it was a one off day, but food quality was worse than the average pantry car stuff. I won't say that the portions were small but I could tuck into a full size home cooked lunch right after I got off the train. I'll take the never ending procession of snacks on the Brindavan/Lal Bagh anyday. Whatever the shortcomings on the culinary front, they were offset by the thrills provided by the lady seated across. Apparently, she was returning to Bangalore after attending a funeral in Chennai, the details of which she was passing on to various people by phone whenever she got enough signal strength. The exciting part was this: "I was told that it was the nurse that pulled the oxygen supply.... Hello? Hello? Hmmm" and hung up. Damn the network!

The great Indian (Railways) berth trick

Stranded in Mysore on the eve of 2010's first working day. Like the thousands around, absolutely need to be in Chennai the next morning. Except, our tickets are waitlisted - 179 and 180. In other words, not a chance. A few discrete phone calls are placed to 'someone with pull' and in an hour, we are informed that our seats will be confirmed and are asked to board coach S6. Fast and easy, maybe a tad too easy. Train pulls into the Bangalore station and we get ousted by unruly people only because they actually hold tickets for the seats that we were "assigned"! Just as we prepare to spend the night crouched by the wash basin (and the toilet), the TT provides us a berth in exchange for a smiling Gandhi. San'TT'a is late by a good week and is in black. But he did bear us gifts.

3 idiots

After getting the "You haven't watched 3 idiots?" with an exaggerated roll of eyes from everyone a hundred times, we bit the bait. Sathyam was sold out for Monday night 10:30. Chennai has changed! Nearby Devi had a few for 10:30 and the theater was nearly full. With the "family" crowd, mind you. There was even a mami in madisaar in attendance. I tell you, Chennai has changed! Verdict: A well marketed, over-hyped, ordinary Hindi movie. By the way, is it just me or is Kareena Kapoor really a man? Oh well. All in all, I must admit that it was good time pass, I mean the whole movie, theatre, night show package. P.S: I've now picked up Five point someone.

The Corporation

I had lost my birth certificate and needed one re-issued. After collecting the pre-requisite letter from the hospital, I proceeded to try my luck at the local corporation office around noon. Three people, a lady and two men, manned the counters, devoid of any indications of what was being dispensed there by way of services. Gingerly approaching the first guy, I asked if it was the right place for my requirements. No response. Absolutely none. He had the air of someone busy splitting atoms and I left him continue his task. The girl voluntarily pointed me to the third guy who bore an uncanny resemblance to a seal. He was visibly uncomfortable in his shirt, the middle button of which was threatening to strike work any minute. He entered my details into the system with pudgy fingers and began swivelling in his chair, staring intently at the monitor. Roughly three minutes had passed in this manner when I asked him if he could see my records. Without batting an eyelid, he goes, "I haven't told you anything yet." Quite a stunner of a reply, I'm sure you'll agree. After another minute elapsed, he broke his silence saying that my records weren't in the system. Solution: "Wait until 4 pm when either Panneer or Selvam will be here to let you know what needs to be done." At which point I turned around, drove home and boarded my flight back that night. I tell you, Chennai hasn't changed one bit!