A round up of cine lullabies

Here is a blast (that didn't happen) from the past. I wrote this sometime in 2012 when my son was about a year old. I can't remember why I didn't post it. But stumped to come up with something worthy of your time here, I unleash it now for your reading pleasure.

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Getting my son to go to sleep is a stiff challenge that we have to face every single night. At an hour considered late even by adults, he still has enough energy left to pursue athletic ambitions or exhibit his cellphone wizardry, which, at this point is limited to locking it up by keying in random pass codes. As responsible parents, we take a page out of nighttime parenting best practices and choose to unleash a series of lullabies. Conventional logic says that a well fed baby, when subjected to a soft number, sung in a melodious voice, doused in love and rendered with soul will be sound asleep in roughly 5 minutes or less. But we have, much to our annoyance, learned that our son is exempt from this logic.

Over the past few months, on every single night,  I have had the pleasure of listening to a handful of the most popular "evergreen" cine lullabies that have helped screen babies down the ages fall asleep by the second stanza thus paving the way for the parents to either abandon their dreams about a second kid or give vent to a range of their deep seated insecurities. But one thing has become very obvious: star parents can't get babies to sleep to save their lives. On that note, here is my take on the creme de la creme of the cine lullabies in no particular order.

Exhibit 1: chinna chinna kannanukku

Gemini Ganesan starts off with all the right intentions: putting that baby to sleep. But over the first two stanzas, he loses the plot and proceeds to try out multiple, high-octane acrobatic stunts on the kid and ends up looking like someone trying out for the vacancy of a trapeze artist with Gemini Circus. He tosses the baby in the air, swings him around, balances him on the legs, makes him run around with a walker. All the while egged on by two other older kids clapping like crazy and generally enjoying the proceedings with glee that makes watching them distinctly uncomfortable.

To his credit, the baby takes it all with a grin and manages not to throw up his entire dinner all over daddy. My son, on the other hand, would have kicked me where it hurts and fled the scene. Not before emptying the contents of his tummy all over me, of course. But back to the song. The poor baby, after that intense cardio workout, is now all pumped up and wide awake. With the adrenaline rush still coursing through his tiny veins, he is in the mood for some more physical activity and sleep is the last thing on his buzzing mind. But alas, by this time, daddy's intentions have gone haywire. Rather than focus on sleep related topics, he has instead chosen to vent his feelings about his ex-wife/love interest who, by the way, seems to be secretly stalking them from the opposite house. In a dramatic turn to the proceedings, the lyrics veer away from a lullaby to a melancholic ballad and GG begins to shine light on the darker depths of human nature. What better way to doze off than learning that your loving, doting mother is actually an evil woman with a stone heart. Oh, and she is a pre-facebook stalker too.

I haven't watched how the post-lullaby scene plays out but here is my educated guess: Daddy is drowning his sorrows in a bottle of Jack Daniels that he simply can't put down. The two older kids have lulled themselves to sleep with the aid of questionable substances and are sprawled out on the couch while the baby is lying wide awake, plotting to crawl his way out of the hell that he is caught in and check himself into the nearest foster home. Good luck kid!

Exhibit 2: My bad: I don't remember this gem anymore! Will update. 

Everything that can possibly be said about Sivaji Ganesan, the unquestioned emperor of Tamil cinema, has already been said by learned folks. But if the legend was to pour himself a strong one and look back on his stellar career (this is a hypothetical situation, obviously, since he has passed away a good while back), the one role that he would have wanted to improve on would be that of the father singing to his infant kid. This particular role would be the sole chink in his armory. Allow me to explain it with the song.

SG, the daddy in this song appears to be fully equipped in all respects to tuck in the apple of his eye for a good night's sleep. He is wearing a night gown, singing a lullaby and smoking a cigarette. That's right. Big daddy'o has chosen to light up a death stick while putting his offspring to sleep. Nothing says good night better than a cloud of warm, tar laden, smelly, cigarette smoke blown right from daddy's wilting lungs. I'm not a medical expert. But doesn't smoking around an infant cause, again I'm leaning on questionable medical knowledge here, lung cancer?? If you are willing to entirely overlook SG billowing smoke into infant lungs (you totally should not, by the way) just what is daddy trying to do? It is clear, even to the most indifferent viewer, that he is trying to score with his own wife! By casting lascivious glances and mouthing lyrics full of innuendos at his wife, he is busy playing the ancient game of seduction. I suppose he can't hold off until the little one has gone to sleep.

Call me old fashioned but going to bed every night to the sight of your father (in a night gown) running after your mother with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth is perhaps the quickest way to a psychologically scarred future. Most of which will be spent in the cancer ward anyways.

Exhibit 3: chinna paappa

You've got to give it to the casting team for the coup they've pulled off in this number. While the other lullabies were trying to out do each other in casting the leading lady or gent in the role of a doting, loving parent, these guys brainstormed and came up with a radically different idea of a lullaby. The theme is simple: violence. Their daring interpretation assigns bedtime duties to a real badass villain. Their mantra for a good night's sleep is simple: fear. Nothing reassures an infant than looking into the fearsome face of R S Manohar, complete with a twirling mustache and the regulation bad-guy mole adorning his cheek. Why settle for sleep when you can slip into a coma instead? Sweet nightmares!

I haven't watched the movie, but based on how this song starts off, I'm guessing that Manohar, likely under the influence of a few pints of freshly brewed toddy, has just finished raining some blows on both his wife and the daughter. How else do you explain their swollen faces and tears? Having vented his drunken fury on the ladies of the house, he has calmed down enough to retire to the balcony to perhaps repent his doings. But it actually ends up looking like he is ready to pass out anytime. After throwing up all over the place maybe. The wife, besides getting her share of the beatings, now has the unenviable task of putting her equally beat up daughter to sleep. Full marks to the creative team for setting the perfect mood. Their recipe for a blissful night of sleep appears to be some old school beatings and the threat of more physical harm. I'm already yawning from just typing this. Must only work better on kids, I suppose.  

The lyrics seem to be adding insult to injury. Here is a girl that was roughed up by her own dad and look at what her mom who, mind you, was also beaten up, offers her by way of compensation: a silk shirt (to hide the scars?), a Chinese made toy or a balloon (Lesson: Hey, quit complaining! Chinese kids your age get beaten up by their parents and their shift supervisor!). Or a lesson in the ancient game of, get this, hide and seek. Nice try lady but what I think she needs is first aid and a few hours of counselling. On second thoughts, the lessons in hide and seek may actually come in handy should her rowdy daddy decide to get medieval on them again. 

Exhibit 4: chinna chinna roja poove

Technically this is not a lullaby as no one is trying to put a baby to sleep on screen. However, thanks to Ilayaraja and KJY, my son calms down whenever this song plays and hence this gets classified as a lullaby in our home. So just play along.

What sets this one apart from the rest is the way it dispenses some serious bed time lessons on life's realities.

Lesson #1: It is perfectly OK to phone stalk a girl. The song starts off with Sathyaraj placing a prank call. Expressing your love in person is so passe.
Lesson #2: Your dad will die an untimely death. About half way through the song, the doting biological father of the kid is, well, dead. Very reassuring.
Lesson #3: When you think life can't deal you a rougher hand, a very hairy and shirtless Sathyaraj will give you a bath. My retinas hurt every time I watch that scene.
Lesson #4: Child restraints and a driver for a car are optional. This is my personal favorite. The kid is seated without any restraints in an unmanned moving car. And Sathyaraj, who in my opinion, should have been manning the frickin' vehicle, or at least stop it from running away, is instead walking by the side with his hands in his pockets and a heaven-may-care expression on his face. I swear Google stole the idea of self-driving cars from this movie. Fazil beat you to this concept, suckas of Mountain View!

If you manage to fall asleep listening to this song, you are bound to wake up the next morning with the world's burden weighing on the shoulders, more grey hair on your head, a week's stubble on your face and with Sathyaraj for company.Let the good times begin!

Exhibit 5: malarndhum malaradha

No list on lullabies can be complete without doffing your hat to this home runner, the mother of 'em all. Sivaji Ganesan makes a reappearance in this list as the elder brother engaged in a telepathic lullaby session with his little (but equally big) sister. When Sivaji (this time without a cigarette!) and Savithri are vying with one another to sing their respective kids to sleep, what can possibly go wrong? Apparently, as we will see here, everything.

If the team had stopped with only the opening lines, I must admit, this would have been a great lullaby to put kids of all sizes and shapes to a deep sleep. But alas, greed got the better of the movie makers. In a perfect example of more-is-bad, they went on to make this whole song around those very lines and quickly spoiled it for everyone. Let's dive deep.

Brother and sister engage in this telepathic sob-fest trying to outdo one another, amidst copious tears, in extolling the finer aspects of their sibling love to their respective kids. Sweet. Repeat after me: Sleep = 2 parts tears + 1 part family problems and two XXL-sized parents trying to out-sob each other. 

Between the two kids, I must say the one at Savithri’s end has it relatively easy. His mother may be sad and in tears but is at least making a feeble attempt to put him to sleep. The other kid with Sivaji, unfortunately, has got the short end of the lullaby stick. On top of the stifling sorrow that is being whipped up around him, he has to put up with a creepy looking dad. Yes, for some reason Sivaji is sporting an extra thick eyebrow. I haven't watched this movie but perhaps he was playing a dacoit with a mid-life crisis? At one point towards the end of the song, the dad is lying spreadeagled on the floor yet busily singing while the kid is wide awake by his side with a "Now, where the hell did I put that bottle of novocaine?" expression on his face. Cute. 

Lullabies, by virtue of their slow cadence, often prove to be a good vehicle to convey sorrow. And the Tamil cine world has cashed in on it big time, perhaps to appeal to the female movie watching demographic. A note to the screen parents: If you are in a really bad mood, please wait till the kids fall asleep. On their own, I mean. Then either get on the phone with your love/ex/wife/sister/brother and sort out your relationship problems. Or if that isn't an option, simply retire to your study with a strong drink. Either ways, just leave the kids alone.

With that off my perfectly sculpted chest, I'm now off to sleep. 

The storm provides...*

An opportunity to introspect

When I was in college, I was secretly happy when all the IT and automobile industries made a beeline to Chennai. People come to Chennai. People make money. People want houses. And that river bed that has been dry for all these years looks tempting. And building luxury villas on the dried up lake bed doesn't seem to be that bad of an idea after all. After all, we're told that greed is good. An affordable house with all the latest amenities and an Italian or Spanish inspired name that is a ten-minute drive from all points in the city? Well, something had to give. It was a comforting thought that all these years of rampant, reckless "development" was a victim-less crime. Until now. While it is easy to point accusing fingers at the political system and bureaucracy, one must acknowledge that they were active facilitators. We the consumers must share our portion of the blame. The show of humanity was indeed heartwarming but we brought it upon ourselves. If we are willing to listen, there are lessons for everyone around. 

An opportunity for political change

Tamilnadu has always had a two-party system in place. It is not a bad thing per se. But the two parties happen to be DMK and ADMK: the mother of all double whammies. Together with the others in the political cirucs, they have taken turns in raping the state and Chennai has particularly borne the brunt. A political dispensation without these two parties has always been a pipe dream in the state. But with a population simmering in (sufficiently) righteous rage, a different regime seems like an idea whose time has come. Now, in my opinion as someone with only an emotional connect to the city, any party with the dreaded D-word is not worthy of a chance. And, in keeping with the flavor of the season, I will seek political asylum in Syria should the communists come to power in TN. Anyone game for a pot pourri coalition with the BJP in the driver's seat?

A chance to rethink emergency preparedness

We have seen it many times now. The Mumbai floods. The carnage on 26/11. Then the Kashmir floods. And now the Chennai deluge. The government machinery, once out of the initial paralysis, sputters to life and works in fits and starts relying on outdated, inadequate mechanisms. Right from clearing the glass shards at an accident site to taking on international terrorists, the government always turns up with a sword to a gunfight. There were 18 different phone numbers being published for the various departments for relief when hardly any phones were working. Call this the rant of the NRI but you don't really need much more than common sense in most cases to make a difference. I’m not smart enough to offer solutions here but I’m sure there are many there available with expertise and experience. If only someone will map the right people on to the right jobs, based on merit only.

Another chance to take potshots at the media

Talking about common sense, one cannot fail to mention the role of the media in a disaster of this scale. While the national media was busy discussing intolerance and Amir Khan's possible departure from India, the local media - a euphemism for the many parties' mouthpieces - was busy pushing their respective agendas over providing an accurate picture of the ground reality. Much of the time, the narrative won over actual news that was happening. If you shove a microphone into the face of someone standing in chest deep water and ask him about government relief work, I daresay the response will be fairly obvious. Similarly, flood montages with a particularly sorrowful Western classical violin composition for the background? Depending on which outlet you were tuned into, it was either a party out there or the apocalypse was here with very little content that really mattered. I’m willing to overlook all this (I’m just kidding) if the reporters at least spoke coherent, good Tamil. Often times the flood victims were more articulate and sounded reasonable. Sigh.

Opportunity for mirth

Kamal Hassan's first statement querying the whereabouts of our taxes, even if ill-timed, was valid. A pointed question that put the government of the day in a tighter situation than it already found itself in. The response was along predictable lines: quick, crass and unrefined. Just when you thought that it was time to move on came the volte face from Kamal distancing himself from his previous, alleged statement. As far as TN is concerned, politics and movies continue to be joined at the hip but sharing only half a spine between them. Leave it to our politicians and actors to up the humor quotient in the face of disaster.

 *The title is a line I stole from the Disney movie The Good Dinosaur. 

Chennai Super Kings and Queens

"Indira Nagar varuveengala?" I ask the driver of the Bajaj RE auto that I have just flagged. He's wearing a khaki shirt with no name badge and lungi to go with it and his auto's rear is blocking a lane nearly fully.

"Indira Nagar-ah saar? Indira Nagar- la enga?" Perhaps giving him the latitude and longitude coordinates would help. "You're not launching a precision missile strike. For heaven's sake Indira Nagar has 2 main roads and admittedly a maddening labyrinth of cross streets woven around them!" I mean to say but better judgement kicks in and I bite my tongue.

"Water tank pakkathula." I begin.

"Drop-ah return-ah saar?" he asks for a critical piece of clarification while he eyes my appearance, my attire, whether I have a laptop or an ID card or display any other tell tale signs of being associated with the IT industry, proceeds to weigh up the location and then starts arriving at an exorbitant fare.

"Drop." I persist, although I'm beginning to get impatient.

"Return empty-a varanam saar" he now stares into the middle distance as his brain starts the algorithm for what will be the walk-away fare for me.

"Busy area dhaanga. Kandippa savaari kedaikkum" Screw you man, I'll walk there if needed rather than engage you.

"Polaam saar" he agrees with a nod, smoothly slipping the auto into first gear confirming that his mind is now made up.

"Evvlonga?" I pop the all important question with all the no-nonsense, stiff nosed look that I can muster to set his expectations right.

"Two fifty kudunga saar" he spells out the first fare with enough sticker shock to knock the pants off a non-Chennai person. And he immediately launches into a mini lecture on crude oil prices, road traffic patterns in Chennai, El Nino effects, the state of the European economy...while the electronic fare meter sits behind him, neatly wrapped in a yellow cloth.

Fleecing auto drivers, the famous stench as the train nears Basin Bridge, bad weather and Dravidian politics. Yes we have the second longest beach and our cricketing crowds are knowledgeable, but there is really not much that the average Chennai-ite can be proud about daily life here to defend against the often unwarranted, nose-in-the-air attitude of the rest of India. Apathy, indifference and a healthy dose of disrespect to the fellow citizen are not mere characteristics of the Chennai-vasi. They are survival tactics honed over years to cope against the grind of daily life. Armed with a copy of the day's newspaper, bottomless cups of coffee and three mega serials, the typical Chennai person knows how to insulate himself from society and the other person.

Until the first week of December 2014. When the heavens opened up like never before.

Torrential rains and flooded localities are not new to Chennai. Every year brings with it problems from both extremes of water supply: floods and scarcity. But this time it really was different. Years of thumbing our noses to nature had caught up finally. The furious rain Gods cranked it up and Chennai had seen nothing like this before.

Special times call for special efforts and I am simply blown away by how Chennai has shaken off its usual cloak of coldness, rallied together as one city and stood together to start picking up the pieces of life blown to smithereens by a calamity of hitherto unknown scale. And the attitude shown by the common man in the face of bad city planning, lax preparedness, official mishandling of relief and absent leadership is nothing less than exemplary.

List of volunteers and their locations popped up everywhere. Critical information was being shared quickly. Relief and requirements got mapped with a passion. Volunteers, friends, family, strangers came together to rescue people and animals, set up community kitchens, distribute relief supplies, check on families, relay information and just extend a helping hand wherever needed. Technology was merely a facilitator but, make no mistake, it was humanity that shone bright under the grey skies. This disaster has brought a hidden, humane side to Chennai for everyone to see.

That it took a monster tragedy to bring this about is sad and perhaps normal service would resume once the flood recedes. But years from now, what will remain is how the people rose up as one when it really mattered. And for that, take a bow Madras! Proud of you folks!

The charge of the intolerance brigade

It is open season for intolerance in India. The way this word has been bandied around in the recent months, it seems like it is something readily tangible enough to be felt with the hand. Or smell it in the air at the very least. A dark cloud hanging over the land, casting a shadow of intolerance when it is not raining down hate and drowning an individual's freedom of expression.

Going by the orchestra, led from the front by the Delhi gangsters - the Gandhis and the rest of the congress whos-whos, fanned by an indulgent media, ably supported by the dazzling Mumbai Khans to the shrill accompaniment of the award returning intelligentsia, it truly does appear that India, the once shining beacon of tolerance, the fountainhead of secular ideals and the abode of freedom of expression is under attack from a particularly violent monster.

Intolerance has always been around. As a phenomenon, it is not unique to India nor has it gone up since the change in Government in 2014. I'm no historian but I'm willing to wager that there has been a steady, healthy level of intolerance maintained and handed down the ages. And that must be true to every nation, region and culture on God's earth. Opposition to the other voice/school of thought/faith is carved into the human DNA.

Intolerance is not an issue to me, the average, law abiding, tax paying, vote-casting citizen. I have been inured to it in one way or the other in most aspects of daily life. To the middle class, of which I'm an (Adhaar) card carrying member, freedom of expression has always come with the fear of retribution from the powers that be. Being at the receiving end of intolerance - be it at an individual or institutional scale - has been a way of life. The vast majority sheds no tears over stymied voices.

Who does this intolerant climate really affect?

Let's examine the shriller voices from the intolerance bandwagon that have willingly adopted the orphan child that intolerance till recently was. Ms. Nayantara "Nobody" Sehgal. A clutch of nondescript Sahitya Akademi awardees. Sharukh Khan. Amir Khan. And now P Chidambaram - our very own Einstein in a dhoti. In other words, the fear of intolerance and illiberalism has gripped only the cream of the cream. The top half a percent that are differently enraged compared to the common lot.

Assuming for argument's sake that this is indeed true - that India has indeed become what they say it has - this could percolate down and become an issue to me if the afflicted elite group had been the true voice of the masses, echoing our concerns, fears and aspirations loudly along the corridors of power. Correct me if I'm wrong but I don't remember any of the Khans or the Nayantara Sehgals taking up the cudgels on key issues at any point in time on a similar scale as now. Nor has this group criticized the government (of any flavor) on policies all these years as eloquently or loudly as they do so now. And please let us not talk about Satyamev Jayate here. Or PC's track record outside of spouting Thirukkurals during the presentation of the annual budget. It is really sad when artistes start taking themselves too seriously. Page 3 spilling over to page 1 doesn't come to any good. How do I know? I come from Tamil Nadu where the path to power starts from the movie studios.

So what has happened that justifies this sudden, overnight groundswell in the intolerance brigade? Ah, the change in government. Silly me! There is a different cook in the kitchen and the soup tastes funny now. The way I see it, the elite have developed a taste for a particular flavor of secularism and tolerance. One that has routinely turned a blind eye towards most things inconvenient all along. One that was quick to announce that "terror has no religion" every time a radicalized peace lover blew up innocent lives. A brand of secularism that insisted on handling with kid gloves a particular group of the population with an eye on future elections. One that conveniently swept provocation under the carpet and focused only on the reactions. One that believed in falling trees shaking the earth underneath. But alas, we live in a democracy which sometimes serves surprises when one least expects it. And the elections of 2014 turned out to be one such occasion.The biggest intolerance that I can sense is the one towards the current government. A democratically elected one with a sound mandate.

The murmurs of restlessness arising from a pampered group that happens to suffer from withdrawal symptoms having been rudely weaned from a life of being close to the seat of power. This, in my humble opinion, is what is happening. Now that it has gained enough critical mass, this river of intolerance will ebb and flow right through to 2019. Till then, I'm using my Bose noise cancelling headphones. 

The commute Part II - The Pallavan Years

This is a series documenting my many commutes. Here is the first part. Reading that is not going to make this any less painful. Even I would recommend watching paint dry as a better entertainment option. But since you have decided to waste your time here, you might as well get some context and do it in a sequence.

Muthu rickshaw-kaar's demise pitchforked us into the world of commuting by public transport rather unceremoniously. I think I would have been in class V or VI when it happened. That quirky age where you aren't quite a kid but definitely not the grown up yet. Overnight we were in limbo. It was quickly decided that we would take the bus as we were definitely too young to cycle to school in T Nagar traffic. Same home, same school and the same distance but we were introduced to the parallel universe of the bus commuters.

T Nagar to Valluvar Kottam on Pallavan presented us with three options: Route nos 9, 10 and 26. Appa advised us against trying the forbidden fruits of the 47 series buses that could have been a tad quicker but definitely much much more crowded by the time they were in T Nagar. Instead he bade us to take the ones that started out from T Nagar which meant that if we timed our departure from home, we could even get a seat. 

Buses for routes 9 and 10 used to be parked on a side street by the main bus terminus premises. Route 9 - T Nagar to Parrys Corner - wasn't a bad option: they plied on Thyagaraya Road (through Pondy Bazaar), made a left on Nair Road at Holy Angels and went straight through to Thirumalai Pillai Road to our school. Route 10 - T Nagar to Parrys Corner (via Hell), by comparison, was truly a headache. Not only did they have TATA buses which were inferior to the Leylands, (Driver abuse a constant, the Leylands somehow managed to age much better than the rattling Tatas.) but right after Panagal Park, this bus would take us past Ramakrishna School on Venkatanarayana Road on a detour through Boag Road and Maloney Road, serving hitherto unknown parts of T Nagar and thus wasting precious minutes. We always boarded a Route 10 bus with a bad feeling and it never disappointed us. 

Route 26 - T Nagar to ICF, the third option, was easily the best. Route 26 was the poor, country cousin of the more prestigious routes plying to ICF like the long-haul 47A. But it had the best drivers and conductors of the three routes. One of the conductors spoke in chaste Tamil and surprised me one day with clean English too. And the driver that he usually accompanied was a gentleman by PTC standards and never swore. But the cherry on top was the fact that this took the shortest route of the three: Panagal Park and straight through the shaded G N Chetty Road to Vani Mahal, left on Thirumalai Pillai Road and onwards to our school, bypassing the early morning Pondy Bazaar traffic altogether. But the frequency was low and the timings weren't quite convenient. But if we did end up taking 26 on a morning, we would be sure that there wouldn't be a late marking on our diary that day.

The world of bus travel truly was educative. First off, it taught us the value of time. How, together with time and tide, PTC buses waited for no man or a kid running late. Quite unlike Muthu rickshaw-kaar who only used to clang his bell if we delayed him but never actually left without us. Then came the art of managing the fellow commuters who made it clear to us that we - the school going future of the society - were truly a menace. If their looks could kill, there wouldn't be a guy typing this drivel out. Not without reason though. For we used to carry heavy bags loaded with books and notebooks that recorded our educational transactions. Oh and also a lunch basket. And the adults those days thought that a seat was truly wasted if only a kid was seated on it. They would always ask us to "adjust" which meant that two and a half men would have to hang from a seat meant for two. Again, I don't remember being sandwiched between creeps. Just the garden variety, annoyed office goers. Then there were the mornings when we would doze off on the bus. If we happened to do that while sitting, there would be more than one passenger that was standing nearby willing to call us out as unworthy of being students and how we had shamed Indian culture.

Then there was the art of getting your "pass" - the monthly season ticket - either punched or ticked by the conductor. For some reason, many conductors staunchly believed that it was beneath them to do this part of their duties and would ask us to do it ourselves. Good luck fishing out your pencil box from the depths of your schoolbag to get out a pen with curses raining all around! Good times. On more than one occasion, I have intentionally not checked it in the morning (and evening) and saved bus fare on later evening trips on that route. Yes, I'm evil, so shoot me. The Tamil Nadu Govt, sensing our troubles, then introduced the "free pass" wherein we were issued a photo ID that we had to carry and produce on demand by either the conductor or the ticket checker. On the flip side, the annoyed passengers had one more reason to be enraged by our presence on a seat: free boarders. As I said, good times.

No story on a Chennai bus commute can be complete without a mention of the ladies special. When we were still in T Nagar, we were pre-teens and it was acceptable for two boys to board a ladies special service. After all, we had neatly parted oiled hair and vibhoothi on the forehead to vouch for our character. Although this was a big deal - less crowded and hence possibility of scoring a seat went up a notch, and fewer swear words used by the conductors and drivers (not that it bothered us one way or the other) - I was somehow totally uncomfortable by the whole idea of traveling in a bus reserved for the opposite sex. Did it make me feel any less manly than my pre-teen self felt entitled to? Was it my lack of interaction with girls of our age that made me feel awkward? I can't tell. But I remember becoming totally self conscious as soon as I boarded and would head right to the front of the bus to occupy the space by the engine and the driver. For some reason that seemed to help my situation. But these rights were taken away after we moved to Adayar and I was officially a teen. That meant wearing pants and that was the act of crossing the threshold for admission. There have been days when we were running late when I would strategically wear my uniform shorts (instead of full trousers as mandated by the school) to allow myself to board these buses together with my brother who still enjoyed the benefits of being a pre-teen. Since I was a late bloomer and also vertically challenged at that time, my costume didn't raise too many questions at school apart from the usual teasing from friends that lived within a mile from the school.

Once we moved to Adayar, we had to take the 47 series of buses that were until then forbidden. There was the workhorse 47A (Besant Nagar to ICF). But the excalibur was the 47V (Thiruvanmiyur to Ambathur OT) - a limited stop service that truly did shrink the distance from the southern suburbs to the western industrial badlands of Chennai. But it would be inappropriate to not mention 47G (Besant Nagar to Korattur) that was right inbetween the other two. The one small problem was that many of these buses skipped our school stop, which was a minor one, and would only stop at Valluvar Kottam - a few blocks away. We had to walk all the way back and more importantly, we had to cross Kodambakkam High Road which was nearly impossible in the mornings. So we would get down when the bus stopped at the red light at that intersection and save ourselves many precious minutes. Besides the risk involved in this method, there was another issue. A couple of members of the faculty - my math teacher Mrs. MS (who traveled from Thiruvanmiyur) and Geography teacher Mrs. H (from Besant Nagar) - traveled on these routes. Since they faced the same issue, they would also alight at the signal. Although two athletic boys were any day more suited to pull this stunt off smoothly than two saree-clad ladies in their middle ages, they were adults and more importantly teachers. And I was in both their classes! There was always the risk of our stunts reaching the ears of the school principal. But as members of the bus commuting fraternity, there was an immediate kinship established: the Pallavan ring of trust, so to speak. Honor among thieves. Omerta. They never once complained about us to the school management and would even help us get to the sidewalk safely right after we got off at the red light.

After a couple of years of doing this, we changed schools and entered the world of pedaling to school. Through the verdant IIT Madras campus roads. Will be back with more of that. 

Thoughts on Thoongavanam

Through the 90s and even the early 2000s, a Kamal Hassan movie brought with it big expectations for me. Though that has faded significantly in the recent years, I still keep my eyes and ears open whenever his movie comes out. So when a friend of mine reserved tickets for Thoongavanam, it was showtime.

For starters, I went in with a clean slate in that I hadn't (still haven't) watched Sleepless Night, the original movie that this is based off. And given his recent movies, most of which I have sidestepped, seem to be fanning his already big ego, I kept expectations to the very minimum. Kamal the actor in the hands of good directors was definitely watchable. But Kamal the philosopher-director-preacher working with his usual suspects? I'll pass. Actors starting to take themselves seriously leaves such a bad taste. I'm looking at you Amir Khan and Sharukh Khan.

This is a suspense thriller involving good cops, bad cops, drugs (and flour) and drug lords. At the center of it all is a kidnapping which basically drives all the action. After watching this movie, two questions crop up in my mind. Why Sleepless Night? I'm not sure why this movie needed to be remade in Tamil. I mean what was so inspirational from the original to warrant a remake? Second question: Why cast Kamal Hassan? I don't believe this movie required Kamal. Period. The very fact that most of the movie happens in one night took the wind out of the sail since this severely limited the scope of acting that an actor like Kamal is (still) capable of.

Since I don't have the chops to do an insightful review, here are some quick thoughts thrown in in no particular order.

1. The movie should have been made like a 60-m dash but felt more like a 800m race. It was at least 30 minutes too long. One part slack editing and one part stretched out screenplay made it sag through many sections losing to impose a sense of anticipation.

2. Kamal's persona and the concomitant quirks burden the movie on many occasions. Some of them have been shoehorned in to the narration which adds to the sag.

3. Perhaps it was the make up to suit the role she was playing or I need to visit the eye doctor. Trisha looked pretty at the audio launch event but looked ...err...manly? in the movie. While on Trisha, what was with her Tamil and dialog delivery? Sounded like a female robot.

4. This movie required a serious villain to maintain the pressure. (Note, I haven't watched the original and not sure if this is a faithful reproduction) Prakash Raj, who must be on Raj Kamal International's speed dial, dumbed this role down with out of place comedy. In my opinion, Sampath, the other minor villain, would have been a better choice.

5. Hot nurses? In discotheques? Generously locking lips with strangers? Happens only in movies. I mean in Kamal movies. If on the other hand, that girl is really a nurse in some hospital, someone please break my left, small toe nail right now!

6. Too many actors have been thrown in to the mix but end up playing little, blink and you miss type roles. It turned out to be a distraction to me.

7. The kid was really cute and cracks the most genuine joke towards the very end.

An OK film. Definitely no edge of the seat stuff in what should have been a taut thriller. And there is a giant Kamal cloud hanging over it.

I expected to watch a thriller with KH in it. But make no mistake, this is a Kamal movie with a few thrills patched on.

Thank you Viru!

Behind fearlessness is usually a clear mind. A mind intent on keeping things simple. A mind unhindered by the weight of tradition, protocol or what went before. A mind that could come up with its own religion and a sense of what is right or not. Sehwag’s game betrayed his possession of such a mind – tranquil, strong and brutal. The body then became a mere instrument. The hand-eye coordination, the fluid strokeplay and the marauding batsmanship simply flowed forth. Natural. Destined. 

Opening, so we were told, was a fine art. An elite profession strictly earmarked for the products of textbooks to pursue. Temperament, the willingness to see off the shine and guarding the wicket were minimum virtues expected of any aspirant. And into this altar Sehwag bludgeoned his way and broke down all traditions. To put it simply, he played street cricket at the highest level wearing whites and a floppy hat. And he did this right from his debut till the very end. Against the best bowlers. And on pitches of all varieties. There was no slowing down, adapting, changing gears or accumulating. See ball, hit ball.

That he paid little attention to the context of the game perhaps let him play his natural game. And this is exactly why watching his innings unfold was possibly the reason behind my first grey hairs. A waft outside the offstump produced the same grin as did a clean straight drive down the ground. An upper cut over third man? This was the first man whose score in the nineties made me a wreck half way across the globe. Thankfully, though his nineties were plenty, they were all short lived. 

Muddling through numbers to understand his legacy would be futile. His impact lies entwined in the intangibles. Opposing captains delaying their declarations. Bowlers finding their plans in shatters. Opponents redefining a safe target after every over. Necessitating unorthodox field placements. Captains ringing in bowling changes with a prayer. Runs per minute would be a better measure for his batting gave his bowling colleagues not only more runs but also additional time. And above all, shrugging off the label of a "Sachin clone" to create a name for his own. 

Viv Richards is perhaps the only man that merits comparison with Sehwag. Viv “The King” was unmistakably a showman. His game was as sublime as it was arrogant. The famous “stagger” betrayed a nonchalance. And the gum chewing oozed irreverence. His persona was perhaps as feared as was his violent strokeplay. Whereas with Sehwag, there was only the earnestness of a workman. Nothing more, nothing less. In the hands of Viv, the bat was a sword while in Sehwag’s it was more an axe.

His methods may have made purists squirm. There were whispers about technique, foot work and weaknesses against the short ball. But his career bears testimony to his genius. Sehwag changed the job description of a test opener and left his stamp on the game to be truly counted among the best to have played the sport. And, although unsung, he truly did it his way.

Thank you for the memories.

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With Sehwag's retirement (and Zaheer's), an era in Indian cricket comes to an end. For they are the last two players that were, how do I put this...older than me. From now on, whenever I watch the men  boys in blue on TV, I will feel old. Sigh.

One more Israel trip diary

I wanted to continue on the commute series but this trip happened. Now a trip to anywhere in general, and to Israel in particular, is a low hanging fruit when it comes to providing content for another blog post. And given that I find it difficult to sit down and write something for any stretch of time, these quick, bite sized jottings are just too tempting to pass on. Without further adieu...

Day 1: Thursday

Something is happening in Israel. I mean besides the stabbings, killings and maimings that is. Flights are sold out and so are the hotels. Forced to fly out a day earlier than normal. I keep checking CNN and BBC to see if anything serious enough to warrant canceling the trip has happened, but no: trip on. With the kid now at that age when he wants to do nothing but play all the time with me, it is difficult to tear myself away. Luckily I slip out before he is up. (Feel doubly bad for the wife.) Because of circumstances, I'm now enrolled in the United Airlines mileage program. But that doesn't stop me from complaining about how crappy their service is. United Airlines sucks! There, I have said it one more time. And they don't disappoint me this time either.

Day 2: Friday

Arrive at TLV. Immigration is a breeze as I bound out of the airplane and beat the swarming crowd to the counters. My colleague? Couldn't make it. He is held at security for an hour and then takes a cab from hell to his hotel. I see multiple events going on at my hotel: which explains why getting a room was tough. The European Regional Conference is happening. In Tel Aviv. If that is strange, I have so far seen 4 Indians attending this conference. Go figure. A fantastic sunset now playing at my room window. Walk to Dizengoff sqaure area to get some dinner. But as expected, I'm not able to beat the Shabat clock: shops have shuttered down. Settle for pizza slices. But my hotel decrees that I can now use their lounge for a nightcap or two. Yay! Trying out Melatonin to hoodwink jetlag.

Side note 1: Amused at the selective outrage of our "intelligentsia" and media in the post-Dadri mess. The Sahitya Akademi (What is this spelling?) circus, kicked off by Nayantara Sehgal is particularly funny. A close second is the TM Krishna article in The Muslim Hindu. And the appropriately outraged UPA thugs have now crawled out of the woodworks and thrown their hat into the ring.

Side note 2: My religion coming in the way of your food is always a problem. And nowhere is that more evident than on a Shabat evening in Tel Aviv while walking hungrily past shuttered down restaurants.

Day 3: Saturday

The verdict is in: Melatonin works! I get almost 6.5 hours of fitful sleep. Wolf down a king's breakfast at the restaurant. Settle down to work in the room. Opt for a super healthy, guilt free, fruit-only lunch: a plum , a pear, a peach and a banana. Rather than walk out to Jaffa for a falafel lunch. Take that LDL and tri-glycerides! Consumed by more work till late evening. Watch yet another gorgeous sunset and head out to Dizengoff center for dinner. Now that I'm sporting a beard, I'm taking care to avoid dark streets that I wouldn't have minded taking while I was clean shaven. Times are such. Market restaurant - a vegetarian and vegan place - provides a sumptuous dinner of rice and a white bean based curry. Slurp. Wrap up some more work with a whiskey.

Day 4: Sunday

Rent a white VW Polo. Rental cars in Israel are usually beat up mules on four wheels. Whereas in the USA it is not uncommon to get a sparingly driven car with even the new car smell still strong, the ones in Israel all have crazy miles, strange stains and strong odors. This one is no exception. I walk in  to the office with a fixed agenda and is of course swamped with nine other items. Email from our travel security desk warns us to not venture out to "mixed cities" like Jaffa (which is a stone's throw from the hotel) or Nazareth and avoid crowds.  By the time I step out of the office, it is 10:00pm. And the car won't start. The nice lady at our reception calls Avis emergency service who replace the battery. Crazy miles, strange stains, strong odors and dead batteries. Return to the hotel and collapse.

Day 5: Monday

Forget to take Melatonin and I'm up at a bit past five. Sigh. I have to collect the refund of a rental cellphone security deposit from last July. The store guy had dodged me before I had left in July and it is now time to collect. I have somehow managed to hold on to the receipt till now. Although I know the general location of the store, I decide to go with google maps on my cellphone. I end up taking the wrong exit: GPS is in miles while Israel follows the metric system. And with about 3 miles to go, the phone dies one me. Super. I start driving from (dodgy) memory. I wade through traffic, take a couple of wrong turns, drive down unknown roads, make exactly two illegal U-turns and voila! I'm at the store. Just when the guy must have thought that the money was his, I walk out of his store with five sweaty 100-shekel notes. Phew!

Day 6: Tuesday

Wake up from a dream involving multiple snakes roaming around in the gardens of an apartment complex that we used to live in previously. Wait 25 minutes for my car to be pulled from the hotel garage. Twenty five minutes at 8 in the morning! Make a loud complaint at the reception. With all the stabbings, shootings and driving cars through crowds going on in Jerusalem and elsewhere, more colleagues recommend that I get rid of my beard. But El Beardo is here and staying with me. Lunch at the 4-flavor falafel shop near our office. The owner recognizes me and plies me with a few spicy falafels on the house. Yum! Pulling another 12-hour day. I'm craving a pita wrap at a place not too far from the hotel. But I choose to drive there rather than park at the hotel and walk. Big. Mistake. Get caught in the vicious one way - no parking cycle that this locality is famous for. After 30 minutes of driving around, I manage to park overlapping grey and red-white curbs. The pita wrap turned out to be less than great but on the plus side, I didn't get a parking ticket - a significant achievement given my track record here. Even steven. Day ends a little past midnight after some lingering emails are finally sent out.

Day 7: Wednesday

Another early start day. I find some time during the day to actually get some real work done vs. running to rescheduled/late meetings. Lunch is at a hummus place close to the office. The boss is away attending a wedding. But the rest of the office says he is out sick. Hmmm...This time around for dinner, I learn my lesson. I park the car in the hotel and walk to Market - the same place from day 3. I walk back to the hotel avoiding dark streets. On the way back, I stop at the parking garage where the friendly parking agent from our previous stay in TLV says he has been attacked and robbed by 7 Arab guys a few nights back.

Day 8: Thursday

The day of the departure. Based on my schedule and the Avis closing hours, I have to return the car at the airport instead of dropping it off in Tel Aviv and taking a taxi. The last time I tried this in Oct 2015, I nearly ended up missing my flight. I plan to start early but as expected, end up leaving the office an our behind schedule. The BKM for returning the rental car at Ben Gurion International is this: ignore all signs for the rental car return. Drive straight to the departures area, turn into the long term parking, follow the well camouflaged signs for the Avis car return and turn the car in. Easy as that. I think I now have a grip of this unless something changes before my next trip. I'm behind a group of Thai army officers returning home in the airport security line. Between the Israeli security officer, a young girl in her twenties, the V.K. Ramaswamy-in-purple evening dress look alike translator and the Thai army officers, their security interview is a multi-lingual nightmare playing out in slow motion.

Day 9: Friday

Land in NJ at 4 in the morning. Scoot into the lounge and kill the 3 hours before my flight to SFO. Menu: cream of rice porridge. Which must be French for arisi kanji I suppose - a dish I'm familiar with from whenever I had a fever as a kid. I gulp down a bowl of that nonetheless knowing pretty well that the 6-hour hop to SFO will be meal-free. Return home and surprise the kid who is caught unawares. And per his specific request, we play indoor soccer without even a wash. Happy to be home.

The commute - The Rickshaw Riders

I'm now stuck with a very long commute. 42 miles one way. Don't ask me how I ended up here but this is my situation till I figure out a convenient car pool or move.

KQED notwithstanding, it is a punishing drive what with the traffic, boredom and the thought that much of my time is spent behind wheels and not at work/home instead. This got me thinking of the various commutes that I have had over the years. The combination of the various homes and the various educational institutions and work places have called for interesting commutes.

So with nothing worthwhile to offer for your reading pleasure here, I'm kick starting a series on the various commutes that I have done. Anything to keep this blog running and cough up a few words every now and then.

Now this could be a bit interesting if blogger has an app that can take dictation (I'm patenting this idea now!) while I drive and publish a post by the time I reach my destination. But till that time, I regurgitate the thoughts while I drive and put them down after I get off.

Without further adieu, here is part 1.

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My earliest memories of commuting are of my father driving me to school on our trusted white and blue Lamby. Of holding my father’s hands and being firmly but gently shepherded from the school gate towards my LKG class room, to a waiting Mrs. Mallika Ramnath. The commute was a grand distance of about 4 kilometers that would take us from our home on South Usman Road through Burkit Road, taking a left on South Dhandapani street and onwards to Venkatanarayana Road. We would pass Panagal Park on the east side on to the green cover of G N Chetty Road. Appa would then turn left at Jeeva Park (Jeeva poonga) and drive straight down Arulambal street to our school. It was a journey of a few minutes that has stayed in my memory – my father reciting Adithya Hrudhayam and me standing the front and later hugging him from the rear seat when I was tall enough. I also remember transferring briefly to Sahadevan’s rickshaw at some point in time, perhaps coinciding with my brother’s arrival. For I remember Sahadevan pulling up in front of the nursing home, not too far from his rickshaw “stand”,  in the afternoon where our mother was in and me jumping off the rickshaw and racing to the upstairs room to meet my mother and my newly minted brother. Sahadevan, a gentle soul (compared to Muthu rickshaw-kaarar who will soon make an appearance) with a greying beard and a ready toothy grin, calling out from behind to not forget my bag. It was back to the father-son-Lamby-Adithya Hrudhayam routine in the years leading up to my brother joining me at the same school.

Having a working mother required a different style of functioning. She had to be at her work place much earlier than my father. Luckily, her office was midway between home and school. So the four of us would pile up on to the Lamby every morning. Once Appa dropped her off in front of her office, we would drive out to Jeeva poonga where Appa would give us our breakfast on a concrete park bench. A picnic style breakfast almost every weekday morning in a park in the heart of the city. To my father’s credit, he had to wrap up the picnic, drop us off at school and then head out to work across town, if he was in a hurry, which I’m sure he was on many days, he never showed it. While this continued for some length of time, given the logistic challenges that this routine posed, we migrated back to the classic middle-class mode of commuting to school: the rickshaw.

I’m not sure why Sahadevan was not hired when the two of us were rickshaw-ready. Perhaps he had retired or had an incompatible school route/schedule but Muthu rickshaw-kaarar was chosen as the charioteer. Mr. Muthu’s stand was just a few blocks down the road from our home which is where my father would have known him from, I’m guessing. He was already taking a few kids from our locality to our school which acted both as a reference and a convenience in choosing him. Muthu rickshawkaar was a character in every sense of the word. He always sported a week’s stubble: I don’t ever remember having seen him clean shaven. He had his towel tied around his head which offered some protection against the heat. His first few buttons were always undone and was always wearing a lungi that was in need of a wash. He was a rugged guy and somehow reminded me of Rajinikanth in the vasanta kaala nadigalile song from the movie moondru mudichu. He was a raging alcoholic and that is only putting it mildly. But considering that there were only very, very few days that he didn’t show up in the morning and thus putting us in a fix, he somehow managed his drinking and hangovers rather admirably. Till it killed him a few years later.

There were seven kids in the rickshaw: the two of us - yours truly and my brother, Rishi, Vijay, Manav, Kumar and Vasu. There was for some time Ashwin and his cousin Vishnu thrown in to the mix as well. Rishi was the only kid that came from the other side of the tracks from West Mambalam. He was a few years elder than us and was a real fast runner. I later learned that he had joined the Indian Army, was posted in Kashmir during the Kargil conflict in the late nineties and had lost a leg in action. Vijay, my class mate, was the charmer of the group with his good looks and the ability, even as a kid, to engage adults in adult-like conversations. I remember once when Muthu was smoking a rolled cigarette without a filter instead of his usual beedi, Vijay queried “Enna rickshaw-kaar, cigarette ellam pidikkareenga? Neraya panam vechirukkeengala?” (How come you have moved on to cigarettes? Have you become rich now?) He was from a musical family and roped me into learning the mridangam at his place and also Hindi classes later. He used to live somewhere off Madley street behind the R1 Mambalam police station before moving to a house on Burkit road and then later to Mangesh street. Don’t ask me how but he took the commerce stream in class XI, completed his B Com and ended up in Accenture doing project management. I’m still in touch with him and he is now in Chennai after a stint in Bangalore. Manav, in the same class as Rishi, was the Settu – a Marwari kid that had a home on Ranganathan street. Yes, people used to live on that street! He was a hothead and would always pick up fights with other kids and sometimes with Muthu himself. During one such fight he yelled that he would ask his father to not pay Muthu, jumped off the moving rickshaw and ran back the few blocks to his home. Muthu waited to see that he reached home, let lose a few choice expletives and carried on. Kumar and Vasu, the other set of brothers. Vasu was my classmate and Kumar was Rishi’s. They used to live on Govindan street, before moving to a house on G N Chetty Road and later to Tilak street. Vasu, whose father I met many many years later, had failed to clear the class XII exams and Kumar had developed some mental problems. Ashwin and Vishnu were cousins and were Kannadigas. Ashwin, the quiet spoken kid was my brother’s classmate and Vishnu was fresh from Karnataka and had a strong accent. But that is not why he was everybody’s whipping boy on the rickshaw with Rishi leading the roast every evening. When things got out of hand, which was more often than not, Muthu would turn around and land a blow on whoever’s leg, thigh was within his reach.

Muthu rickshaw-kaarar was loud, smoked beedis non-stop, drank every night, took salary advances from nearly everyone’s parents. But he was also responsible enough to not lose a kid, not molest anyone, drive the rickshaw without any accidents and kept it running till he died.

I must take a moment to talk about the simple times. When a parent could hire a rickshaw guy without elaborate background checks, trust him with their kids to be dropped off at school and brought back home every single day. And the bloody system worked. Neither the non-alcoholic Sahadevan or the raging alcoholic Muthu ever misbehaved with any one of us. We were safe in their hands. And I don’t remember there being any untoward incident reported from our school that involved an erring rickshaw man during our years there. 

Reminiscences of an India trip Part II

And the reminiscences continue...

The RX135 experience

Although our first love was the Yamaha breed of machines, after much deliberation, we settled for a rather conservatively styled, easy on the gas, 4-stroke Bajaj Caliber when we (finally) bought a bike in the year 2000. Life usually has a twisted sense of making your wishes come true though. Fifteen years later, when the college going me has been put to pasture somewhere in the deeper recesses of the mind, I got to ride an RX135 across the city to my heart's content. This bike, borrowed from my cousin,  has clearly seen better days, has logged over 40,000 kms and could do with a wash and a real lock instead of the chain and lock arrangement. But it is a Yamaha RX135, remember? And that makes up for all the shortcomings. It is a fast bike and can still turn heads with its mating call engine roar. Or as I call it, 15 years too late. If my wife is reading this, I really love you honey! Within an hour of driving it, two people came up to us at a red light and offered to buy it. True story.

A man, a bike and his 4-year old son: it is a beautiful thing. My son would perch himself on top of the petrol tank in the front and demand to be driven around the block every time I came back from somewhere. At the end of that ride (at perhaps 20-25kmph), he would make an appreciative comment or two about my speeding skills. I need a tissue please. *sniff*

A test victory and the day-after Hindu write up

Savoring an Indian cricket win abroad live on TV, then wading into the sports page the day after and later analyzing the game threadbare with friends at college was a religious experience. A Sachin special followed by an R. Mohan or a Nirmal Shekar special in print (on a plain vanilla, black and white The Hindu) the morning after was like having good, cold beer with fresh, crisp onion pakkoda on the side. So while I was in Chennai, India won a test in Colombo and later the series. And our copy of The Hindu was at the doorstep even before I was up. Now, the series itself was good from an Indian fan stand point and the cricket was intense given the circumstances. The come from behind win in spite of missing both the openers mid way was heartening. As was the performance of the spinners, the openers and the fielders. The tail even wagged when it mattered. My only wish: drop Rohit Sharma and go with Che Pu instead. And I get this feeling that this team would be better served if they are aggressive in intent rather than behavior. But the magic was somehow...missing. Can't really pin point why. Oh and The Hindu? I continue to start reading the paper from the sports section even today although for an entirely different reason: to avoid actor Prabhu with his 3 chins jumping out from page 0 peddling jewelry.

The Avani Avittam reduction

As mentioned here, the fervor that once surrounded avani avittam in our house has all but evaporated. From a full blown man-festival replete with silk veshtis, ezhai kolams and meals with payasam in the nineties, avani avittam around the house has now become a mere ritual devoid of any fan fare. In 2008, in the wake of our mother's passing away, the three of us had donned our respective new poonals at different cities in India. In 2009, it was just me and appa going about the routine at home that day, while I doubled up as the cook too. Well, tripled up as the makeshift vadhyar too. If those were bad years, I think we hit rock bottom this year. Appa, unable to sit on the floor on account of a recent surgery, changed his poonal seated on a chair. In fact, he was wearing it after having been without one on medical advice! And this time, I didn't even try to put on my cook's hat. And so the post-poonal meal? Curd rice at Saravana Bhavan. Changed times, new reality.

The one bucket bath

Super: It's the super. We're installing new low-flow showerheads in all the bathrooms.

Morty: Low flow? I don't like the sound of that.

We are true T Nagar old timers what with our family calling the very heart of T Nagar, or Mambalam as it was known then, home since the early 1930s. In other words, we know water shortage. Ever since I was a kid, a half bucket of water was all that was allotted for the daily bath. Even was we moved to relatively water-rich locations across the city, water frugality as a habit has stayed with us. Things have changed with moving abroad and all. But this time, I went back to the bucket. No surprise that it is the most sensible thing to do anywhere in the world. Made me re-realize how much cleaning can be accomplished with under a bucket full of this precious commodity. 

Reminiscences of an India trip

The boxes have been unpacked and set aside. Jet lag is definitely on its way out. The snacks are half depleted and homesickness doesn't singe like it did a few days back. As the curtains come down on yet another holiday trip to the old country, there are myriad thoughts that come to mind. Here are a few of them in no particular order.

Three functions in the home and as many hospital visits. Two cities and two trips between them. Two lost cellphones. Plenty of housekeeping and walking the family politics tight rope. And a half a dozen temple visits woven into the already hectic schedule. If our vacations were movies, they would carry statutory warnings urging the general public from undertaking such activities.

Vacation - the misconception

Most people that I know take a vacation with the aim of relaxing. Taking a break from the daily grind. It needn't necessarily be a picturesque place with stunning scenery and a resort to kick your feet up. One could vacation in a godforsaken place like Ambur or Guntakkal, no personal animosity towards either of these two towns, and still emerge fully rejuvenated. The idea, I would imagine, is to not prepare a running list of action items and get into a race against the clock. But that is the routine for normal people. We do vacations slightly differently in our family - with a strong sadomasochist flavor. Imagine trying to run a marathon in 9.79 seconds. On barefoot. Even before the dates are finalized, there are at least two sets of diverging tasks with shuffling priorities. Once we arrive in India, a third and a fourth list with a dozen different items each, get added on. Long story short, by the time the day of the return flight dawns, there are compromises, unfinished tasks, missed chances and plenty of guilt to carry back home. 

Chennai - the city that was

A city that threatens to cut all remaining connections with its roots at breakneck speed. What are those roots? The answer depends on the individual. My attempt to define Chennai's roots would be a shamelessly nostalgic exercise by yet another caught-in-a-timewrap-NRI and so I won't do it here. But there seems to be a certain desperation to affix on its lapel the cosmopolitan city tag and lose its cultural/traditional identity in a hurry. If it pained me to see McDonald's, KFC and Subway outlets in Bangalore in 2013, I'm pissed beyond words to see KFC, Domino's and Papa John's at every street corner in Chennai. When there is absolutely nothing wrong with the idlies, vadais and pongals available at the bhavans and cafes.

Earlier (as in, when I was a kid, which was, sadly, many years ago), restaurants that served meat had special, unmistakable names: Colombia, Runs, Coronet, to name a few. The aroma (foul smell) from within the confines would be strong and just scanning the handwritten "Today's special" board at the entrance would give me shivers. The clientele would be mostly men. And those places invariably had a cigarette stall at the entrance that also sold beedas to the well fed patrons stepping out. Cut to 2015. Going by their sheer numbers now, I realize that meat consumption at restaurants must have risen exponentially and that such establishments have gained acceptance as family sppropriate places.

Busy, crowded malls, SUVs hogging available road space, late night shows running to packed houses at multiplexes, organic grocery stores and The Hindu that sells its front page to the highest bidder: this is a Chennai with a strange flavor to it that old timers may find hard getting used to.

Kalam - El Presidente par excellence

An ex-president whose passing away brought together people in a way not seen in recent history, transcending regional and religious identities. Flex boards bearing his face, a quote and a few words from the local folks popped up at every street corner in Chennai. It is difficult to imagine such a genuine show of love and respect for an individual without caste, cash or Dravidian party affiliations in Tamil Nadu. An inspiring story of a truly simple man that stood really tall among the politicians. It was also sad to see that it quickly went from a natural outpouring of respect to the "right" thing to do. Many commercial establishments jumped on to the Kalam-grief bandwagon and started placing the token Kalam picture by the entrance only to not be left out.

MTC - Pallavan in a new garb

Forget the brand new Chennai Metro. I took a ride in an MTC (the erstwhile Pallavan) bus. From Vadapalani to Adayar. In a throw back to the olden days, I boarded it not at a bus stop, but in running at a busy intersection. But I stuck out rather starkly from the regulars that day. And how! For starters, I was in shorts and a t-shirt - a definite give away that I was truly not a regular patron. I had in my hand a black helmet. Stuffed with sweets and savories from Gowri Shankar (Chennai's best wheat halwa and sonpapdi maker to date!) And I was clutching a pink ladies' purse on the other. And I misheard the fare as Rs. 70 and without batting an eyelid, handed the conductor a hundred rupee note when he had actually asked for Rs 17. So. Out. Of. Touch. The conductor now has a device for ticketing but still doesn't go to the passengers to issue tickets. Old wine in a new bottle anyone?

Mysore - the clean thorn in my flesh

This city, where from hails my wife, was announced as the cleanest in India's swachh Bharat campaign. People that made the announcement obviously didn't marry a dyed-in-the-wool Mysorean udugi. For someone that already had her nose in the air when it came to matters concerning general cleanliness and hygiene in public places between the two cities, this announcement making it official (across all of India) made her float on air. Oh the ribbing that I had to endure in both Mysore and Chennai! Especially when the train was just pulling into the northern outskirts of Chennai. Ouch! My only feeble come back? I could recharge my mobile internet dongle at 11:30pm in singara Chennai and not in heritage Mysuru. Aha!

Parking woes in Tel Aviv

Here is something that I wrote when we were in Israel earlier this summer. For some reason, this was languishing in the drafts section and I have decided it is time to inflict this upon my unsuspecting reader(s).

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Parking in Tel Aviv is a nightmare. And from talking to the locals, it doesn’t appear to be a recent problem either. In the book of the Carinthians (12:8, isn’t it simpler to write 3:2? I once scored a ‘centum’ in maths in a class test in class VII. I think.), it is said, I shall lead my children to the land of overflowing honey and milk but you’re on your own for parking your camels. Thy shath be screweth mwa hahaha. *To be verified.*

The place where we stay is near a popular beach along the beautiful Med coast.  And on Fridays, the place is swarming with people heading into the warm waters for fun and frolic in beach wear that leave nothing to imagination. The streets look like there is a giant Pothy’s around the corner holding a grand aadi thallupadi sale on itsy bitsy teeny weeny bikinis and nearly everyone from as far away as Beirut, just bought themselves one. Net result: The best ever traffic jam I’ve ever been in. I’m stuck in a car looking for a spot that doesn’t exist while one half of Israel wants to show off perfect beach bodies and the other half wants to look at it.

In less touristy suburbs (like Syria), the streets are lined with cars of residents on both sides all the time. Rumor is that if you find a great spot, very close to your apartment, you work from home for the rest of your career. At a conservative estimate, there are at least 3 parked cars (and nine cats) per person in Tel Aviv. The ones driving about the roads are just clueless tourists looking for a spot which explains the traffic jams. So on any day, you are more likely to run over a few cats than find a spot.

Much like a degree in philosophy, finding street parking in Tel Aviv is time consuming, pointless and there are no clear rights or wrongs. Only wrongs. And there are more people doing it than you think.

To add a further layer of confusion to the already difficult process, there are, at last count, 23,619 different shades of curbside paint codes with varying implications. There is the ubiquitous yellow and red which means that Rafael Nadal will one more French Open title if you park your car there, they will tow your car, punch you in the face and steal both of your kidneys while simultaneously sullying your otherwise spotless lineage. Very different from the red and white curb where the same rules apply but they steal only one kidney. Then there is the more common blue and white about which no one is quite sure. Then there is a grey with dog poop stains not to be mistaken for the grey with urine stains. And so on. 

But there are always accompanying rules for each color code for the harried user. Stated very clearly. In Hebrew. Or perhaps ancient Aramaic. But some of them are so complex that it makes no difference in which language they are posted. Here is a smattering of the more straight forward ones that I have decoded:

•        You can park only on the right side of this street unless you own an apartment on this street. (English: At Tel Aviv real estate prices, LOL)
•        You can park only on the left side of this street unless you are a tenant and if your landlord was born on a full moon Thursday while a partial solar eclipse was happening over Easter Islands. (English: Keep driving, ROFLMAO)
•        You can park here if your idea of fun on a Thursday night is to retrieve your impounded car from the city office after paying a $100 fine to a lady with an attitude and an unlit cigarette hanging from her mouth sitting inside a blue, dimly lit, rusting cage. (English: OK to Park)

Add to this the complex one way system in which all streets slowly lead you away from Tel Aviv. In anticlockwise circles. On many nights, I have parked in Damascus and hitched a ride home from some sympathetic ISIS fighters. They even confided that they don’t mess with the Israelis because they know they can never park their tanks in Tel Aviv without getting a ticket.

But the situation isn’t all that bad, really. There are many parking lots available that charge a ransom but compensate by having interesting lot attendants. One of them in the lot close to our apartment offered a good rate but his only condition was, and I wish I was making this up, that I talk to him every night after I parked my car. There was one who kept asking me for lens cleaning solution every time I walked past the booth. And I don’t even wear glasses. Then there was the other guy who insisted that he had to physically sign the ticket but then had no pen on him. And asking me to sit in his booth, went in search of a pen at ten in the night. Good times. And every morning there would be the cone-of-shame sitting on my car. The cone of shame is a big, black, worn out traffic cone which cries out to all and sundry that the owner of the car it was occupying had cheated on parking fees and may be morally bankrupt. They may as well have tattooed “parking fee cheat” on my forearm like they did in the eighties movies. But you can’t expect class or subtlety from parking attendants can you?

After dealing with these people for a week, my colleagues recommended that I pay a monthly rate and get it over with. Although they did warn me that I had to drive a bargain myself. And then burst into uncontrolled laughter. Thus on a Friday afternoon, I was negotiating with a lot attendant that looked like a young Moammar Gaddafi having a bad hair day. I would type in my offer ($20, a bottle of lens cleaning solution and 30 minutes of quality talk time with the attendant between 8:30 and 9:00pm on weeknights) on his sticky cellphone. He would snigger, shake his head and type in his counter offer ($36,899.99, my left kidney and unlimited talk time plus free sms). After a few iterations, we settled on an amount that I’m too ashamed to type here. I’m not saying that I overpaid but I’m confident that with the amount I paid, cancer could have been cured and world poverty erased with the leftover change. Or the equivalent of a 2BHK apartment in Puzhuthivakkam with world class amenities (English: about 18 hours of power supply, twice a week).

But on the positive side, I tactfully negotiated to not have to talk to the attendants. Only sing and dance with them. For right after I ‘clinched’ the parking deal, the lot attendants have all turned very professional and friendly. One of them that looks like a middle-aged Jesus with a fanny pack around his waist even dances with my son every night singing an allegedly Bollywood song that goes like “Jimmy jimmy…aah aaja aaja”. And then asks me to talk to him.  

Its official: I'm old

Last night, I received the latest yet strongest signal that I'm officially old. O.L.D. Yes, I've been trying to snip the odd grey hair or three. And I'm guilty of listening to (nothing but) Ilayaraja and I have just got a handle on what Whatsapp really is. But if they were all warning bells, including being referred to as "Uncle" by kids, as opposed to the much preferred "anna", I received the clarion confirmation last night.

Armed with a cold, beer, I felt compelled to watch, on youtube, the highlights of the memorable India-Australia test at Kolkata from 2001 March. Or as most Indian cricket fans would call it, the test.

14 years and change. One of those test matches that can still make you travel back in time and relive the past. The one from which you remember every minor detail. Where were you when the last wicket fell on day 5, what were you doing that very moment, who were you watching it with, the weather, the menu that day. Just typing this gives me goosebumps. 

My son was watching it along with me this time and asked a few questions about the game in general (ippo four-a?, idhu outa? why? out-na time out maadhiriya? kadhava saathiduvala illa opena irukkuma?), about that particular test (Appa, nee chinna paiyana irukkarchappo paathiya indha match-a? *sniff*) and the principal actors (ivan peru enna? avan yen gudhikkaran?). 

After the about 45 minute clip ended (the beer had ended a bit earlier), he brought out an empty 1.5L water bottle (that is nearly half as tall as he is) for a bat and fished out his blue ball and asked me to bowl to him. In the living room. And I obliged. I mean, I had to. Even though it is well documented that my post-alcohol bowling skills are reduced to the same level as a sober Venkatapathy Raju's. Seriously, what was he doing in that XI? Anyways, the kid had a few knocks till my wife spoiled the party reminded that it was past his bed time. 

Note to self: Buy a small cricket bat on the next trip to India. And coach the kid to hit it in the "V" along the ground rather than hoick it over midwicket. Screw T20! IPL be damned! Put a price on your wicket, see off the goddamned new ball...

As I said, this uncle is old. 

The first (class) Semi Final

Sport is one part beauty and one part cruelty. One part joy and one part despair. One part pleasure and one part pain. On the night of March 24th, 2015, two teams colluded in a far away stadium to show us mere mortals that sporting highs cannot be enjoyed without experiencing the accompanying tragic lows.

After witnessing what is easily one of the best matches in World Cup knockout history, I was left emotionally drained and confused that I wasn't quite sure how to react. There was the first wave of unalloyed elation at a team that deserved to be in the final achieving it in the most emphatic way possible. Then the joy of watching the emotions of a nation that has been in waiting for years channeled through a pulsating crowd. 40,000 of them that cheered as one and then enjoyed as one. Then there was a surge of pure grief. A team denied one more time. Weather. Fate. Destiny. Or the plain old choke. Call it whatever, it was nothing but heart break for this South African team and their nation. Yet another generation of players and fans subjected to yet another loss to grieve about for four more years. That now familiar emotion of having come so tantalizingly close. And as the curtains come down, one team gets to take a shot at more glory; the other left to come to terms with reality.

Did what transpire on the Eden Park turf was actually a choke? In the past, there had always been a single moment in the key games that they had lost around which the game swung away from them. When they chose to snatch defeat when victory was likely theirs. That single point where one could put a finger and proclaim (with the luxury of hindsight) "aha, here is where they lost it". But I would say this was simply a closely fought game between two equals that brought out the best from the 22 men involved. A game where the difference between victory and loss was merely statistical. There was neither a victor nor vanquished. Instead there was raw emotion. Plenty of it. And all kinds of it. Pride. Triumph. Elation. Grief. Anguish. Agony. In the end, some hearts were warmed; some broken.
  

What makes this especially draining is that these are the two teams that are the most likable. Easily two of teams with more "second favorite team" status among cricket fans than the others. How do you pick between two groups of true sportsmen. True ambassadors of the game that chose not to tarnish the sanctity of the occasion with anything cheap. No dirty tactics of mind games, pre-match banter or juvenile on-field behavior that could take away from the beauty of the contest. Aggression was gilded with dignity. And the fight was fought with honor. The celebrations were loud but gracious and the sorrow was raw yet dignified. And the speeches afterwards bore testimony to the true nature of the men involved. Class is what separates the men from the boys. It will be difficult to surpass the bar that they have jointly set so high. 

It seems almost silly to poke through the still warm embers and analyze the what ifs. There was the rain that changed the tempo. There were off-key performances. Then there were the errors on the field. And there were enough of them committed by both sides. But as Sambit Bal has so beautifully put it, "sport and history are generous to the follies of the winner". 

What lies ahead for South Africa may be familiar but not pleasant. Coming to terms with this (I so hate to use this word) loss will not be easy. This team had the opportunity to heal the wounds of the past. But they have fresh ones to heal instead. They will also have to deal with the fact that this group of super talented individuals will be walking away from the game without that one coveted piece of silver. Not to mention the task of rebuilding a team that will have this cloud hanging over them for some time to come. 

Thank you New Zealand. Thank you South Africa. Thank you for giving us a contest that we can cherish nor matter our sporting affiliations. An operatic performance truly worthy of a semi final. A game played with such rare class that I wished I was either a Kiwi or a Protea that night. 

The World Cup thus far

As we approach the sharp end of the tournament, the usual suspects have been identified. Well more or less as the result of the ongoing NZ vs. WI QF game is near certain with the kiwis all but set to join the last four. Not much surprises. Australia in the Semis is a given. The contest is always for the other three spots. South Africa have overcome themselves to take a well deserved spot. No one can grudge the kiwis in the final four. Not even when they were considered to be fighting above their weight. But this time around with their collective form, they take the spot by right. I'm still pleasantly surprised by the great Indian turn around trick though. I was expecting either Sri Lanka or England to be the fourth team but lo behold! It is the men in blue that have made it yet again.

Some teams bring their A game for all matches. Australia and South Africa. Some simply melt down under the weight of the occasion - England, Sri Lanka. There are the perennial under achievers - West Indies. And then there are the unpredictable dark horses: Pakistan. India, much like a typical student cramming on the last night before the finals, always scrapes through. We reserve our A game for the special games. But New Zealand have, in the recent past have slowly managed to shake away the underdog tag and have become genuine contenders. The

Looking at their performances, there is a quiet resolve about this bunch. Something that sets them apart from their predecessors. They are friendly, as they have always been. They play the game in the right spirit, again, as they have always done. Much like the Caribbean teams of the 80s, there is a certain joy in watching the Kiwis compete: clean, spirited and sporting. And this team retains that in full and have managed to reach the semi finals once more. But there is something indefinable about this team and this year could well be the one where they are most likely to go the full distance.

England deserved to go home. West Indies simply lack the quality to compete fiercely at the top level and aren't quite a cohesive unit. Sri Lanka tried one change too many and denied their stars one more shot at the title. And Pakistan? This is not the same sport as in the 80s and 90s to be able to pull off their magic with sporadic spurts.

This World Cup, as a tournament, has been too long. Allowing the fan to switch off between key games. I'm all for an inclusive approach about spreading the game and involving the associate nations. But the World Cup should be a tight fight for the top honor and it should be for the top 10 teams only. There are certainly ways to widen the reach of the sport and empower smaller nations.

Sangakkara, Mahela, Misbah, Dilshan and Afridi. Cricketers that we shall see no more of as of yesterday. But you never know with Afridi. Teenagers aren't the best decision makers anyways. The first three are certainly among the best to ply their trade and among the finest ambassadors of the game. Afridi will be remembered as the one that did injustice to the talent that was his and the opportunities that came his way.

One more week. Three more games. Will the cup travel to the Southern hemisphere? Will it stay in India? I would personally like a closely fought final between India and New Zealand ending in favor of India. Time to buckle up! 

Bay Area 1170AM Tamil darbar

We were returning from somewhere last Sunday evening. Usually we play the mp3 collection to keep things quiet and friendly during a drive. Side story: although it is filled to the gills with Ilayaraja songs, the first file on this pen drive, for some reason, is the Macarena. And every time we start the engine, the audio system resets to the first song. And since we’ve had this same collection for a very long time now, that song is now firmly tattooed on my kid’s brain. He was singing it aloud when we were at the Niagara Falls last year. Over the din of the falls, a Hispanic family voiced their approval. Oye! Back to the story. I had removed the stick for some reason and had not plugged it back in. So we had to resort to the airwaves for music. My default station is NPR but my son hates it from the bottom of his heart (appa, vera paattu podu, iva pesindey irukka Eng: Dad, play some other song, these people are just talking) So we tuned into 1170AM the desi station in the Bay Area.

Now, as I mentioned earlier, I default to NPR for my short commute and on those rare occasions when I tune into 1170AM, I almost always catch some talk show in Hindi. Given my proficiency in that language, I make a quick exit. But when I travel with the missus, she prefers this station. Talk about timing but we have listened to some Kannada programs and even Telugu programs but nary a bit of Tamil. Last Sunday was one such day where we caught the tail end of a Hindi program followed by a Women’s day Telugu program. Side story: I was surprised at how much Telugu I was actually able to follow. Side story: Four years in a private engineering college have given me only a smattering of engineering concepts but more than a working knowledge of conversational Telugu. Thank you Reddys, Raos, Vamsis, Yelamarthis. Back to the story. There are two things that I have observed in the multiple Telugu and Kannada programs that I have had the opportunity to listen to. The program hosts always speak good quality Telugu and Kannada. Granted there is the English phrase or three thrown in. But for the most part, it is in their language. Second, the hosts have always been coherent and were not hemming and hawing or were lost for words.

Surprisingly, the program that followed the Telugu one last Sunday was Tamil darbar. Yaay, Tamil on radio finally!! It was hosted by a certain Ms. Minmini (Chinna chinna aasai singer?) and a Mr. Baba. The show was about Women in Tamil Cinema. That took some wind out of my sail but I was still pumped. Side story: All Tamil entertainment across all media formats shall feed off Tamil cinema. Talk shows, debates, culture, sports, politics, technology, business, music, dance, TV, radio, the internet and anything else under the sun will be based on Tamil cinema. Computational lithography for EUV illumination systems as observed in modern Tamil Cinema. Barathi Raja on the effects of El Nino on the kuruvai crops in the Cauvery river delta. Back to the story. The two hosts spent some time flitting from one lady veteran to another. There was the regulation hat tip to Manorama, followed by obeisance to Suhasini Mani Ratnam, interspersed by songs featuring them. Honorary mentions were made about SriVidya, Revathi and a couple of others. By which time I had arrived home and turned it off.

What really bothered me was that the entire show was in English. In case you had missed it, the program was titled Tamil Darbar. The hosts were hardly able to string together an English-free sentence. Coming off programs in good Hindi and Telugu, this struck a very discordant note. Also, they were not comfortable chatting about movies either. Mr. Baba, hosting a show about women in Tamil cinema through the ages, announced (in English) that he started watching Tamil movies from 2000 AD, thus leaving Ms. Minmini to carry on by herself in English.

Minmini: Suhasini is a wonderful actor, illiya?

Baba: Grmpfh…Yeah

M: She has portrayed a wide range of roles, illiya?

B: Hrrmph….Sure. Wide range.

I felt outraged. Not as a Tamilian but as a radio listener. This program reminded me of the interview scene in thillu mullu. And I don’t mean it as a compliment. The content was questionable; the presentation bad and the attitude, worse. Why is the average Bay Area Tamil listener getting short changed by 1170AM?

Those that tune in to a desi station do so mostly for nostalgia. To get a quick fix of the language and culture of the old country. Not for spoken English lessons. If I need movie trivia in bad Tamil, I’ll watch Sun TV. The primary objective of 1170AM, and I’m out on a limb here, should be to recreate the magic of AIR and vividhbharathi in a distant land. Bring back the ads for Archana Sweets (Radha, late-a vandhennu kovama? naangu naangu naangu onbadhu ettu naangu) and Saravana Stores (Ranganathan theru, mambalam rayil nilayam arugil.) for God's sake! Imagine driving down Highway 1 on a beautiful spring afternoon after a hearty lunch. In a moment of weakness, I tune in to 1170AM to complete the picture of heaven. The last thing I want to hear is broken Tamil from someone with a mouthful of marbles. (Short name Supi sir! Suppi-yaavdhu guppy-yaavdhu. Get out!) Even if it is an ad for a tax consultant, let it be in good Tamil. Please?

On my missus’ suggestion, I now plan to try out for a radio host at 1170AM. My voice does not have a rich captivating baritone nor do I possess the wit and humor of a Thenkachi Swaminathan. But I have a feel for what is missing from 1170AM and believe that I can provide that. In reasonably good Tamil. Or at least make an earnest attempt. Who knows, maybe on my way out of the interview, I might find myself saying to the next candidate: Candidate-a already mudivu pannittaangappa. Interview ellam eye waas!