Catching up

Alternate title: Eavesdropping is fun

I returned home from work and happened to walk in on a conversation between the missus and the visiting m-i-l over their respective cups of filter coffee. From the names and locations, I gather it was about their friends,acquaintances and relatives from Srirangam, TN. The song Malayoram veesum kaathu was playing mildly in the background. The whole conversation happened, of course, in Tamil. But here is a translation that attempts to retain the flavor.

malayoram veesum kaathu...

Wife: Are you talking about the Narasimhan mama who parts his hair in the middle? (nadu vagudu narasimhan)

M-i-l: amaam, the same person. He insisted that I visit them and took me home. paavam...

W: When I had visited in 2009 with paatti, we'd met Kannan bhattar. He still remembers us and enquired about everyone.

M: mmm...araaro paadinaalum aararo aagadhamma...

W: How is Amudha ma?

M: ul moochu vaanginene...Amudha now runs a shop opposite the temple, selling juice, milk, flowers and thulasi leaves. paavam, she has lost her aambdayan (husband)

W: paavam. What is Sumathi up to?

(Original: Sumathi enna ma pannradhu?)

M: Sumathi has been married off to someone in Uthamarkovil. She even has a kid... malayoram veesum kaathu... Arthi's son has joined engineering.

W: Oh! How is Kamala mami doing?

M: Kamala mami suffers from amnesia. paavam she is like Surya in the movie Ghajini.

(Original: Kamala mamikku amnesia di pavam. Ghajini Surya madhiri irukka.)

W: Is the shop where Rajesh mama used to drink panneer soda still around?

M: Oooh yes, still around. Saw it on my latest trip too. Alas, Dhitti Anjaneyar temple has been relocated...tch

W: Is Paru chithi's friend Vidhya's house still intact?

M: Yes it is. Vidhya is in the US. Her parents are very aged.

Talk then shifts to Mysore.

W: Why did Vasu mama leave Mysore for Srirangam?

M: kuthalathu thenaruvi... Cost of living high di...Srirangam is anyday cheaper. With only his pension, they had to leave. Nurse mami is in the US, visiting her son.

W: What's the news in Prema's household?

M: Sindhu has completed her MBA!

W: Oh...very good!

M: She is in Bangalore now.

W: What does she do?

M: The thing that Miss World and Miss India contestants do...

(Original: adhaan di? indha Miss World Miss India ellam pannuvale?)

W: Modeling?

M: Yes, that is what she does. She has even become Miss. Bangalore.

W: Who, Sindhu? Miss Banagalore? Doesn't she have a rather flat/wooden face? (mara thattu moonjiya irukkume?)

M: No, that's Sandhya. Her elder sister.

W: I'm not convinced. (Calls out my name) Google 'Miss Bangalore Sindhu'...Why did she get into modeling after an MBA? [By this time, I'm sitting with my laptop, typing this up in real time.]

The clock struck 8. The conversation died down, Ilayaraja/SPB/Mohan were dismissed with the click of a remote. Thirumadhi Selvam, a tear jerker soap came on. The m-i-l, who till now sat facing her daughter, turned her chair 180 degrees and faced the screen; their entertainment started while mine ended.

P.S: If you are still reading, Google returned no favorable results for "Sindhu Miss Bangalore". The missus's suspicions were spot on after all.

The Violinist - Part II

Here is part I of this two part series. [I'm not saying you must read it first. But if you did, what follows won't be as big a waste of your time than if you hadn't.]

We knew we were busted as soon as R's summon was read out. A meeting with the director usually meant that something was either very good or very bad. And since R hadn't done anything even vaguely spectacular in his curricular activities, it didn't require too much mental gymnastics to know what was up this time. R stood up deliberately, clicked his pen close and gave us a look. If looks could kill, he could have been charged for mass murder right away.

As he was whisked away, our minds focused on what lay ahead. We had safely ruled out any creative answers from R to defuse the situation and save our lives. You know, something like "I stopped playing since my guru passed away", or perhaps "I only play during the Thyagaraja aradhana in Thiruvaiyyaru" etc. We would have lined up to wash his feet afterwards, I'm sure. Also ruled out was a miracle or a divine intervention during his walk to the office that bestowed on him the skills to perform a stirring rendition of Bach's Chaconne from the second Partita and make the director reach for a tissue. (I looked up "difficult pieces to play on a violin" on the interwebs.) By a method of elimination, aided by our knowledge that coming clean under pressure was R's charcater, we gave ourselves about ten minutes max before he would let the feline life form out of its container. The only question lingering in our mind was whether R took an actual test on a violin. Which, we learned later, wasn't the case.

We had been conservative in our estimate. In 5 minutes, the office lady made her third appearance to be greeted by looks of "What took you so long?" Her missive this time around: round up all the boys in the class, head out to the office. As we approached the said office, R came into sight, as he stood looking folorn in a corner of the passage. An air of heavy silence hung over the place like a blanket as the male half of the class joined him.

Anybody that has watched the Egyptian queen in the opening sequence of the Michael Jackson video Remember the time needs no further introduction to the director. Nobody personified the new rich, the shallow and the bored better than the daughter of the Godfather of engineering education, Jeppiaar. Typical directors would be actively engaged in or directing research, publishing papers, stoking the aspirations of future professionals and may be teaching a final year class or two. None of these for her majesty. Her dad was rich, bad and powerful. And big daddy had given his charming little girl her very own college to run. Unsurprisingly therefore, her list of daily directorial duties involved breakfast, lunch, handling a disciplining session here, presiding over a student humiliation there and slapping an arbitrary fine before driving away in a brand new Merc. Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to Mrs. Sheela BabuManoharan, the Queen Nefertiti of engineering education.

She was quickly brought up to speed on the crime that was committed in section D. In most colleges, this incident wouldn't have registered a blip. Hell, pranks in our high school were more creative and frivolous. But on our college indiscipline scale of 10, our prank ranked a high 8 for its daringness. She gave us a withering look, said nary a word and simply waddled away. This was their classical response: no response. That would keep us guessing as to what lay ahead. After all, isn't the anticipation that is more thrilling than an actual roller coaster ride?

In keeping with standard practice, we were made to stand in front of the office with no chance provided to meet the powers that be to initiate our apology/punishment procedures. I've got no pride: we were beginning to get a lot uneasy. I mean, my high school principal, a strict person with the most authority that I had met till that point, seemed like a loving aunt compared to these guys. Our school principal took the bus to school. These folks drove around in brand new luxury cars. And while the former was an educationalist, these were ex-mafioso posing as businessmen who wouldn't think twice about spoiling someone's academic life. Thoughts of a curtailed undergraduate education did cross our minds. Would only the first 6 months of an engineering program amount to something in the job market?

But after 3 days of the standing out routine, the management somehow got wind of the fact that perhaps we were beginning to "enjoy" this sentence. With no classes, food on time and a bus ride to and from the college this seemed like a vacation rather than a sentence. For a few days, we were like, I don't know, regular college students? We were then barred from taking the bus which hurt as it meant taking public transport from what was essentially middle of nowhere in pre-real-estate-boom Chennai. But still, it was not too unbearable. If these moves were meant to break us down, they ranked somewhere between "useless" and "counter-productive" and we seemed to show very little by way of repentance with time passing.

Then one fine morning, out of the blue, Queen Sheela initiated the trial. She was flanked by the principal Mrs. Jolly sycophant Abraham and the HOD of Mechanical Engg Mr. Yes-man Jose, who I suspect held secret aspirations of toppling the former and hence made regular appearances at these trials.

Sheela: You must be ashamed.

Jolly: Oh yes, ashamed.

Jose: Ashamed you must be.

Sheela: You are not students.

Jolly: No. Not at all.

Jose: Rowdies are what you are.

Sheela: Even I have children.

Jolly: But they are well behaved.

Jose: Hey Jolly, you stole my response!

Just as things were flowing smoothly towards the regulation apology letter before being allowed to resume classes, Sheela's detective skills were stirred.

Sheela: Who shouted out R's name?

Jolly and Jose: Yes, yes who did?

*crickets chirping*

Multiple rounds of persistent questioning yielded nothing more than incoherent murmurs. Stunned by the resistance that was being put up, shotgun justice was dispensed. Our academic records were pulled out. The top ranker, Daniel George, was threatened with dire consequences unless he identified the culprits. Instead of mumbling his ignorance and falling silent, he launched into an expansive lecture of how if he pointed at someone, that someone would in turn point at a third guy and that it would be a never ending game. He earned an arbitrary yet well deserved steep fine. But more importantly,he made it clear for the rest of us that academic performance was one thing and street smartness was quite another. You don't teach the nuances of money making to Suresh Kalmadi!

Every one of us was asked to pay some arbitrary fine. Keeping those mercs running ain't cheap. The apology letter was asked for and filed. It touched upon the usual topics of realization, discipline and repentance with promises of good behavior in the times to come. Upon Jose's recommendation, for good measure, the usual suspects were also asked to bring their parents. And they did what was the right thing to do: hire parents from Kodambakkam rather than bring the original ones. We even made a few last minute changes in assigning parents so as to not get caught in a back-to-back scandal. One dad-on-hire even went to the extent of slapping his "son" in front of the director, asking him to behave well. He earned his keep.

Jose and Jolly Abraham then sermonized us on morals, student ethics and college discipline, trying to out do each other in impressing Sheela. While her ego was sufficiently massaged by all of this, she never quite got to know just who it was that proposed R's name.

(Original image is from here. Excuse my poor MS Paint skills.)

As for R, he earned some interesting nick names and became the butt of quite a few jokes that involved either a violin or music in general. This incident never did any harm to our friendship. If anything, we became even better friends.

Oh, and the orchestra that year was short of a violinist. Apparently, the closest that they ever came to finding one was R himself.

The Violinist - Part I

Early this morning (or was it last night?), my faithful dream machine beamed up a scene where I'm back in college and applying for a week's leave. What for? I don't know/remember. But what is clear is that I have a heavy sense of foreboding as I submit the letter with much apprehension and anxiety to the big boss of the institution himself. As if I were committing a sin. But I can easily rationalize the dream given the notoriety that my alma mater has earned for itself concerning issues of student discipline. Here is a related entry, if you really should know. Anyways, as I woke up, this blast from the past dream opened up the floodgates to memories from the four years that I spent pursuing a degree in engineering. And thus inspired me to weave a post from a college anecdote.

This was an incident that happened in my first year (freshman class). The college day function, an event that had as much potential for fun as a dentist appointment, was around and preparations were afoot in right earnest. A bit about the way this was held in our college wouldn't be out of place here. I'm sure you have, at some point in time, attended a birthday party of a one-year old. The one where all the arrangements are made by the parents: they decide the guests, the menu, the theme and they decide when the party begins and ends. All that the toddler is required to do, as he is carried in arms to the table, is to look pretty and try to blow out the solitary candle. Well, our college day festivities had the feel of one such party where we, the students, were the toddlers, while the staff and management played the role of strict parents. Any chance for the students to either exhibit or acquire organizational skills were clinically nipped in the bud and then stomped over for good measure. All that the student body had to do was show up, behave well and put on an impression of having been entertained and everybody went home happy. [Atfer 4 years of this routine, a lot of us were well prepared to take on real life where an impression of being happy was called upon more often than the annual affair at college.]

The festivities would have an unmistakable Talibanesque flavor with clearly demarcated events for the two genders. Each side of the male-female divide would come up with a perfunctory dance performance, a clumsy fashion show and the regulation skit peppered with insipid jokes. Not to mention the inevitable "Modern Ramayana" or "Modern Mahabharatha" set to the latest songs that got thrown into the mix. But the one event that stood out was the musical extravaganza where each batch contributed to the cacophony. [In keeping with the rules we were operating under, I can't remember of any duets being performed as that would require a male student to share the dais with a girl student.] This event also saw the odd member or two of the teaching staff put their vocal skills to use for something other than peddling engineering concepts. Usually with varying degrees of success. Participation from other colleges was deemed illegal and any notions vaguely resembling fun and frolic were deemed blasphemous. In short, we were the Afghanistan of engineering colleges.

Since we were in the first year, nobody quite knew what our individual musical abilities were, and the parents, err, the management were scouting for students gifted with the ability to play various instruments. We were informed that most performers had been identified and that the first year orchestra only required the services of a single violinist to be deemed complete. Which was why a lady from the office entered our class that fateful day, paper and pen in hand, looking to hunt down that elusive violinist among the studious pursuers of academic excellence.

This was a few months into the year and clear groups had already been formed based on mutual interests (cricket), abilities (cricket) and we were a bunch of guys that stuck around, collaborating over many assignments, class tests and other academic misadventures. Besides the many hours of playing cricket under the sun, that is. We were in our teens, brimming with creative energy to be squandered on anything that held the faintest promise of fun or adventure. So it came to pass that we proposed, rather loudly, the name of a friend from this group, R, for the vacancy of the violinist. For some reason, the rest of the class that had been silent till that moment, somehow sniffed out his hidden musical abilities and soon his name was being cried out by a vocal group. The guy looked up in genuine surprise and started to protest but the rest of us were loud enough to convince the office lady that she had discovered a second L Subramaniam in I year, section D.

It must be added, for the benefit of the innocent readers, that we were fully aware that he was as accomplished a violinist as Pratibha Patil is a president. For non-Indian readers (just play along, will you?), he was not a violinist even by the widest stretch of imagination. The guy was a fine chap alright: he was a good friend, one could count on him to knock up a few quick runs in a tight run chase, was always up for some fun, and didn't earn the displeasure of the rest of us with a startling display of academic brilliance. Ever. But truth be told, he couldn't play the violin to save his life. On a good day his musical knowledge would have perhaps allowed him, at the most, to identify the cello as a XXL violin. Not his fault entirely, mind you. Here is a thousand words on his abilities:

(The image is from here where there are a few more funny cartoons and a couple of violinist jokes to boot, if you are interested.)

I don't know what held R back from making it clear to the lady that he had no appreciable skills in the fine art of playing a violin. Or handle any object with the potential to put forth a musical note for that matter. Perhaps he had noticed that the otherwise indifferent girls in the room were now paying attention to the musician in the class. Or perhaps he was hesitant to rise and announce aloud that he was violin-challenged in a class with a significant number of members of the opposite sex. [He had perhaps worked out the "I-chose-not-to-play" defense in his mind already, if at all questioned by a girl later.] Or maybe he simply got carried away by the moment while his name was being cried out aloud. Whatever the reason, and if memory serves, he stopped his protests, flashed a bright smile, waved his hand at the office lady who was watching the proceedings with marked indifference, and sat down as she pencilled in his name with an air of finality. Whether he had intended to catch a hold of her later after class and clarify the whole thing is one for conjecture.

From years of watching Discovery Channel, you're familiar with the routine of capturing specimens of rare and endangered species for relocation to safe enclosures for study and protection, right? I'm talking about that kakhi clad white guy, chest deep in a murky river somwehere in Borneo trying to capture a python that looks like a freight train or the one sawing off the horn of a sedated, endangered rhino in Botswana to implant a transponder (and you are trying not to gag on the heavenly sambhar sadham that you are savoring). Well, since Albert Einstein, I suspect that violinists with more than a passing interest in science/engineering have found a spot on the endangered species list. So much so that, whenever one is spotted, immediate capture and scrutiny by the authorities follows. I can offer no other explanation for the office lady's reappearance in less than five minutes since the commotion from her first had died down, with a message that the director of the college wanted to meet R.

Soon with the rest...

No headscarf, Obama may skip Golden Temple visit

No headscarf, Obama may skip Golden Temple visit

This line caught my eye: "Indian officials were informally told that Obama wearing a headscarf to visit the Golden Temple may convey an image of him appearing to be a Muslim. This is one misinterpretation Obama’s advisors did not want at any cost, given the political sensitivities over this issue in the US."

A pleasant change from our homegrown politicians with "secular" leanings scrambling for a skull cap to sip porridge during Ramzan's rearranged mealtimes.

Also, compare against the Group of Morons (GoM) that wanted to have some Islam during the CWG ceremonies.

The great CWG Delhi 2010 caption contest

A picture is worth a thousand words. OK, maybe not all of them. But this one could definitely yield a few captions at least. I'm listing the ones that sprang to my mind, do contribute yours in the comments. The 3 best ones will win a $125 first-aid kit, a $80 roll of tissue paper and a $61 soap dispenser.

1. "Look ma! No shame!"
2. "Corruption? Where?"
3. Introducing the $ 200 eye covers for a good night's sleep
4. Sniff! Kalmadi demonstrates how to find your way around in the CWG village at night
5. "Dreaming about the Olympics"
6. An austere Kalmadi's idea for a simple "closing ceremony"

The picture is from here where excerpts from the maestro's interview are available.

Hey Laxman!

Watching Laxman's knock (As in refreshing cricinfo, cricbuzz and towards the end, rediff websites on two different browsers. While at work.) was almost like watching Nero fiddling while Rome burned. Except, this time Nero played Amruthavarshini and doused the flames.

P.S1: "Very Very Special" sounded OK in 2001. Never since. Repeating it, you sound very very stupid. I'm not even going to get into "Laxman rekha" territory.

P.S2: Thanks to every journalist doctor that has provided a clean chit for test cricket's health.

P.S3: I borrowed the title from someone on facebook who had, in turn, borrowed it from someone else on twitter.

Endhiran

Endhiran takes Tamil cinema where it has never been before. Shankar has dared to tread on grounds that have thus far been considered exclusively Hollywood territory. The subject, the story and narration have been handled well given that robotics isn't what you expect to be classified as entertainment in Indian movies. With the kind of team that has been assembled, Shankar ensures that when you walk out of the theater, you would have experienced a technically brilliant show that is thoroughly professional - definitely a first in Indian movies. The movie also shines just enough light on the potentials of humanoids and even touches upon the ethics involved thereof, without getting too technical. We will miss you Sujatha, the CTO of Tamil cinema! And finally, it does not get preachy as Shankar's movies traditionally do, avoiding the 'a social issue - a vigilante - societal change' path. Kudos to Shankar. And finally, Rajinikanth sizzles in 2 of the three roles - Chitti and Chitti gone wild. A R Rahman's music somehow fails to register. Yet again.

--------------------------------------------

Nearly 24 hrs after watching the movie, the one question that keeps coming up in my mind is, did it really require Rajinikanth?

Shankar has come up with a plot that requires extensive graphics and animations to wow the audience. Doing justice to capture this kind of a story called for a huge budget. Make no mistake, this is big. Even by Shankar's standards. But quite frankly, Indian audiences will not be wow-ed by graphics alone anymore. Yes, we grew up on a staple diet of Ramanand Sagar/B R Chopra's interpretations of the nagasthras and brahmasthras on Sunday mornings. But post Jurassic Park, when extinct reptiles were resuscitated on screen, the jaw doesn't drop as it used to for good graphics. The director and producer were compelled to rope in enormous star power and pursue aggressive marketing to recover the kind of money that was sunk in. So, strictly from a business stand point, this movie demanded riding piggy back on brand Rajini to make it financially viable. Which also explains casting Aishwarya Rai for an eye candy role that anybody could have played. [Not to be misunderstood as a compliment for her histrionic capabilities.] Or the elaborate and extensive music launch and trailer release, for that matter.

At the same time, the subject is completely new and alien to Tamil cinema. While it is a bold and welcome step in a different direction with the potential to take Indian movie making to a higher technical plane, Rajini as a robotics/artificial intelligence expert turns out to be somewhat less than convincing. Dot. Shankar and K. Maran spread jamakalams, laid out banana leaves and sprinkled water. And then served gourmet pizza and perfectly done pasta. While the guests would have been justified in expecting a 3 course South Indian meal, complete with vadai, payasam and appalam.

I like the man as the next guy. But Rajini has a certain image and charm that have been cultivated over the years. And these made him the super star that he is today. So when a Rajini movie gets announced, certain minimum expectations are rightly set amidst the fan base. But casting the man in roles that take him away from his image for purely business reasons, in my opinion, is not justified. Would you watch a game of ice hockey even if Sachin Tendulkar played forward? Perhaps Vikram would have been a better choice; sufficient yet convincing. Reminds me of a Dilbert comic strip.

Debates apart, it will now be established that Tamil cinema has the clout to afford the best movie technicians and still make money. Take that Karan Johar, SRK and the rest of the Khan gang! Yay! But personally I'd prefer a "typical" Rajini movie and get my CG/FX fix from some Hollywood flick.

The wedding video

In the whole Indian marriage set up, the single most wasteful expenditure must easily be the money coughed up for getting the whole thing captured on tape or DVD. But sadly, together with the loud light music troupe and carved vegetables, the videographers complete the three most integral components of any wedding happening right now in India. Besides saving the memories for purposes of unleashing upon unsuspecting guests at a later date, the lensmen serve two other critical objectives: trip every well dressed lady with their criss-crossing cables and block everyone's view of the ongoing ceremony. As a result, the couple enter wedlock, blissfully unaware of the pandemonium breaking out just beyond the human wall of the cameramen and their crew (the lightmen who ensure that the dais is always a pleasant 45 deg C and the cable guys who, unsurprisingly, are exponents of the fine art of bamboo dancing). As the bride and the groom take their first steps in matrimonial union and as their parents heave a sigh of relief and perhaps wipe that tear of joy, gold laden ladies go down in a cloud of fine kanjeevaram and perfume and the thathas and paattis and the aged clansmen (who would have held the wedding couple in their arms when they bore a striking resemblance to a footlong Subway sandwich on parmesan oregano) feebly hurl their share of the akshadai in the general direction of the trouser seats of the camera crew hoping fervently that at least their blessings are potent enough to penetrate the wall.

For a while, the viedogprahers' domination over any and all domestic functions starting from a kaadhu kuthal to the wedding was complete. But with camcorders coming within the expanding reach of the middle class, the smaller functions have been liberated from their grip. People woke up to the reality that jerky zooms and spooky lighting notwithstanding, that otherwise useless cousin/friend can capture it for free. Why pay Vel Videos a small fortune? But when it comes to the big daddy of all functions, the wedding, the professional camera guys still call the shots around the hall. In true Seinfeld style, if aliens were watching a wedding ceremony, they will have enough reason to conclude that the cameramen are the highest life forms on earth - they are the closest to the action, they create a powerful glow, occupy the best seats in the house. And, to remove any doubt, the guests throw flower petals at their rear ends.

The wedding memories, burned into 2 sets of DVDs, are relived exactly once: to verify that the special effects requested for are in place before settling the cameraman's bills. I'm talking about the bride's pancaked face coming bouncing in from the top right of the screen or the groom's image spinning at 4200 rpm and coming to rest in a heap at the bride's feet to the accompaniment of the hottest item number from the latest release. Once verified, they are promptly archived in the shelves marked "Ewww...never again." (As I type this, the fruitless search to locate our missing wedding DVD is now over an year old.)

On a related note, and I know this is going to make me sound ancient, the advent of the camera phones has led to every one in possession of one whipping it out to capture everything from the swami porappadu from the local temple to his friend's daughter's first sneeze. Nobody seems interested in experiencing any unfolding event with their own eyes and enjoy it anymore. Hands that once instinctively tapped the cheeks when they saw a swami porappaadu now reach for the pocket instead, to fish out that Nokia or Sony Ericsson. The motive is simple. If it is worth seeing, it is worth blocking the next person's view and recording. Any event has to be first captured rather than be experienced. And with the satisfaction that they have it stored as a bunch of bytes, go about ignoring it.

Against this backdrop, the program namma veettu kalyanam on Vijay TV seems to bluntly suggest that the creative juices, and I'm using this term very loosely, have run dry. When you are harvesting wedding videos for anything outside of the realms of "America's Funniest Videos", the programming head honchos might as well say, "Guys, this is it. We, as a team, admit that we have lost it. We've officially hit rock bottom and can't get any lower in trying to fill 30 minutes of air time."

For the uninitiated, this program chronicles celebrity weddings with the aid of their wedding videos and ample insight provided by the principal participants of the said wedding. Celebrities of "I've been in the audience for a reality show once in 2006" fame and insight as in regurgitating the minutiae of their wedding arrangements.

As a sidenote, Vijay TV can be charged with grooming the most "celebrities on tap" via the reality/talent show participant --> winner --> compere --> own show --> celebrity grind. Or the much quicker I'm a washed up movie star --> TV stardom is my entitlement regimen. I'm looking at you Radhika, Kushboo and Anu Hasan. But back to the story.

Mr and Mrs. Have beens sit down to walk us through their wedding. Of particular interest is when they throw light on the many and unique difficulties that they had faced en route to the altar.

- We had planned for 900 guests and 1300 turned up. But the chef somehow scrambled to fix dinner for everyone.

- He had chosen a mauve shirt that didn't complement my beige saree and we had to rush to change his shirt the night before. It got us all tensed up...

- Star X was away in shooting and could not attend. We were devastated. But he called up to wish us afterwards.

And with the inevitable inter-caste/religious marriages, the whole "I wasn't familiar with their customs" routine gets played out. "I'm a Nattukottai Chetty with just a faint suggestion of Nadar while he is an orthodox Syrian Christian with 2 tbsp of Jat somewhere in the lineage and we got married in a rundown synagogue...." OK, may be not that exotic but you get the general drift.

The next time this show comes on, I'm going to hunt for my own wedding DVD.

Performance rating

Mahathi: நீங்க பாடினதுல அங்கஅங்க சின்ன சின்ன mistakes இருக்கு. Correct பண்ணிக்கணம். மத்தபடி OK. [A few minor mistakes need to be rectified. Overall you did fine]

Contestant: Yes ma'am

Mahathi: So நான் உங்களுக்கு...(a yellow lamp glows) [I'll give you a yellow.]

Specificity seems to be the middle name of this straight shooting nightingale. Making money shouldn't be this simple. Sadly, it seems so.

Image is from here.

An interesting offer

Just so that we are clear, this ad was for the furniture from Picket and Rail.

The Hindu : Columns / Sainath : How right you are, Dr. Singh

Yet another candid and biting piece from P. Sainath

The Hindu : Columns / Sainath : How right you are, Dr. Singh

following this (Thanks Swarna!) and this.

Back!

A short essay on a recent trip to Chennai:

I love Singapore.*

* This is definitely not a typical neoNRI-ian rant. May be a cathartic post is in order...

All in a day's work

I was update it for your advises and we need to delivery it to the customer on the (insert proprietary TLA) kits parts missing also I did now know what is our commitment or agreement with this customer's on this (insert proprietary TLA) kits before tool shipping about.

Actual and entire contents of a work email from a senior, non-native English speaking colleague from the far east. Bad translation software or a brave colleague?

Dear Mani

I've never been a great fan of your movies. That said, your best film, IMO, is still Mouna Ragam. Nothing since has done anything to change my opinion. But after watching the latest offering "Raavanan", I have a few suggestions. I'm no movie critic and these are aimed solely at maximizing the ROI on my ticket money and time:

1. When you get started on your next movie, hire a professional to write the dialogs. Pssst...Suhasini is NOT one. While on dialogs, a response to a question is an answer. Not another question. Your characters should not be allowed to ask more than one question at a time. Watching your movies shouldn't feel like watching the rapid fire round in a quiz competition. One word dialogs? Niruthanam!

2. Stop experimenting with non-linear narration. As a remedy, I suggest you watch any SP Muthuraman/Bagyaraj movie. Or any random movie from the 80s and 90s for that matter. Each one is a study in linear narration with the audience being amply made aware of the single, regulation foray into the past with the aid of the "flashback"; complemented by a subtle defocus, a spinning disc and perhaps a little psychedelic music. Keep it simple.

3. Thirunelveli is a nice place. Agreed. But you must come out of that district and set your story in some other part of Tamilnadu instead. Quite frankly, you're using that place a bit like the reddish brown, generic gravy common to any and all *masala dishes in a cheap North Indian restaurant. So it is with utmost affection that I say, "Get the hell out of Thirunelveli."

4. Stop chasing a pan Indian audience. If you are trying to ensure a Dadasahib Phalke, I'm afraid that you are a "Madarasi". And no matter what you do/don't do, a Karan Johar or a Shah Rukh will beat you to it. Yes, we don't live in a fair world. Making Hindi movies is fine. But trying to make the same thing in both languages at the same time seems to result in two average movies. And I'll go out on a limb and say that people would rather like one good movie. I'll have to quote Visu/Balachandar/Poornam Vishwanathan again - "tamizhan tamizhana irukkanam, telungan telungana irukkanam."

5. Talking of a pan Indian audience, you should part ways with ARR. The problem is that while you are chasing all India audiences, ARR is busy wooing the world at large. As a result, your movies are "local" in neither content nor music, leaving Tamil audiences shortchanged. It was a good run with ARR for, what, about 10 movies? I say leave us with the good memories. On the same note, you should probably pay Ilayaraja a visit, and see if he will score music for you again. If he won't, and why would he, you should drive straight to Harris Jayaraj's place and seek an appointment. My point being: ditch ARR.

6. Two words: people watch. Wear a disguise and watch people go about their lives. And you'll probably realize that society, as you try to paint in your movies, does NOT exist. Hints: People don't quote literature all the time, stuff happens outside Thirunelveli too, people live in well lit houses and talk in complete sentences complete with a subject, an object and a verb in them. In other words, people behave normally.

Thanks.

Senility is a sad thing

After reading this, all that I can say is: God save the queen long enough to outlive her dimwitted son.

Talk to your doctor if this post is right for you *

Since I'm in the US on travel, I get to see all these TV commercials for a whole bunch of drugs. Drugs that claim to provide relief against the entire spectrum of malaises that afflict mankind. Starting from your springtime allergies, nasal congestion, restless leg syndrome and such including a set of others related to bodily functions and conditions that we will not list here in order to retain this blog's PG-13 rating. These ads are not creatively spectacular - shots of happy looking people in a green meadow walking slowly into a sunset, a middle aged lady looking out a window on a grey day and petting a cat, a 50 something couple sitting down for dinner, etc. (sometimes these folks are out of focus) while the voiceover outlines the benefits of the magic pill. And the disclaimer. It is the disclaimer part that never fails to catch my attention.

"This is not suitable for everyone. Don't take this if you are using nitrates for a heart condition. This drug is known to cause swelling of the throat, bleeding of the upper mouth, skin rashes, slight dizziness, confusion, lowering of skills and the ability to focus. In rare cases this formula can cause a liver condition that can sometimes become fatal... "And so on and so forth.

May be I'm wrong here, but don't the symptoms appear the same as that for rat poison? Excuse me if I sound rude, but is nasal congestion that bad compared to a potentially fatal condition? Really folks? When you are dead, what value does a clear nasal passage provide?

People at the funeral might go "Poor guy. His liver ruptured and the spleen haemorrhaged. The lungs melted away and his skin fell off. But the nose? The doctor confirmed that the nose was as clean as a whistle. No congestion whatsoever..."

Should such a lethal concoction even be allowed to be manufactured or sold to the public? Much less, advertised on prime time television?

These disclaimers finish with the mandatory "Talk to your doctor if is right for you" part. Yeah right. Honey, no offense, but I don't think I need a doctor to tell me that this drug is not right but downright lethal. And, in the event that the doctor does say this is right for me, he'll have to pin me to the ground and force feed it down my throat. If you ask me, a more appropriate disclaimer would be "Keep out of reach of children. Wash your hands thoroughly when you come in contact. Contact your doctor immediately if accidentally ingested." with a smiling skull and crossed bones in red.

And since I'm on this, might as well touch upon the devilish disclaimer's first cousin: the stupid statutory warning. It really annoys me when the "Smoking/drinking is injurious to health" comes up when someone lights up on screen. Perhaps the research results indicate that such a message has some positive effect, although I seriously doubt it.

The other day for example, I saw two "bad guys" on TV plotting two kill someone off. In an effort to get into character and showcase their meanness as they were discussing the merits of the methods at their disposal, they were both drinking and drawing on cigarettes. The flashing statutory warning below read: "kudi kudiyai kedukkum. pugai pidithal naattukkum veettukkum kedu." etc.. [Standard statutory warning message in Tamil.]

The guys were plotting to kill someone for Godssakes! The message that I get is: Hey if you want to nuke some place, I'm actually fine. Here, take some nuclear fuel, here is the detonator, a city map and keys to my pick-up truck. May I suggest the train station or the city center? Have fun! But...put out that cigarette please. No smoking, that's not on. Really.

On an aside, how would you rather like your villain to be? A clean shaven, well manicured, smartly dressed, green tea drinking, hybrid car driving, 9-5 job villain that knocks on the guy's door before shooting him in the face? And then even calls The Hindu obituary to inform that his victim slept in the Lord? At Rs. 100+ for the tickets, the bad guy better look evil, brew his liquor and roll his own cigarettes!

And compared to some of the stuff that gets beamed on TV, you are better off lighting up or may be even getting drunk. Which is exactly why I propose this message instead:

Dear parent, if smoking and drinking are the only things your kid picks up after watching this fellow/lady (in the case of mega serials, you know), believe me, you can be proud that you've raised a good one!

And that, boys and girls, is what I'd call sensible statutory warning.

* What's a post on disclaimers without a disclaimer of its own? Although, all I want to say is: thanks for reading and come back.

I need more hands to count all that money

I recently received this piece of, well, good fortune out of the blue. And instead of keeping it under wraps, I thought I'd share it with all of you. Please stand by for the name of the yacht aboard which I shall host a party to toast my success.

Dear Sir,,

My Name is [Mr Brown Robinson Citizen a Member of Omnipart Team.

I got your esteemed contact during my search, am looking for a capable,

reliable and trustworthy individual from your country India.

My Proposal:

There is a multi-national Gold and NATURAL PRECIOUS STONE company based in

the Dubai whom I would like you to stand in as a middleman between me and

this Gold and NATURAL PRECIOUS STONE multi-national company in united

kingdom.

I am acting as their consultant; This Company will visit your country to

buy their raw materials in a huge quantity.

But the problem I am having with the dealer in your country is language

hence, I would like you to assist me and be part of this business in your

country as both of us will be making substantial dividends at the end of

every transaction with this company anytime they visit India to buy this

materials.

Please your participation will not hinder you from your original Business

/ activities but you and I will be making huge profits at the end of every

supply made to the Dubai Company. Respond as quickly as possible for more

details.

I await your urgent response.

Yours truly,

Brown Robinson.

Omnipart

To which I've responded thusly:

Dear Mr. Brown,

Let me see if I get this straight. You, Brown Robinson, a citizen member of the Omnipart team, is willing to take me, a complete stranger in every sense of the word, to be your Indian partner. And a reliable one at that.

OK, I'm going to be real nice and not ask questions that may be perceived as rude. Like, How in the name of God did you get my friggin' email id?, for instance. I mean, here you are, taking me into complete confidence to do business with you and it simply isn't etiquette to probe your selection methods, even if they seem downright fishy.

Moving on to this business proposal itself, let's see: you want me to liaise with this dealer in India, who, I'm sure, you'll introduce me to at a later stage, to buy Gold and NATURAL PRECIOUS STONEs on your behalf. Hmmm. I share a relationship with gold that can be best summarized thus: None. That's right, none. You see, I'm not that into the gold/jewelry thing. And the only Karat that I'm familiar with is a communist with a disproportionately large bindi. And by the looks of it, she doesn't seem to be too fond of gold either. Take a look for yourself.

I mean, the last thing we want on our hands is the Dubai folks taking both of us to task for getting them anything less than the very best, right? I'm told that guys in sheikh's garb may drive fast cars and live in modern palaces but still chose very medieval methods of punishment. But wait a minute, reading further down your mail, I see that you have chosen me to specifically overcome the language barrier. Now, that changes the whole game doesn't it? I don't have to know a thing about gold and yet help you. What a relief!

Dubai, gold, export. I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but I'm sure that the Indian language you have in mind is indhi, I mean, Hindi. I don't believe in bluffing my way to get a job. So let me come clean to you Mr. Brown. You see, I possess this rather serious handicap when it comes to indhi...oops, Hindi skills. Brief history: In the 80's, it was a firmly held belief in the South that a sound knowledge of Hindi is a life-saving skill that anyone aspiring to amount to something in life should possess. But I come from a state that has a rather rich history opposing Hindi. May be it is in the air or something, but to cut a long story short, four different teachers and a few years later, I'm as familiar with Hindi as I'm with gold. Now that I've come this far, I feel OK telling you this. Recently I watched 3 Idiots (A famous movie in, yes, Hindi) with my wife. Chatur was delivering a supposedly very funny speech and while the rest of the theater (including my wife) were rolling on the floor, holding their intestines, tears in the eyes, I sat there watching as if Chatur was being neutered on screen. You get the drift, right? But don't worry. I can scrub and polish my Hindi and bring it from its current "Ek gaon mein ek kisan" depths to a business-worthy level. And since numbers will be of much importance, you will be glad to know that, thanks to a certain movie song, I'm already very familiar with numbers up to 13. That's right, No: 13.

So when can I start? There's something I need to make very clear to you. You have approached me while I'm in the midst of what can only be termed as a great financial run. Allow me to clarify. You know Mark, right? What?! You don't know Sir Mark Dulles? He's the coordinator of the Online Promo Programme of the UK National Lottery, silly! I've just forwarded him my bank account details to transfer the £2,500,000.00GBP(TWO MILLION FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND POUNDS STERLING) that I've won. I initially had some doubts if this was a scam or something that's going on all around. But then he is the fiduciary agent of the National Lottery Board of the UK, alright? Do you even know what fiduciary means? Neither do I. And, to kill all doubt, he has been knighted, for God-sakes! The queen doesn't go around conferring knighthoods on thugs. OK, that Allan Stanford guy was a mistake. But, hey, Sir Dulles furnishes my exact lottery details: REFERENCE NUMBER:Ref:UK/9420X2/68 BATCH: 074/05/ZY369. If this ain't legal, I don't know what is.

Anyways, I'll be in London to collect my winnings. Once done, in may be a week or so, onwards to beautiful Nigeria. Why there, you might ask. Does the name Dr. Clement Okon ring a bell? Well, he is the top official of the Federal Govt. Contract Review Panel over there. This Dr. Okon has recently chosen me, through rigorous selection criteria, as his overseas partner and offered me an irresistible deal. If you are willing to keep this to yourself, here are the details: I help him route a sum of US$21,320,000 (TWENTY MILLION THREE HUNDRED TWENTY THOUSAND U.S DOLLARS) through my account in return for a 30% share of the pie. I know! I told you right, that this is a great time for me on the financial front? In fact, I almost missed out on this proposal. I came across this gem while I was clearing my junk mail folder. Good fortune seems to find me somehow. But spare a thought for poor Dr. Okon. I don't envy his position. Having to clean up the financial mess created by the previous military regime, a raging civil war and all that. Life ain't easy Mr. Brown. And living in a globalized world, I can't ignore the call of duty to extend this favor to get this fund released so that he can use it to resume his "importation business". God help him!

Back to our story. Give me a month while I finish up pending business in London and Lagos. But rest assured that I'll be carrying a copy of "Learn Hindi in 30 days" and a DVD of 3 Idiots (starring Brown "Rancho" Robinson, Sir Mark "Farhan" Dulles and Dr. Clement "Raju" Okon). Upon my return, I shall be able to take on the gold dealers and together we can start supplying the Dubaians (Or is it Dubaiites?) with all the gold they'll ever want. I chose to post my reponse to you here rather than by mail so that my readers (all 3 of them) can be made aware of my good fortune and that they should expect a delay in posts.

Achcha Brown-ji. Namaste,

Slow electron-hain. (What can I tell ya, I'm a quick starter)

Hotel Saravana Bhavan

I refuse to bow down to Hotel Saravana Bhavan (HSB), the tallest peak in Chennai's bhavan-scape and arguably the big daddy among the vegetarian restaurants in Chennai. There, you heard it. I'm a rebel of sorts, refusing to be drowned out by the oohs and aahs from the many who venerate the brand and consider a meal there as the ultimate culinary experience under the Chennai sun. Before you think that I'm claiming moral high ground, my avoiding HSB has no connection with the cocktail of crimes that the management has been accused of. For all I know, the owner of the local Sree Bhavan (Adayar) that I used to visit could make Sandalwood Veerappan look like a gardener or Sangeetha's owner make Auto Shankar look like an eve-teaser from Nandanam Arts College.

So why do I hate a brand that is considered as integral a part of the Chennai experience as Marina, Ranganathan street and fleecing auto drivers?

Save for a quick bite at their Vellore outlet en route to Bangalore, I've stopped patronizing HSB since the late 80s which was when one could enter their restaurant and actually find a vacant seat during meal time without having to subtly nudge the elbow of a patron getting medieval on a masal dosai or cough in the general direction of someone trying to send back the final dregs of an expensive coffee in order to announce your arrival and speed things up. (Although, these attempts, more often than not, turn out to be counter-productive.) Well, the scene isn't all that different at the other bhavans, I agree. But even from those visits, my collective HSB memories are limited to getting charged by an unapologetic cashier for a thayir sadham that had a finger nail clipping in it (may be it was from a toe, I'm not sure) while a life-sized Kripananda Vaariyar was smiling down upon us from behind him (HSB, Vadapalani), being reprimanded by a burlesque supervisor in an olive green safari for sharing an item from a "u-share-this-i-break-ur-face" meal (HSB, KK Nagar aka The Mothership) and our Bajaj Chetak getting bumped by their delivery van on Mahalakshmi street in T Nagar.

Call me quirky, but multi-hued uniforms, matador vans bearing the phone nos. of their various branches and ever shrinking, ever expensive portions (HSB definition: A bonda will have exactly 6.023X10^ 23 bondons, at Re 1 per bondon, fried with leftover oil from Milikan's oil drop experiment.) just don't turn me on. So if there exists an overall "HSB experience", then I'm not aware of it.

You know that fraying banian (vest) that you haven't quite given an honorary discharge and thus is still a part of your wardrobe? You don't usually go for it and thus it gravitates to the bottom of the stack and languishes there until either your laundry laziness or a rainy week makes you reach for it? Well, being in Singapore, HSB is that ill-fated banian. The choice of vegetarian restaurants here, even if limited to a handful of eatouts clustered around Mustafa stores, is enough to keep me happy most of the time. But every once in a while, I look beyond them just to break the monotony.

So when a colleague of mine was visiting on a rainy afternoon, I dragged him over to HSB on Syed Alwi Lane for lunch, thus trying to revive a relationship gone cold. We both placed our first orders which arrived without incident. On to the second dish. Mine, the regulation onion rava, arrived and his didn't. So I decided to wait for his dish. After a few minutes, I started to nibble at the edges of my OR. His dish was yet to arrive when I was using the last piece to mop up the remaining traces of tri colored chutney off my plate. The food was not worth writing about but the service was. And write I did on their customer feedback register - a 100 word entry that gave vent to my feelings about the franchise. Amidst all the outpurings vouching for the value, taste and clean food, mine suggested various other businesses that the management should consider. I stormed out of that place with a full heart and a half-full pit, vowing never to go there again. Ever.

For reasons outlined earlier, I've been there twice since (over 2+ years) and just as they maintain the taste and consistency of their sambar down to an atomic level across their outlets, they have maintained their service levels exactly at very bad levels.

The common problems that afflict this place, in my opinion, are:

2 floor seating: It is a double edged sword. Yes, the dining space is nearly doubled and hence little to no waiting. But when you factor in indifferent waiters having to climb flights of stairs to get you the food, the quality of service comes down. Moreover, their staff persuade us to wait and take a seat below rather than go upstairs. A choice between bad service below or delayed bad service above.

Sample this real conversation I had with one of their staff (Italics show the unsaid responses, of course):

Ajay Devgan look-alike: Sir, where are you going? (Abey kidhar jaa rahe ho tu?)

Me: The ground floor dining hall is full. (To take part in the mushaira upstairs and read out a couple of shayaris that I've composed. Hell, last I heard, this is Saravana Bhavan and I'm here for some grub.)

AD: Sir, wait here (pointing to the ground floor entrance) (I dare you to climb one more stair...)

After about 10 minutes, he located a yet-to-be-cleared table and insisted that we sit there.

Hindi Speaking Bearers (HSB): I don't know about you, but when I walk into a *.Bhavan, I want idly, vadai, dosai and sambar. Not iddely, wadaw, dosaw or samburr. The next thing you know, they'll start calling idiyappam as idyuppum and adai as adey. Wait, they have started doing that already! And for the record, it is appalam (pronounced appalaan) and NOT pappad! God help the guy that asks Anil Kapoor for an extra cup of kaarakkuzhmbu or poricha koottu to be brought from one floor below. For some reason, Poornam Vishwanathan's dialog in Thillumullu is ringing in my ears: "tamizhan tamizhana irukkanam, telungan telungana irukkanam..."

Technology: All South Indian waiters evolved from sweaty, oily men processing multiple orders in their brain and relaying orders to the kitchen by a 150 dB yell in the general direction of the source of all the smoke. They never missed an order, the manager never lost a rupee and believe me, things were generally efficient. At some point in human history, HSB introduced the safari-clad homo supervisorous species (complete with a notebook and pen) into the scheme of things and spoiled it for everybody. Since then, service has been reduced to a game of telephone message and people stopped getting what they wanted when they wanted. HSB has taken this one step ahead and have put a fancy order taking machine in the hands of their Supervisaurus (Homo supervisorous mutated). Long story short, your order is lost in translation, data corruption and you can kiss your food good bye. It is one thing to sport cool machines and look like someone from the future. But it is quite another to take an order and get the items served. Which is where they come up short.

Unapologetic, bad service: When I voice my grievance about the lack of service, at least put up a sad face and try to look like someone feeling bad. As soon as I ask for the feedback register (a brown, musty diary that bears two of my long entries), she reaches for it with gusto and gives me a look with a Steve Bucknorish smile that says, "The path of the arrogant restaurant is beset on all sides by the whining of the shortchanged and the cribbing of wronged, overcharged customers. Blessed is he, who in the name of conformance and following the herd, shepherds the hungry through the streets of Little India to our doorstep, for he is truly the loyal customer and the finder of more business. And I will strike down upon thee with bad food and pathetic service those who would attempt to question and challenge my ways. And you will know my name is the Lord when I throw that hefty check upon thee."

I'm willing to look beyond all their shortcomings, yes, all of them, if the food is great. But alas, I've sampled idlies with a molten core, anaemic dosais that clung on to the plate rather viciously, indifferent sambar and could-have-been fried rice. Consistently. I mean, you can be the soup Nazi, but your soup better be kick-ass.

So, 25 years and probably as many attempts later, I'm retaining my original opinion of HSB: Great locations, OK food, bad service and pathetic attitude.

15 minutes of watching Indian Idol

Delhi, Allahabad, Ahmedabad and Kolkata. These were the cities in which auditions were being held for selecting the finalists for Indian idol on Sony TV on Sunday. The judges were Anu "Ctrl C" Malik, Sunidhi "Smug" Chauhan and a third guy whose name or credentials, I'm unaware of.

The show was in Hindi, a language that I spent a few years trying to get acquainted with and nothing significant to show for it. But lack of Hindi skills didn't pose any serious challenge towards understanding what the show, or atleast the auditions, was about: a sequence of people willing to, nay, hell bent on making complete fools of themselves on a big stage. And the judges going out of their way to help them on this mission.

Sample this: A twenty something girl prancing around in what can be best described as a "loose sari" claiming to be Katrina Kaif's sister and singing in a voice that held such an animosity towards shruthi. And the judges taking turns to mock her, leading to heated exchanges between judges and the judgee. All this on air, passing off as entertainment, beamed across large swathes of inhabited parts of the earth. Recording the auditions and getting them sponsored is the closest Sony TV has come to pulling rabbits out of hats. [Maybe this is routine in the Idol show format. And may be I've been living under a rock]

Now, I won't question the selections themselves. I'm as talented in music as Anu Malik is in...well, never mind. That analogy ain't going nowhere. But Mr. AM passing scorching comments, (styling himself after Simon Cowell?) on the lack of talents of the aspirants? Or Sunidhi acting like she is Lata Mangeshkar in a modern dress while mocking at someone? The lack of talents in many of the competitors were rivalled only by the lack of finesse in all the judges. And it was an even match.

And the compulsory drama around each selection and rejection. The elaborate celebrations with that mandatory sweet box always at arm's length, dads prostating at the feet of the judges, crying mothers: it was like watching a bad movie. Isn't there a law against such crimes/violations?

If my grandmother were alive and watching this show, her comment would have been "நாசுக்க தொட்ட கையால தொடல" (nasukka thotta kaiyaala thodalai, very roughly, absolutely devoid of any class)

Also ran - Part II

I woke up with a start as the alarm broke the silence of the dark morning hour. I got ready and stepped into the clothing provided, munched on some nuts and downed a cup of milk and a litre of water and stepped out looking every bit your long-distance-runner-next-door. En route, I met my colleague on the train. He had done this the year before and assured me that it was not too daunting a task. Words that helped quell the 10K demons that I was fighting.

It was a calm scene that awaited me at the esplanade theaters wherefrom the race began. The sun was just making its usual but muted appearance. The work on the integrated resorts towers in the distance had not started and the sleepy cranes stood out against the morning sky. Ms. Nature, usually grumpy around this latitude, was exceptionally kind that morning. There was a thick cloud cover that saved direct exposure to the sun. The humidity was a pleasant 170%. It was a day as good as any to participate in a marathon. A sea of humanity was moving in the general direction of the start line. An air of serenity hung, much in contrast to the fluttering life forms in my stomach.

As I surveyed the area, it was an even mix of humankind lying scattered around that met my eyes. Yes there were the ones that were lithe enough to scratch their ears with their legs. But amidst the athletically inclined were also to be noticed the rotund, the cherubic and the morbidly obese, giving me the faintest hope that I just might live through this to tell others about it. Fit or otherwise, most were engaged in the fine art of stretching out the limbs and I followed suit, giving notice to my extremities about the impending assault.

I didn't intend to run an inch more than the required 10000 metres and I threaded my way through the milling crowds to a spot that was as close to the start line. Boom! The starting shot was fired and my friend wished me good luck and took off like a scared rabbit. The assembled sea of capped heads started bobbing. For the benefit of posterity, I jumped and waved at the camera positioned at the start line and started pounding the tarmac.

For the first 20 minutes or so, the contest was even. I mean, the contest between me and the race. I was able to keep pace with the runners and stay ahead of the weak and the infirm. Although, it can be argued that it was too crowded to even fall behind. But quickly the race started to gain the upper hand steadily and I found myself losing steam. I was forced to make every pitstop and down glasses of some energy drink they were offering.

The smooth elegance of professional runners is, often times, described as poetry in motion. On that scale, mine would rank as a whooping cough in motion. It was in fits and starts that I started doing the miles. I remember choosing walking over running on many occasions, resembling a MTC bus that has stopped on Anna Salai on a Monday morning. As I braved on, I was definitely feeling heavier, as if I were dragging a ton of bricks behind. I was soaked in sweat and my legs were filling up with, what I'm sure was, concrete or something very similar.

The last stretch, however, was relatively easy. No, it wasn't the hordes of cheering spectators that spurred me on. It wasn't our company's cheering tent either that stirred me into shifting gears. My colleagues were either busy with the refreshments or simply didn't recognize me. My source of inspiration was one particular guy from work who was running just ahead of me. I'm sure he must be a devoted husband to his wife and a doting father to his kids and all that. But for some reason that defies logic, I couldn't bear the thought of the said guy, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Mr. Burns from The Simpsons but with a mop of hair, finishing ahead of me. You may call it irrational hatred, but I'll call it inspiration. The last km saw an intense contest between the two of us, about which he probably has no idea till this day. Heavy legs and all, I summoned the last ounce of reserve energy to pull ahead and managed to finish ahead of him.

There exists no photographic evidence of my finishing the race. God is indeed kind, even if only on occasions. So allow me to sum it up for you. I tottered past the finish line as a sweat soaked, tired, heavy mass drained of all energy and emotion. A biological weapon in running gear, if you will. I turned around to ensure that Mr. Burns was still behind and let out a guttural roar. It came out as a barely audible hiss. The clock said I took 80 minutes to complete the distance. Not a bad time, when viewed in context, as provided in part I.

The area around the finish line was much like a concentration camp. Emaciated men and women stood in lines leading up to many different tents. My first one was for a pain relieving balm. A smiling girl, who probably took the train to get there, would squirt a little of it on your extended palm that you proceeded to apply on your knees. Check. The other line was for some energy drink. I downed a couple of bottles. The longest line was for some pastries being handed out to get some sugar going. I proceeded to polish off a red-bean sandwich. Oh and I also picked up the only piece of hardware I've ever been awarded for physical exertions. As I write this, the medallion is occupying the place of pride in, I don't know, some closet. Or is it the second drawer in the dresser?

PS:

In the days after the race, the author (yeah, that's me) acquired a penguin gait and also sounded like a slow moving EMU, what with all the clicks emanating from the lower joints when he attempted to walk. He cited exhaustion as an excuse from any and all domestic assignments for an indecent period of time and still managed not to get kicked out of the house. Although, that says more about the lady of the house. Any weight loss from this misadventure was more than compensated for in a disproportinately short span of time. He is planning to learn from his mistakes and as a result, vows to campaign for a 5K section to be introduced for men next year. Wish him best.

Also ran - Part I

As I sneaked up to my desk this morning, I found an A4 sized envelope from Standard Chartered Bank propped against my keyboard. My name was written across the front, by hand. As I picked it up, I knew that it was not a response to my credit card application; they had already rejected it. The banking institutions have finally become financially responsible, deftly eschewing bad credit. Starting with my application. But I digress. As I held the envelope in my hands, it struck me that it was the certificate for...well, read on.

Late last year, I had signed up, in what may well be a moment of indiscretion, for the Singapore marathon. Okay, the 10K segment. Go ahead. I'll wait till you stop laughing and slapping your knees, at the hilarity of it. (Whistles, drums fingers, tapping the shoes) Welcome back.

I don't run for sport. Period. My athletic pursuits, over the past few years, have never gone beyond clambering down a set of stairs, at what can best be termed as a purposeful trot, to get on to a bus or a train. Or perhaps quickening the pace of the 20 minute walk to work to be able to make it in time for a meeting. Nothing more. Why run when you can walk? Now, before you picture an obese, unshaven couch potato with food crumbs all over with a TV remote in one hand and a family size chips packet on the other, I must assure that I'm anything but. Except for the unshaven look, that is. Allow me to explain. I used to play competitive cricket and clock some time in the gym on a weekly basis. Those were the grad school years. These days, I walk to and from work daily, I'm in serious discussions with my colleagues about starting to play cricket on the weekends and often think, very seriously, about helping my wife with household chores. Professional compulsions is my excuse for tapering down the exertions and I'm running with it.

So, by the strictest definition of the term, I was not a long distance runner and my sense of entering uncharted waters wasn't entirely misplaced when I submitted my name with a mix of optimism and peer pressure in equal parts. Clouded by visions of tearing through the finishing tape, with raining confetti, flashing cameras, cheering crowds, (and while you are at it, throw in some operatic music as well), I had let my heart unseat my reasonably functional brain at a critical moment. The marathon, or any portion of it, was clearly outisde the sphere of my physical abilities. In my mind, I'm still that 'no-distance-too-far' energetic guy, brimming with verve and vigor, running that first run in cricket fast, pouncing on that running ball or at least coming up with a close enough impression of it, and coming steaming in over after over to hurl leather at a frightening 95kmph. The past few years may have eroded the physical abilities but has done nothing to dent the fondness my mind bore towards those days.

In the days leading up to the event, I behaved as if I had signed up for some book reading club. No, I did not work through thick tomes if that is what you thought I did. I just went about my usual routine with absolutely no physical preparations towards the approaching event. With a book club, you at least have options to cover up your lack of time (lazinenss): listen to the book on tape, watch the movie adaptation (Salute to George L. Costanza) or get a brain dump from someone that has read the book. The marathon, come to think of it, however offers no place to hide. Sign up, practice and perform. As complex as that.

Talk in the office, meantime, centered around individual goals of improved distances or bettering personal times. The ignominy of not being able to complete the race, a realistic possibility, loomed larger than the race itself. The management had arranged for a couple of sessions from professional athletes/coaches on running best practices which I had missed as I was away on travel. Left to my own devices, I decided to buckle up and rough it out.

Even just a fair grip of common sense dictates that a bit of practice couldn't hurt my chances of, if it came down to it, crawling on all fours past the finish line. So when my wife announced, on a sunny Sunday morning, a couple of weeks ahead of the marathon, that we had run out of milk and a few other items, I put on a cap, slipped into my shoes and did the unthinkable: run to the farthest of the two nearby supermarkets and procure the essentials. At about the half way mark, because of utmost bodily discomfort, I gave up and walked.

This practice run served no purpose beyond stirring up a hornet's nest that my body was. Muscles, ones that I didn't even know existed, revolted against this abuse that was let loose on them without notice. Accustomed only to the care and love of the preceding years, the muscles, very badly surprised, struck work, leaving me with a funny gait for a few days. A normal person could have been intimidated by the side effects that I underwent. But I pressed ahead, spurred by only one thought: pulling out entailed a hefty fine if I didn't possess a visible infirmity. Jokes apart, that practise run, even if thwarted mid-way, stripped me of any pride and dispelled any notions of glory. Instead, it stoked the instincts of self preservation and survival at which I don't suck as much. My expectations from the race were now: avoid the fine, stay alive, finish the race on my legs, as opposed to getting wheeled in on a gurney and forget about clocking a decent time. In that order. I was prepared to complete it the next day if it came to that. As someone once said, participation, and not winning, matters.

The only section that I faithfully followed on the preparation guide that came with the running kit was "Preparations on the day before". It had mentioned enough rest and nutritious food, both of which I partook in ample quantities. I woke up particularly late and breakfasted at around 11:00. After some lounging around (remember, plenty of rest on the day before...) had lunch at 4 pm (Yes, 1600 hrs). I then watched Pulp fiction on DVD and went out for a stroll in the evening, rounding off the day with a late but sumptuous dinner (remember, nutritious food...). And as a result of the schedule, I couldn't fall asleep until 2am. Or 5 hrs before the starting shot was fired.

Lost in translation

The Tamil movie, Rajinikant starrer, Mannan was aired on the local Tamil channel. With English subtitles. This movie marked the best partnership between Rajini and His Excellency Goundamani since 16 vayadhinile.

For the benefit of those (few) who may not be aware, this movie has one of the best comic sequences where the two of them cite flimsy reasons to take time off work to buy the first two tickets to a movie opening, and thus win prizes that come with it. And eventually get caught. See? It doesn't sound all that funny when you read that right? That is exactly the point of this post.

One of the most famous quips from H.E as he prepares to collect his prize is this:

"Naatla indha thozhiladhibarunga tholla thaangala da. Punnaakku vikkiravan gundoosi vikkiravan ellam thozhiladhibaraam."

The English subtitle that came on was this:

"These days, every Tom, Dick and Harry is an industrialist."

Simply put, it was lost in translation.

For the sake of a dinner

Jatilo mundii lujnchhitakeshah

kaashhaayaambarabahukritaveshhah

pashyannapi cana pashyati muudhah

udaranimittam bahukritaveshhah

False signs of piety, matted locks, shaven heads or plucked hairs

Or ochre robes and others in variegated holy colors

Are so affected, just to earn an earthly living

And fools so blinded, are oblivious of the truth revealing

-Bhajagovindam by Adi Shankara

Since early childhood I've had two persistent symptoms - hunger at meal times and sleepiness at bedtime. The doc says that they aren't necessarily bad. But what would the doctor know? He is a nice man, mind you. The difference is that he resides in South Chennai, spoiled for choice by the many restaurants and home cooked food and timely sleep while I, on the other hand, am often times forced to scramble for food in far away lands, eyes red-shot with lack of sleep. Without further delay, let's delve into the next chapter in my quest for vegetarian food in the land of the Hyundais, Samsung and meaty menus. (I'm afraid that this has become a recurring theme in this blog. After this and this. But then, if I don't have anything profound to offer on world affairs and feel like saying something nevertheless, I turn inwards and start digging.)

This time, I was staying at a much less nicer hotel in a new township outside of Seoul. This place charges a lower rent and is closer to both our office and customer sites. Twin advantages to my management and none for me. And adding salt to the wounds is that I had to hunt in unfamiliar terrain for food as opposed to the now-familiar and pricey Seoul area where I can walk, with my eyes closed, to Indian eateries.

Hope springs eternal. And springs forth rather wildly around dinner time after a dog's day at work. I took a walk around the block to see if there was a pizza or a pasta place where, together with the chef's cooperation, I could conjure up a vegetarian dish. Finding none, I took a taxi to the Indian restaurant in the next town, Suwon. Exactly 15 minutes later, I was at their doorstep, staring with wide eyes at the handwritten notice saying that their weekly holiday happens to fall, as luck would have it, on Mondays. There are 3 dimensions to the universality of Indian restaurants across earth: a stereotyped ambience (print of a North Indian lady in ghagra choli churning milk adorning the wall, the inevitable elephant bearing a generic King, a carpet, and some Hindi song playing in the background), bad service and smelly restrooms. Mondays-off adds the 4th dimension to it. Seriously, what's with Indian restaurants and Mondays-off? I've been stumped by this unwritten rule in 3 continents now. If you can keep that darned place running for 6 days a week, how difficult it is on the 7th? Huh? Since when did making money go sour? Enough said. Back to the story.

Knowing that there was a second Indian restaurant just around the corner, I marched there confidently, only to find them closed too. Brothers in arms. I still peered through the glass doors and could detect human presence in the kitchen by the far end, beyond an empty, dark dining hall. An empty restaurant but a functioning kitchen? Something was amiss. Knowing that food in some form should be available, I knocked on the glass door. No response. Of course! More knocks, no response. I was tapping away on the glass like Zakir Husain when finally an exasperated lady opened the door and offered a questioning look.

A wave of spicy aroma wafted through the open door and I walked right past her in auto-cruise and took the seat closest to the kitchen. She followed right behind. She was not Korean and spoke halting English with a Spanish accent. Perhaps from Philippines. Not that it really mattered to me. She made it very clear that the place was open exclusively for a group of Indians who were residing in a nearby guest house and that dinner was being prepared only for them. Apparently, this was a "mess" and they were on some meal plan. Oh, and that they were expected anytime now. I asked her if I could I have a quick bite and escape into the darkness? Nope. Could I take away a little food? Negative. Apparently, she donned the security cap too, besides her chef's.

A man's appetite, whipped up at the prospect of a square, sumptuous meal, when denied, can lead to delirium. Or histrionic abilities. I reached deep inside me and came out with the best pleading look that I could muster. I told her that I was cold and hungry and that my survival depended on partaking the ambrosia that she had cooked up for the night. I may or may not have been on one knee at that time. I must have touched her motherly instincts for the resolve in her steely eyes started to melt. Exactly an eighth of a matronly smile spread across her face. She agreed to let me have a quick bite from the 4-item dinner before the pack arrived and went back into the kitchen to put some final touches to the meal. I don't know her real name but let's just call her Santa Maria.

Life couldn't be any better. Yes, I was staying at a cheap place with bad service. Granted, I'd much rather be in Singapore rather than in Korea, or, at least, in Seoul than in Suwon. Of course, Monday nights are a nightmare for traveling vegetarians. But still, just as a seed takes root on a rock, just as a baby turtle finds its way to the waves, I could manage to melt Santa Maria into letting me wet my beak. You could picture me seated at the table with a napkin across my lap and a contented smile across my face, brought on by my good fortune and the dinner that lay ahead, with a spoon in one hand and a fork in the other. As I said, life couldn't be any better.

It was precisely at this moment that Fate decided that there was one more hazard missing from my signature golf course. Enter Ms. "Killer Eyes" Kim, a wiry Korean lady with a stern countenance who could pass for a principal in any school across the Korean peninsula. Something about her suggested that she took no nonesense. Instinctively I sensed trouble and clutched the spoon and fork tighter. My eyes followed her as she hung her coat and switched on the lights and as soon as I came across her field of vision, walked straight up to me.

The rattling inside the kitchen stopped as Santa Maria came out looking a bit uneasy. A brief Anglo-Korean exchange took place between the ladies and the principal had sniffed out a student prank even before it could be unleashed. I think Santa Maria, despite her best intentions, God bless her soul, had plead innocence and I was now the focus of Kim's gaze.

Scientists of repute, after much study, I'm sure, have classified animal response to fear into two categories: fight or flee. But I disagree. There is a third type of response: Fake. That's right. Fake it or act like a fool.

I knew I was an uninvited guest and that the only way out was to look every bit like something the cat had dragged in. This time around, I rolled up my sleeves, reached inside and came out with the most foolish look that I could muster. Or, as quite a few of you may agree, I simply put on my natural face.

Kim: You what guest house?

Me: What? Oh common miss! It's just a little food that I plan to eat. Not much. They won't even notice.

Kim: Name of guest house?

Me; Guest house? Lady, you're taking this too far, I tell you. Its a cold night and I'm a hungry man. Moreover, ma'am, I've struck a deal with Our Lady of Kindness for Hungry Wayfarers in the kitchen.

Kim: Rahul friend you? (By now a bit frustrated)

Me: Guest. Rahul? Who the hell is Rahul? If he stood next to you right now, I won't be able to tell him from the next guy. Unless we're discussing Rahul Dravid here.

Kim: Rahul friend?

Me: Rahul. Friend. Yes.

It became evident to me that Rahul must be the elected leader of the local desi gang who called the shots around that place. If this were the movie Kalidasa, this would be the exact scene where Kalidasa, (as portrayed by Sivaji Ganesan) the gullible simpleton till that point, would start spouting exquisite verses after being blessed by Goddess Kali herself. Yours truly, having latched on to the idea that Rahul was the admin password to my dinner, began framing full, confident sentences, outlining my long standing friendship with Mr. Faceless Rahul. In an attempt to buy some time and appease Ms. Kim, I was in the middle of explaining how, as kids, Rahul and I would never eat unless it was off the same plate when dinner was finally brought out.

Thankfully, Principal Kim relented, gesturing me to take a seat, probably coming to the conclusion that Rahul had the biggest idiot in all of mankind for a friend. Or perhaps hoping that Rahul, he of the big twirling mustache, red turban, double barrelled gun and a bullet strap running across his chest, shooting fake friends as he rode on his horse, would show up mid-meal and tear my facade to bits.

The meal was simple: channa, an extremely spicy sambar (the only vegetables that I could recognize in it were well built, sliced chillies), vegetable rice and some curd. I wasn't sure about the portions: whether it was a "limited meals" or "unlimited meals". But I decided to make a full meal out of it nevertheless and my plate looked like Mt. Rice was rising out of the Sea of Sambar.Hell, if I were to be thrown out, it would be on a full stomach. I was delicately working through the second course (Mt. Rice capped with channa) when Santa Maria came out with a soft chappathi, deposited it on my plate and winked at me. Gracias Senorita! (English: Can I have one more before Rahul arrives?) I dined with furtive glances towards the door, eyeing every single Indian male that walked through the door with suspicion. Ms. Kim hovered around the entrance, with one eye on me and the other peeled for Rahul. But no Rahul came. And my bluff was not called. I had a sumptuous (but quick) dinner and paid what was a subsidized rate meant for Rahul and co.

On the way out, I grabbed a slice of carrot that Santa Maria had brought out as an afterthought and stepped into the cold night. A nearly full stomach can do wonders to a man's mood. I walked around the block, musing about my swing in fortunes in the past hour, smiling to myself the smile of the satiated. Another role had been essayed. Another meal had been won against all odds and yet another battle won. Strange are the ways of life. And, as they say, I live to face another day.