The commute - The Herculean Years

Parts One - The Rickshaw Riders and two - The Pallavan Years.

When I finished class X, we moved schools. We joined VanaVani, located inside the verdant IIT-M campus. It was a great school - although, so was the one that we were previously attending - and was close to our home. Oh and also the small matter of it being a co-educational institution which meant that about one half of the student population were, wait for this, I'm giddy, girls. Remember, I was in class XI. But most importantly, we were freed from the evil clutches of the Pallavan Transport Corp.

Cycling to school is freedom. Only someone who has been taking the bus to and from school for many years will fully understand the freedom that comes from being fully in charge of your commute. The shackles had been broken free. Tied no longer to the schedule of the bus, no more vitriolic comments of fellow commuters and not having to struggle for that elusive vacant seat. There was something powerful about having the keys to a set of wheels in your pocket. Even though the set of wheels may be a touch bent out of shape and the tyres are crying out for some more air. But imagine stepping out of the house, unlocking the bicycle and being on your way. To the school and not to the bus stand! Freedom indeed.

Having spent the early years of boyhood in T Nagar, cycling was limited to when we were visiting our cousins in (rural?) Virugambakkam or when our dad used to take me and my brother to the YMCA grounds on a few Sunday mornings. He would take us to the hockey - or was it soccer, I forget now - grounds, find himself a spot under the many trees and start reading The Hindu while we would knock ourselves out riding our red BSA SLR around the campus. So the idea of cycling to school was nothing short of exhilarating. Mind you, by the time I actually started taking cycles to school, I had learnt to drive bikes and even cars. Yet muscle power lured me more than horsepower.

Soon we were cycling everywhere. To school, to friends' places - with the new school, there were new friends to be made, to the beach - to shoot the breeze with the new friends, to the grocery store, to coaching classes. On the way to school, we would make a detour to the Jalagandeshwarar temple inside the IIT campus on test days and circumambulate the temple by cycle. We could decide to take either Delhi Avenue or Bonn Avenue (IIT-M was funded by Germany), hold impromptu races, travel the road less taken, stop by friend's places within the campus. In other words, this was a whole different world as compared to standing pressed between armpits, carrying a heavy bag and accepting curses flung our way five days a week.

It must also be mentioned that all this happened at a time when Chennai's roads were far less crowded and cyclists could venture out with the hope that they could actually return home in one piece - hell, Sardar Patel Road had a dedicated bicycle lane believe it or not - without (too much) fear of being run over by automobiles or mowed down by the collective indifference of motorists. Here is a piece of fact marinated in nostalgia: once you turned into Sardar Patel Road at the Raj Bhavan road junction, one could actually perceive a drop in temperature and a slight improvement in the air quality.

There were the usual troubles of course, with cycles, especially old, creaky ones. Flat tires, slipped chains and the occasional falls. One of my friends, V, used to routinely show up in class with a cycle chain in hand for effect. Needless to say, he was waved in without much fuss even by our Chemistry teacher Mr. G - a stickler for punctuality. We also did some very smart things - riding cross armed (which left a friend of mine with a broken arm), slow cycling (collected a few scraped knees as prizes), getting towed by friends that had started using mopeds and scooters/bikes - that led to a few injuries and/or reprimands. On one such towed trips, I was going so fast holding on to a friend that was riding pillion on my other friend's Bajaj Chetak that I didn't even realize that my bag had fallen off the carrier that had the weakest spring known to mankind. I must have been doing a good 40kmph and the loud rattles that my ancient bicycle was making by way of protests against the abuse that it was enduring must have drowned out the thud. Anyways, the bag got picked up by some good Samaritan who turned it in to the IIT office as opposed to my school's office. The IIT security who lost no time in getting in touch with my school who in turn informed my father about the situation - the bag and its missing owner. The missing owner, meanwhile, reached home in record time just as my father stood there with a you-better-have-a-good-explanation-son expression on his otherwise friendly face. A joint parent-teacher investigation ascertained how I got separated from the bag, how the bag ended up where it ended up and the most awkward question of them all: why? But you live and learn.

The red BSA SLR got stolen one night from right in front of our house and after a few cycle less months, we got a replacement one provided by the diligent and entrepreneurial cops of the Kotturpuram police station. They came up with the idea of making a neat sum from the many stolen bikes that lay unclaimed in their station. One afternoon, after paying whatever was the going amount of bribes for a cycle return, we came home with a beat up blue SLR whose good days were in the distant past. Then there came bicycle number two: a really dilapidated Hercules that got a new lease of life for Rs. 200 that I used for the 2 years that I attended Vanavani. Then when I joined college, my dad got me a brand new Hercules for Rs. 1,300. If you think I'm disappointed that he didn't get me a motorcycle - like many of my friends - you are wrong. Neither did I feel the need for a motorized means of transport nor was one offered by my parents.

The Hercules - which still stands under the staircase of our home in Chennai - served all my needs through the four years of college. Computer classes - 6 km one way, 3 days a week for 2 years. Collecting notes and photocopying them around semester exams - 8 exams over 4 years. Then the many trips to the IIT-M library during those exams. And then collecting signatures from the faculty members while applying for US Universities. Oh and the cricket matches across Adyar and Besant Nagar every weekend over those 4 years. No to mention the many Saturday evenings by the beach.

By the time we finally bought a bike - exactly 3 months before I left for the US - I must have clocked at least 5000 kms on the Hercules which, I reckon, would have easily paid for itself a few times over even at those petrol prices.

Next up: The Jeppiaar bus service

The remote (controlled) employee

GEORGE (dating a girl in prison): Jerry, I like being with her. Plus, I know where she is all the time. I have relatively no competition. And you know how you live in fear of the pop-in?

JERRY (shudders): The pop-in.

GEORGE: Yeah, no pop-in, no "in the neighborhood," no "I saw your light was on." 

Credit: Seinfeld scripts, The Little Jerry episode.

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For many years since my entry into the working world, my manager has always been located in a different timezone, country and continent altogether. I don't know which Gods I managed to please but think about this: I'm this fresh-out-of-school rookie taking his first, tentative steps into the big, bad world of working professionals and right off the bat, I didn't have to be in before or leave after the manager or try and impress the boss. It was a good 4 months before I even saw my manager in person for the first time: it was all calls and emails in the early days. Of course there were enough checks and balances in place to ensure that we weren't goofing around were getting optimally utilized but you get the idea, right?

Thus it went for years on end. Managers changed. My work location changed. The manager(s) and I continued to play tag via email, periodic conference calls and the occasional video conference. My travels were planned out, their travel itineraries were published in advance and we were aware of each other's whereabouts. It was one happy party. Granted there was the odd day or three when I really missed sitting down the aisle from the boss but advances made in the world of communication technology ensured that those days were few and far apart. Throw in the fact that I was traveling nearly 70% of the time, my in-person meetings with my bosses were rarer than solar eclipses. 

They say all things have to come to an end. So after 6 years, the proverbial honeymoon ended when I moved to the Bay Area. For the first time, both me and my manager were located under the same roof. I felt like moving into a big joint family after years of being in a live-in relationship in a different place. Awkward. Suddenly I became more conscious of the hours that I was actually present in the office, the way I dressed and be part of a wider team as opposed to a one-man army. I had to a bit of keeping up with the Joneses. Don't get me wrong: I truly have only good things to say about the people that I reported to. But a six-year party will have a pretty strong hangover. 

Then I switched jobs. And guess what? In the new gig, my entire team, including my manager, was located in Israel with me and just a couple of others holding the fort here. And to make things more interesting, the holy land follows a Sunday through Thursday work week besides the ten-hour time difference. This meant two things: early morning calls and emails on Sundays. Oh and back to being a remote employee together with its pros and cons. And the dress code at the new place? Tucking in a shirt means it is either a wedding or a funeral. Through the course of the year, I slowly became more of an Israeli employee than a California professional. 

But in just over a year, things look different again. I am now part of a small, close-knit team and everyone is located in the same building within a few meters from each other. Talk about a small world. Back to pressed clothes, regular shaves and ch... I'd like to tell you more but I think I hear steps coming down the hallway. Talk to you soon. 

Life comes a full circle

As kids, when we had to go in the middle of the night, I remember my kid brother would just get up, walk to the rest room and do his business without any fuss. He didn't even bother with turning the lights on for two reasons. One, he wasn't scared of the darkness, or just about anything for that matter. The second, he was too short to be able to reach the switches in that old house that was built in a time when flipping switches was strictly an adult thing.

Yours truly, on the other hand, would wake up our father who would accompany me, turn the lights on and once I was done, even pour some water from the small, green mug on to the bathroom floor for me to stamp on before returning to the paai to resume my dreams. I also remember, on some nights, he would nuzzle against the rear of my neck before I went back to bed.

Last night, my son, who is going through a bout of cold and cough, woke up in the middle of the night and wanted to go. I had not gone to bed yet and was awake. He held my hands and we walked to the rest room. He turned on the lights and insisted on doing his business himself. Although watching over him, I stood back. He then wanted to blow his nose and this one needed my expertise. Once done, I carried him back to the bed and like a fish being released back into the river, he snuggled back under his still-warm blanket in a single motion. 

Life has come a full circle. And yes, I did nuzzle his nape. 

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Getting a hair cut is a sacred ritual for most men. There are preferences, specifications, requirements, whims, fancies, choices surrounding what is one of the few moments men dedicate to themselves.

My earliest memories of getting a haircut are of holding my father's hands early on a Sunday morning of his choosing - on a fine weekday morning, he would announce that it was time while applying coconut oil to my hair - and making our way to the nearest salon: Capital Hair Dressers in T Nagar. After browsing through the Tamil newspapers and magazines during the wait, we would step up to the plate for our grooming session. 

My father had very simple requirements for himself: short on the sides and back and medium on the top - something that I have adopted and use to this day, although with varying degrees of success. Once he was ready, he would inspect my cut, chime in with an opinion on the length and once he was satisfied, we would step out: two men with spanking new haircuts.

The brisk walk back home would have one detour - to purchase a couple of shampoo sachets, as opposed to the default shikakai powder. He would choose a set of clothes about to be washed to wear to the saloon and wouldn't carry too much money on him either. Upon return, the clothes would be rinsed separately and the loose change deposited just outside the bathroom door - to be sprinkled with a few droplets of water before returning to his pocket. This was the routine that was followed religiously. 

Yesterday, with both me and my son badly in need of a haircut, we made the trip together by ourselves for the first time. My wife usually handles this and had a dozen instructions for me. I picked out a set of clothes that were near the end of the laundry cycle and we were on our way. Although there is a salon within walking distance, they charge an exorbitant amount and we go by car to a more reasonably priced one. It so happened that we ended up on adjacent seats and I spelled out the same set of instructions handed down the ages for myself as the lady started spraying water on my hair. "Just like daddy for the boy Sir?", asked my son's hairdresser a moment later and I nodded. Fifteen minutes later, we were on the way back home. Two men with spanking new hair cuts and the younger of the two holding a candy in his hand. 

Yesterday, shampoo sachets weren't needed. Although we went straight into the shower, the clothes weren't hand rinsed separately. But the cellphone, the car keys and the candy did get a token sprinkling of water before they went back to their respective locations. 

2015 - The year in review

I meant to post this sometime in the last few days of 2015. But one thing led to another. Minutes ticked and time slipped by. Cold days and colder nights came and went and before I realized, it is 2016.

I haven't done an annual review here before. Given that my lifestyle doesn't routinely provide high adrenaline content, a year-review would be regurgitating mundane minutiae of our going through the grind.  But there is always a first time. And if nothing else, it is an occasion to come here and throw a few hundred words at the readers. All two of them. And that includes me.

I have this sense that time is accelerating with passing, ahem, time. I shared my observation with my father and he also seemed to agree. So I'm not alone. I remember slogging through the 80s going through the school grind. And I'm sure you'll agree that the 90s were definitely faster. Right? If the 90s were fast, the 2000s were a blur. And here I am, already half way through the 'teens. Anyone else out there that shares the same view?

So 2015 appears to have disappeared faster than the years before. It was a year with the usual highs and lows. There were good days. There were definitely bad days. I was trying to settle into the new job - getting to know new people, a new work culture, new technologies. There is always something exciting about a new job. Even though this one requires me to wake up early to attend calls and meetings.

The Israeli Spring

Then came the two-month-plus trip to Israel. With family. Life in Tel Aviv was interesting, providing us with a rare opportunity to immerse ourselves and experience life in a new land and its language, culture and food with our 4-year-old in tow. 2500 kms driven. Many pictures. Many stories. Many memories. Easily the fastest two months in an already fast year.

Summer of Slowelectron

Then came the longest trip till date to India since I left her shores. One that is better measured in weeks than days. Father's surgery and the convalescence. A handful of functions - all of them arranged and hosted by us. Then getting a house renovated and repaired. All the while navigating tricky family politics. And plenty of it. With toppings of difference in opinions, misunderstanding and clashing ideas. An exhausting trip both physically and mentally. One that I was secretly happy when it was coming to an end. But spending a precious few days with my niece was totally worth it.

Free fall

The quakes. There were hundreds of them over a one-month period. The experts called it earth quake swarms. They were given less threatening labels: minor, mini, nano. But the house developed a few cracks, a few doors got jammed and a few floor boards started creaking. Minor, mini, nano and scary.

I tried becoming a coffee person but that hasn't taken off quite as my wife imagined it would. Now don't get me wrong, I do enjoy my cup of coffee here and there. I come from a family overflowing with addicts and aficionados after all. But I simply have not been able to make a habit out of it. While on the topic of beverages, I enjoyed a bit of wine this year. I even picked out a favorite and finished three bottles responsibly.

And finally a wet winter

Watching the Malayalam movie Premam was easily the best movie experience for me. A simple story told so beautifully. An inexperienced cast that moved me so completely. A director that wove me into the fabric of his movie. I have watched the movie twice so far, been listening to the songs on loop for nearly a month now and have a crush on the Malar character - my wife knows this. If I'm sad that the movie is being remade in other languages, I'm outraged that Shruti Hassan is playing Malar in the Telugu version.

Late last year I realized that I have something common with Sachin Tendulkar besides cricketing skills and sponsorship deals: tennis elbow. It was an awkward conversation when the doctor ruled out possible causes one by one: tennis, cricket, weights at the gym, garden work. Atrophy would have been a more suitable ailment given my lifestyle. I'm deflated by the thought that the cause is likely a bad posture while working on the laptop and nothing remotely glamorous.

But that didn't stop us from going on a three-city road trip touching Carlsbad (Legoland), Phoenix, AZ and LA. We tested our son on some kid-friendly rides at Legoland, visited a much modified ASU campus and a very different Tempe and camped at my friend's place in LA on the way back. Happy to say that the son is not scared by the three rides that he went on: like mother, like son. (Disclosure: Despite my son pleading with me, I refused to go on any of the rides.), my wife and kid finally got to meet a very special person in Phoenix and my son brought out a hidden "dad" side in my yet-to-be-a-father friend. I rented a car from Payless and the lesson: pay more to avoid Payless. A tired car and tiresome service make for a tiring trip.

On balance, a typical year with its usual highs and lows. I'll take typical and uneventful over unforgettable and scary - the two options in the game of lucky dip that life often is.

I have been a bit active in blogging compared to the previous years: 24 posts and 1 comment. I wish I had read more also. Other than that, I have been the same person that I was in 2014- irresponsible, immature and a tad overweight. 

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.