The commute - The Jeppiaar years

The gangly teen that had just entered college, yet to even have his first shave in life, crossed the empty road to the other side. Even as he was walking towards the bus stand less than a hundred meters further down the road, he could see that the bus he was supposed to take was just leaving from the bus stop, having collected the few students that had assembled there. He was late by less than a minute, 45 seconds at the most. He took the bag from his shoulder and started waving his hands, perhaps a bit frantically, for the driver to stop. He had established eye contact with the driver. Yet, the driver kept going on. As the rickety bus thundered by, it stung him. Not the driver's pushing on, but the glances from the girls seated in the front. Something changed that day. No, he didn't start arriving earlier. He never plead with the driver again. Ever. 


Commuting to college, if Tamil films are to be believed, is more fun or at least as fun as attending an institution itself. In most of these films, made much before air pollution was a lesser evil than today, the hero and the heroine would always take public transport. And the leading lady - right from the days of Aradhana's Ms.Tagore - would always be seated conveniently by the window to get a ringside view of the hero's amorous antics. And would, at some point before the intermission, fall for the hero. Never mind that much of his actions can be called, if you are in a particularly charitable mood, eve teasing.

Into this scheme of things strode Jeppiaar like a colossus. After having already sanitized his group of Alcatraz engineering colleges to such an extent that they started looking more like middle schools, he proceeded to grab the idea of commuting to college as it existed by its horns, turned it upside down, pummeled it with his bare hands, spat on it and spat on it again. Still not done, he then burned it down and then peed all over the ashes for good measure. All the while being cheered on rather boisterously by the parents of his students.

For a sum of Rs. 3,000 per year per student - that financed the many luxury cars that he and his family were seen riding around in and the fancy bungalow that had cropped up along OMR - he offered to scoop up the boys and girls from the bosoms of their parents every morning right into the outstretched arms of the eager faculty, standing in front of the cells classrooms eager to impart engineering knowledge. This he did by running a fleet of buses that crisscrossed the entire city and its far flung suburbs like Manali or Thirunindravur, ferrying sleepy, future engineers to and from the college's campus on OMR.

Now, the idea was not bad. Mind you, it was much easier to take a college bus rather than be at the mercy of public transport especially if you had a monster commute. But as the saying goes, the devil resides in the details. Many good ideas bite the dust because of poor execution. And sadly, this idea was no exception either.  First off was the price itself: rather steep. As a marketing professional, I understand value pricing and also the pains that it can inflict in consumers. The second point that irritated me was this: at Rs 3,000, one would expect at a minimum to get a seat on the goddamned bus. This was not exactly the case. Especially for me and the others that boarded at our bus stop. Ours was the last stop on the route and on nine days out of ten, we would end up standing all the way to college or share the seat with friends. And on the return journey in the evening, we would have to race from the labs to the bus and reserve seats with the help of notebooks, textbooks, lab coats and other paraphernalia. This, we could have done on a Pallavan bus for a fraction of the cost. We had spoken to the man himself on a couple of occasions but to no avail. And finally, the separation of the boys and girls. A few seats from behind the driver's seat was the Lakshman Rekha - a length of insulated electrical cord was intimidatingly tied between two metal poles. Although there was no written warning posted, the way the cord was tied around with pliers spoke many threatening words, leaving no doubt that there would be consequences. The girls sat towards the front side and the boys to the rear. At some point in the past, a lady had crossed a forbidden line resulting in an epic. Mercifully, in the four years that I was a student, no such error in judgement happened and we collected our degrees without event.

Time now to give credit where it is due. But for the above points of inconvenience, the bus enterprise was so well run that had he decided to float a private bus business in Chennai, Jeppiaar would have driven Pallavan Transport Corp into bankruptcy in a matter of a few months. There were at least 30 buses that were all maintained really well, excepting, of course, mine - Route 43 servicing T Nagar which somehow resembled a wounded, rabid dog on a wet, rainy day. The drivers must have been ambulance/fire engine drivers in the recent past for once they got behind the wheels, drove like maniacs with the sole aim of reaching the campus by 8:00. To their credit, there were definitely no fatalities nor any serious casualties throughout the time I was there. Partly because all the burning of the rubber happened before the real peak hour started.

India ranks higher than the developed countries on which index?

minji-dil kenji-dum konja varivani-yAn Van-jiyA daruL-enai arunAchalA

I am a fool who prays only when overwhelmed (by misery), yet disappoint me not, O Arunachala!

Verse 78, Sri aksharamaNamAlai by Sri Ramana Maharishi

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While I was browsing the net the other day, I chanced upon an interesting article titled "Two charts show how economic prosperity brings a decline in religiosity" on scroll.in. 

Not the most tantalizingly crafted click baiting titles you might agree. (Two charts show economic prosperity and religiosity do what? or You will not believe what economic prosperity does to religiosity. Call me old fashioned but click baiting has the exact opposite effect on me: I make it a point to avoid a piece if its title isn't a well crafted synopsis of its contents. Or in other words, I'm an old hag. But enough pointless digression, back to the pointless post.)

True to its title, the article had two charts, the second of which I display here. Looking at it, I was reminded of an old story of how a man, not familiar with the skills of climbing trees, gets stuck atop a tall one and starts off by fervently promising God that he would provide a big feast upon his safe return to ground. And with every foot that he descends, starts reducing the size of his offering.

Source: scroll.in

The only data points that came as a surprise was the USA - I didn't expect to see it so high on the religiosity axis - and China. But I live in California and there exists a whole "other" USA between the coasts and while I don't know much about China, I know enough to always take data coming from there with a grain of salt. The rest of the countries seem to fall at just about the right places that you expect them to. I'm assuming it would be a pointless exercise, but if more countries in the middle east had been polled, they would make the roof of this plot. 

The article makes a passing reference to the declining religiosity across the world. But I'm not sure that economic prosperity, just by itself, is the reason behind waning religiosity. The bottom right of the plot - the rich and less religious zone - seems mostly European, white and old Christian countries. And the top left - the poor and the religious group - seems mostly Asian/African colonies with Islam and imported Christianity. Are the old Christians - who happen to be rich - losing faith faster than the newer believers? And it would also help to understand if there exists a correlation between race and religiosity as the white folks seem to be losing faith faster than the rest. 

India is definitely not rich, definitely corrupt and is a mixture of multiple religions. And one look at the crowds at Tirupathi on any day will be like looking at the typical cross section of Indian society - the poor and the rich, healthy and the sick, able bodied and the disabled and of course the corrupt and the not-so-corrupt although that is not perceptible visually - jostling with one another in the hope of appropriating the hilltop deity's blessings. And this would play out not very differently at holy sites of the other faiths, I imagine.  This being the case, I was expecting a much higher score than 80%. 

What would be an interesting follow up exercise would be to label these countries with their respective ranks on the corruption scale. I'm thinking there would be a strong correlation between lack of religiosity and lack of corruption. 

My lazy, armchair theory floated with nothing more than instincts to rely upon? A mind free of wants and sins (and hence fears) leans less on religion as a source of strength and support. 

Pongal, oh pongal!

Happy Pongal! Today is India's thanksgiving. Actually, I'll quickly take that back with an apology. Thanksgiving is America's version of Pongal. There! That sounds so much better :)

As a city bred kid, with exposure to a closer-to-the-earth lifestyle limited to only during our spirituality-soaked pilgrimages vacations spent hopping through temple towns (Amma and appa, to reiterate a point that I have made many times, visiting Thirupparankundram, waking up early to take our place in a snaking line that never moved was N.O.T my idea of vacations!), Pongal meant little besides a cluster of holidays at the beginning of the calendar year. A day that started with shouting, upon being strongly coaxed, Pongalo pongal and consuming loads of ghee laden pongal and sakkarai pongal.

My idea of celebrating farmers and their profession was marked by consuming a more than usual quantity of their produce, then allowing ourselves to be assaulted by special patti mandrams (well intentioned literary debates in the days of Doordarshan that, with the proliferation of channels and a dearth of quality debaters, soon ran out of good topics and started pandering to the masses by debating just about any topic under the sun accompanied by off key renditions of cinema songs and thus spoiled it for everybody, but I digress. Sigh.) on TV and complaining the day after about crowds yet again trashing the Marina beach on kaanum pongal.

It was our mother, by virtue of her having done a fair bit of growing up in villages, who was the lone torch bearer when it came to infusing life into Pongal celebrations in our household. Between us two kids and to some extent our father, we favored urban, muted and toned down means of offering our gratitude to the sun and the farmers.

Although at its own sweet pace, time changes everything. Age, experience, growing up - all play a hand in changing one's perceptions. One such testimony is here. Today, Pongal isn't a day off where I live, yet I'm truly thankful to the powers that be for granting bountiful, even if erratic, harvests around the world. There are no groups of people trashing the city to complain about but I'm genuinely thankful to the farmers toiling in farms all over God's earth for their produce that nourishes us. And today the silence is broken not by noisy debates on TV but as the whistle blows on the pressure cooker, I'm thankful that I have been blessed with the means to gather the ingredients, a wife to make them into yummy pongal (both varieties), a son to share it with and a place to call home to keep us warm from the winter. The top 1% club? I'm in.

Big bang theory (not the TV show, but that too), pulsating universe, expanding, shrinking, creation theory - whatever your ideological leanings may be, one must take the time today, or any other day assigned by your culture, to pause and appreciate that the most important things in life - that the sun will rise in the east, that day shall follow night and photosynthesis - that we take for granted can indeed be taken for granted. At least for the foreseeable future. And also that you and me can neither control nor meddle too much with the important stuff.

An everyday lesson, if you are listening, showing us our rightful place in the universe - cosmic dust.

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!