EVEN GRANDPARENTS HAVE WANDERLUST

Ammamma hates moving. Moving as in, traveling. I don’t mean the countless trips to kaigari kadai and back, blouse tailor and back, kaapi kottai kadai and back, Petthis market (to refill her toffee stock in old kissan jam jar) and back, paper kadai (to check if Thuklaq has hit the stands yet) and back, every single day. (Yes, even if she bought Thuklaq only the previous day, she would go to kadai to ask when the next issue was going to be out, although she already knows the answer to that. I think she hates the prospect of having to wait for a week for the next issue, and generally likes to live in denial.) Ammamma’s universe is restricted to block 93 of Sowbhagya Colony (although occasionally also blocks 94 and 95 but never beyond), and 1^st Street 1^st Sector where all the aforementioned essential kadais are located. Every two weeks, she goes to Aavin booth on parallel road, to grab the first two slabs of butter for herself and my mother. She also visits us – we live a kilometer away – at about the same frequency, taking an auto from the auto stand right outside her house.

She never used to take an auto, although she knew all the auto guys well enough. That’s because Thatha used to take her on his scooter. My Thatha is a stud. Really truly. He was a super sportsman in his heyday. Apart from playing every sport in the WORLD, he used to conduct judo classes outside his house. Thatha used to be this rowdy – a do-gooder rowdy like heroes of Tamil cinema. Any trouble in the neighbourhood, and Thatha would arrive (with only background music and slow mo missing) to warn the villains off and to intimidate them. Sheesh! Like a Brahmin rowdy, who went, bashed a few guys up, and came back home to do his sandhi and eat his thair sadam and maavudu. God. Thatha is my hero. After he retired, he devoted himself completely to his grandchildren, and so did Ammamma. Ammamma held fort at home, while Thatha was our caretaker – mine and Sheets’. He was our chauffeur, friend, guide, philosopher and hero. Thatha on his black Kinetic Honda, and later on his grey Dio was a cult figure in the neighbourhood. Everyone at school knew him. All our friends’ parents admired him. And we were so damn proud of him! Imagine a swashbuckling superhero named Iyerman (or even Iyervaal, for that matter). How exciting! 

Until, recently, kannu struck. No no, it can’t be anything but kannu that resulted in this. Thatha now has an extremely painful left leg and can barely move. As in, he can. But yeah, that would end up with him sitting up most of the night in pain. So now, Thatha sticks to his white plastic chair, and doesn’t get around too much. And his grey Dio is busy gathering dust in the shed. 

Sigh. Anyway, so Ammamma and Thatha have lived in their 93 B house for the last 30 odd years. No, it is no ancestral house that they refuse to move out of. It is but an incredibly modest MIG flat. But no, Ammamma hates to move. She hates living anywhere else. Forget living, even staying. For years, she refused to stay at her son’s or daughters’ even for a few days. But now, for the last few years, they do come and live with me and Sheets, when my parents are not in town, they do go to Mylapore (Ammamma cannot bring herself to say no to her most-beloved son anymore), and I know even though she doesn’t admit it – Ammamma and Thathu secretly love their annual trips to Hyderabad to visit Du and Nanda Chitapa. Mostly because Du is poor Du, and Ammamma can nicely bulldoze her around, and because Nanda Chitapa is the sweetest man in Hyderabad. 

Despite being so close to my grandparents, I had unfortunately thought of them as very one dimensional until recently. Ammamma and Thathu have been on many pilgrimage trips with us, all over Tamilnadu. Appa always took them around everywhere. But they have never had a HOLIDAY per se, until they went on a vacation to Munnar with Suri Mama and fly., and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. They went on to talk about the vacation for more than a year after it happened. But the revelation came when I went over to do namaskaaram before I left on a holiday to Singapore. Ammamma was sending me off at the door. Thatha had just finished belting out his slew of safety instructions, and then there was a moment of silence. Suddenly, Ammamma started to sing “Akkarai seemai azhaginile manam aada kandene…” and smiled. Then, she said: “Mochai kottai, ennayum kootindu po da…” And my heart broke. I blinked away instant tears quickly and said bye, and ran away. I couldn’t have taken her along for what I was going to do at Singapore, and anyway it was too late. I didn’t even realize that even Ammamma might want to come along, and travel the world like I did. Ammamma and Thathu have no son in the US (surprise surprise, for a Brahmin family of that generation): they would’ve made a trip there otherwise. They’ve never been abroad. They only know what they’ve seen in Priya – all those wondrous sights that Rajni describes in that song. So then I decided that they must go to Singapore someday. 

Anyway, my wonderful time at Singapore quickly made sure I forgot all about it, and thereafter life sort of took over. Until I was painfully reminded again, when a slightly high Thatha, sipping his whiskey, looked at me and said “Enna ya, oru passport kuda ille… eppo nanga idellam pakardu?”, pointing to the tv. There. I could hear the familiar sound of my heart shattering into pieces again. I marched up to Amma and Appa (yes, in tears AGAIN) and said, “Look. Please take them to Singapore. They have actually opened their mouth and asked.” Amma and Appa agreed, but were disgusted with my unabashed maudlin display of emotion. Amma in turn said to me: “Stop crying like a fool. Why don’t you take responsibility for a change?” That’s when I decided: I am going to get their passport forms. I will fill them out, and take them to Thatha and watch his face. Amma said she’ll do the waiting at the passport office and blah. And then, my parents will take them to Singapore. Or if I have enough saved by then, I will take them to Singapore. Ammamma wants to come with us to Kodaikanal this summer. But space in the car is a problem. Thatha is also protesting a little, because he’s too proud to openly have trouble walking. Amma is fighting with him, by citing examples such as Pads and Meenamma who trot all over the country, even though they too battle old age problems such as knee pain and this and that. And Ammamma wants to go no matter what. So I have decided: even if it means that Sheets and I have to run beside the car all the way to Kodi, Ammamma and Thatha will go to Kodi. And then to Singapore. Ha! 

[ God. This post is so emo. Zzz.
And God. My titles suck. The title of this post beats the title of my blog hollow. Congratulations to me! Zzz. ]

YELLOW YELLOW, SUPER FELLOW

 

 

Ok, I admit I am writing this post only because I thought of this title. (Not like it is some piece of literary genius, but I like it all the same – you know, Super Kings and yellow and everything.) This year’s IPL has not generated the same kind of enthusiasm in me, as last year’s did. And that is for obvious reasons. The tournament is not happening here, in India. (Reason is valid enough. Still… ) Bah, who cares about where it is happening in the rest of India – its not happening in Chennai.

 

Sigh. These days, I only dream of standing in Pavilion Terrace, wearing yellow, and screaming my throat hoarse, my one body pumping as much adrenaline as the entire crowd at that effing stadium in South Africa. But alas, it is not to be. What is to be is the (relatively) dispassionate crowd in South Africa, most of their loyalties akin to the loyalties that people at home show to all those English football clubs. (Clarification to all such football fans:  I am not undermining your fandom in any way. It is just that, well, you have to admit that your fandom is not exactly patriotism, or city loyalty. It is sort of detached, no? )

 

Anyway, my going to South Africa is an option – of course, at the cost of being thrown out of the house at the mere suggestion of the idea. But no, I wouldn’t go even if I could, because I want it right here, at Chepauk, with the rest of Chennai joining me in the fervour. (To which, I can almost imagine Amma saying “Pah! You are SUCH a thair sadam. You just want to rot in K K Nagar itself.”) And that half-wit Gaurav Kapur actually declares with such incredulity: “The stands are full. There are 17,000 people in this stadium, waiting to watch the action!” Yeah, right. Does that hold a candle to Chepauk’s 50,000+ ?  Which reminds me: Extra Innings is so unimaginably terrible this year. Bile in my throat every time. But Set Max IPL promos have been wonderful. And what a makeover the teams themselves have gone through! New jerseys and everything! But darling CSK remains the same – just firang cheerleaders and all. That may not have been the case, had the tournament happened in India.

 

My peypa (Appa’s older brother) is in South Africa, catching all the action live, because he has the distinction of being N Srinivasan’s close friend, and the President of the Salem District Association. That helps me considerably, even if not enough to take me to South Africa – Peypa is the man responsible for my getting Pavilion Terrace tickets for every match at Chepauk. (I reject the Test match tickets, because tests really test my patience, and I care two hoots about cricketing technique. I take the one-day tickets, and grab the T20 ones, because it is easily my favourite format- all action and wham wham wham! Not one moment of slack!) I really truly miss screaming and swearing loudly and dancing badly, offending the sensibilities of all the well preserved elites seated in Pavilion Terrace.

 

Sigh again. How I wish. How different things would have been. Not just vacation plans would have changed; life plans would have been altered. I wouldn’t have fallen asleep midway through the opening match between Mumbai Indians and CSK. Sheets and I wouldn’t have had to stick the schedule chart in the living room bang next to the TV and stare at it longingly. We wouldn’t have to tolerate Amma’s darrty looks every time we jump up and scream, or pray fervently. She actually thinks we overreact. Can you believe that?!   

WHERE BRAHMIN?

When the megaserial storm started to blow, my household was somehow, perhaps the only one whose roof didn’t get blown away. We were quite unaffected by the revolution in the living room. As Amma liked to say to people with that smug smile on her face, “We don’t watch TV at all. Aduvum enakkum adukum sambandame ille…” I do try and tell her that I remember her crying buckets over some episode of Premi; to which she says “Po di. Adu edo oru episode! Nan enna daily Premi paathundena?” Which is true, I think. Amma has, she herself admits, tried to watch some K Balachander serials because of some sort of misplaced loyalty towards him. But it never did last more than a few weeks, which means Amma watched about 1 percent of the entire megaserial. The only reason why are abreast with whatever is happening in every megaserial worth knowing about, is because Meenamma and Pads watch it when they come home.

 

The day it all changed is the day Ammamma spotted this little promo on Jaya TV – a little animated sketch of (gasp!) Cho and the word “Viraivil”. It sent Ammamma flying to the phone, and tell Amma “Cho vara poranan di, Jaya TV le! Edo viraivil viraivil nu podran! Ennava irukum?” Amma promised to watch Jaya TV as often as possible to find out what exactly Cho was going to do on Jaya TV.

 

Some background information at this point: any reference to Cho Ramaswamy in my house, will have people reacting quite dramatically. A good thing about him and the entire household will join you in singing his paeans and I suspect Ammamma will cry. Any criticism about Cho, and there’s no way you can leave my house alive. Because to them, Cho represents the quintessential Tamil Brahmin. The infallible intellectual who makes acute observations. The brave journalist who does not mince words. THE multi-faceted Cho. Cho is to my family, what Che is to a true blue Marxist.

 

An integral part of my childhood memories constitutes of my innumerable trips to the nearby potti kadai to grab the first copy of Thuklaq just as it hit the stands. And, much as she was tempted to grab it from my hands, Ammamma’s priceless expression as she made me place it in her hands, ever so gently, cherishing it as though afraid to wound it. Ammamma’s tattered copy of the Kamba Ramayanam in the pooja room and Thuklaq were unfailingly treated with the same reverence. One also noticed a certain servility while handling both these books. Even today, I am made to make a million trips from my house to Ammamma’s more than a kilometer away, to hand over/collect ancient/brand new copies of Thuklaq. And countless hours have been spent by Ammamma on the phone, discussing everything that figured in the latest issue of Thuklaq, with anyone who was willing to listen – Amma, Du, Manni, me, whoever. I am also urged very often, to start reading Tamil more seriously, and mark my foray into Tamil literature with Thuklaq. 

 

In my opinion, if Ammamma knew how to articulate her feelings for Cho and not find it blasphemous, she would describe it as a ‘crush’. A long standing crush, because her admiration is not just for today’s sharp political analyst, but also for yesteryear’s bumbling comedian. She would say to me, giggling like a little girl, “Anda padathule Cho romba vedikkaya pesuvan.” Anything the Cho-with-hair said is vedikkai, and anything the Cho-sans-hair says is “avlo correct di.”

 

To Amma, Cho represents the ideal Brahmin. “Irunda avare madri irukanum,” she says. What else is there to say?

 

Thatha is not far behind. The man, who used to watch all sports on TV, and only sports on TV, because he understands them all better than anyone else in the WORLD, now watches Enge Brahmanan too. I know how proud Thatha used to be, about his TV watching habits, because he deserved to be. He could not just understand every sport, he could play most of them competently. Thatha, whose TV always had to play what Sheetal wanted it to play (Sheetal is a sports freak too, so it really suited his convenience) despite the choice of anyone else in the house, even a guest, today plays Enge Brahmanan, often against even (gasp!) Sheetal’s wishes! Thatha himself, today asks his once-beloved Sheetal to shut up when Cho is talking. Sigh. How the mighty have fallen.

 

It really cannot be articulated suitably enough, how the family watches Enge Brahmanan every night – with a mixture of awe and devotion and reverence, and what else; and those expressions of delight and glee and sudden comprehension and realization… But I think I know why they watch Enge Brahmanan. Ammamma, because of the references to all the Hindu scriptures, and their glorification, and because of Cho. Thatha, because he himself is a big Cho admirer, and not grudgingly so. (Poor Thathu is no jealous man. The only ground on which he and Ammamma concur, is perhaps in their opinion of Cho.) Amma, because of the depiction of the poor Brahmin and the rich Brahmin in the serial. The rich Brahmin represents for my capitalist mother, the ideal Brahmin in the ideal situation he must be in, in today’s material world. The poor priestly Brahmin eases her conscience by staying true to what the scriptures dictated as to what the Brahmin should be – poor and priestly. Overall, my family watches Enge Brahmanan, because it appeals to their closet RSS sentiments (even if poor Cho did not himself intend it to do so), and reinforces the superiority of the Brahmin above all else. Or so they like to think. GASP! Did I mention Cho as one of the reasons why they watch it?? 

 

Today, Amma still says, “I don’t watch TV at all.” But also remembers to add, “Enge Brahmanan paapom ana naangellam. Chellama aduku Where Brahmin nu vera per vechirkom. (giggle) Pinna Cho vandal, pakka maatoma?” What can I say? Every night at 8, its veda gosham all the way.

 

 

RUN OR STAY?

So naïve of me to have thought I escaped the rat race when I made my career choice. But I guess there really is no escaping it. I really like academic competition. But I hate having to impress someone, and forever trying to up others in order to land a job. Placement time is the time you really forget why you originally chose to do what you are doing. Everyone around you is in a frenzy – preparing, discussing, plotting – all of that, to land a job. Just any job. And doing all that not knowing why exactly you want the job. Is it the money? Not to everyone, its not. For most, it is just something. All those lofty ideals you started out with just fly out of the window, as you are caught up in all the paranoia around you.  

This is such a bad year to graduate. With so few options, the paranoia is sharpened, and so is the competition. And when you tell your mother you are just disgusted with this whole concept of running the race with everyone else, trying hard to sell yourself and trying to seem just a notch better than the others, she thinks you have no aspirations. And you know that you have already disappointed her enough with your choice of career, and your almost-absolutely disregarding attitude towards money. She has deemed you a lost case. So you know, there is a sense of guilt. There are little ways by which you can appease her – at least appearing for all the placement tests, for instance.

 

I wish there was a way by which you can lead life on your own terms, without having to conform, without having to do things others are doing. I know there is. I wish you didn’t have to buckle to pressure and try to conform. I wish I could just travel and write, (and make money, for Amma’s sake). I wish I could choose to do what I want to do, and be good at it. I wish I could just not write a CV, extolling my achievements and trying to seem like the perfect candidate for the job. But I do have to write a CV – but the least I can do, is not sound pompous, which I think I have managed. 

 

But as I sit here looking at my CV, wondering if it comes across as a little TOO lacklustre, despite the presence of some achievements and strengths I know I possess, I feel like there is someone standing apart from this rat race, in the stands, and laughing at me. I want to be that person.

 

Running away is not always cowardly. Sometimes, it is the most courageous thing to do.  

 

 

Update: I have been placed. And I sort of get to travel and write.

GOING NATIVE

My idea of travel, just like many others’, is very romantic: setting off on my own or with few friends, backpacking, discovering new places, homestay, ‘going native’ (as stupid and ridiculously foreign-touristy that it sounds). Rather unfortunately, I am 21, and I haven’t been able to do this even once yet. I don’t hail from a family of ‘adventurous travellers’– my parents take very conventional holidays, with hotels booked in advance, transport arranged, and itinerary in place, very straw-hat-wearing-resort-tourist type. I also have a travel-spot wishlist, and hope to be to all of those places by the time I die.

 

What I simply wasn’t prepared for, was my discovery of my own city. I am the one who gets really offended when my classmates from elsewhere complain about the lack of things to do in Chennai. I wax eloquent about how a city’s worth ought not be judged by the number of pubs or McDs, and tell them to check out my favourite part of town, Georgetown. I give them a list of delightful old buildings to visit, while I have myself been blind to the numerous delightful cycle repair shops in Georgetown.

 

It is so easy to resort to ‘desk journalism’ – to sit down, search the internet, find phone numbers, call up, wear blinkers, land up there to shoot, and come straight back. What you don’t realize, is that the internet does not accommodate some of the most interesting people around. That the internet is not the end-all of all information, and that primary information is the best kind of information. Getting out there will help you meet many of the nameless, faceless people who make the landscape so much more vibrant, without your being conscious of it. 

 

I am increasingly doing that sort of thing these days. I set out, notebook and pen in hand, and just walk out of college, when I need to do a story. I start with the auto guys at the end of my street and just take it from there. I walk about, talking to one person, who leads me to another, who in turn to another. And I not only end up realizing that everyone wants to help, but that every person you encounter has a story to tell. And thus, so far, I have had the pleasure of discovering so many things about my own beloved city that I had not known about – the auto lining workshops of Pudupet, the lithograph printing presses of Chintadripet, the stamp engravers in Triplicane, the digital printers on Ellis Road, the distinct smells of Quaid-e-Millat Road, the yellowing remnants of British rule on bustling Mount Road itself… all of which have now made me feel more like a part of Madras than ever before. This city deserves more than just any broad, overarching, sweeping description. It really is too eclectic to even be described as just eclectic. All along, I had loved this city by default, simply because it is my own, like a close blood relative. But now, I am really falling in love with it. The Madras I have now begun to see, gives me the rollercoaster ride of a new love, the excitement upon meeting, the joy upon discovering, and the slow inevitable slide down into sheer helplessness and surrender.

 

What people read on the Internet is probably the same all across the world. The kind of life I lead is probably the same as all middle class youngsters in all the cities and towns of the country. The way I discover my own city, is probably the one thing that makes my experience unique. I am going native in my own city.