I’ve been a major pain to my friends – the ones I speak to often – over the last few months. I’ve been grumbling and simpering and feeling endlessly sorry for myself – basically doing things that are very unlike me. Worse still, almost none of my friends has heard from my mouth, as to what had happened, and why I was being a mass of tears. So in all, I’ve been unfair to them and I’ve been unfair to people who have been affected by my decisions.

This year has been one of decisions. It was an independent decision, respected by my parents, that I spent last New Year’s at faraway Singapore, with my friends; Singapore, that looks more faraway now than ever before. I returned, full of vigour and with a snazzy new haircut, that I thought was very me, bold and a little perky. The rest of ACJ flew off in a flurry, in work that didn’t get any less demanding at any point. When placement time came, Amma suggested I give The Hindu entrance a shot, so I thought why not, and wrote the test. It went decently, although, again very unlike me, I finished the test really early and left the hall with a nonchalance that I knew that most people in that room did not feel. Few days later, I found myself on the list. Preliminary reports revealed that they were interested in us all, and merely wanted to know preference of location, and as long as it suited their plan, they were fine.

I remember how the big man asked me if I wanted to take up desk at Madurai, reporting from Coimbatore, or reporting from Pondi. Desk was out of the question – I usually came up with slogans for headlines, and always, unfailingly forgot to give captions for the photographs in every damn editing test. Between Coimbatore where I had a few million second cousins and a very affectionate extended family – why the hell did I not think of that before! – and 3-hours-from-home, exotic vellakara ooru Pondy, the choice was obvious, at least then it was! Had I known that on the bus on weekday evenings, it actually took FOUR hours to get home and not three, my decision just MAY have been different.

So with the next one year of my life charted out, I went through an unexpectedly painless laser surgery, that ruined my spectacles fantasy for good. Myopia was no longer an excuse. And since I was forbidden from doing any exercize, my dramatic weight fluctuation tendency came back, and how. What followed was a short holiday at Kodi that Appa had planned, my first family holiday in a few years. Even though, in Appa’s defence, I remember that it was a good holiday in all, my most detailed memory of the trip was the day we left, when I spent hours writhing and twisting in utmost discomfort in the car from one of my worst tummy aches ever. Another searing detail of the memory is the resentment I felt coz he had insisted that we leave according to plan, even though I had woken up that morning in Madras, sick as hell. We forgive, but do not forget so easily – something I realized again a few months later, in a totally new context.

The looking forward to Pondy period was an exciting phase. I still have saved in my Drafts folder, the message I had sent out to a million people about the fledgling finally flying the nest. It started in absolute luxury, with the sweetest people I knew, a job I plunged into full fledgedly from Day One. It was all fine until I went home after nine days of work, and promptly broke into sentimental tears because I could smell the walls of my home again.

I was a bit spoilt in the beginning, living as I was in luxury, having it easier than others working away from home, and that troubled me. Luxury was a dangerous thing to get used to. And in my hurry to snap out of this, I sort of bulldozed a landlady into letting me in a little too soon. And it ended in a sort of a mess, and I moved again in a month, only this time I was bulldozed out. At ten p.m. one night, with almost my entire luggage loaded on to a scooter, bags dangling from every shoulder, handlebar and hook, I checked out. And for the first time, was fully aware of what an unbelievable situation I had gotten myself into.

I was alone for the first time in my life. I’ve always been a drifter, even though I have had my own gangs before. But this time, there was no one to even drift towards. Older colleagues, a much older new, nice landlady, and no time or energy whatsoever to do much, after nine hours at work. Nine hours soon stretched to ten, as I found it increasingly tough to peel my ass off my chair, log out of GTalk and get out there to find stories. The internet salvaged me sort of, reminded me everyday that there were still the people out there, whom you once knew, who still want to talk to you. On an impulse, I shed my superior stand on social networking, and joined the obnoxious, self-obsessed Twitter, which I soon stopped using though.

Even as I thought it wasn’t possible to be any more lonely, I went ahead to make the biggest decision of my life so far. I went ahead, and plunged myself into further, darker loneliness, and broke another heart to smithereens. You forgive, but you do not forget too easily. Resentment and anger threatened to burst my arteries. Hot tears scorched the pillow every night and my phone might have gone deaf if it had the capacity to. My already chubby face puffed up to new proportions every morning, and I went into auto-pilot mode, working and studying for exams. Soon, the resentment vapourized, to leave in its place, a yawning, cold emptiness that I continue to fight. I have still not found the courage to look back at the decision, in an objective rational manner. I don’t think I am ready yet.

Work and my new life have changed me. It has been a humbling experience, out of the cocoon of my Madras existence. I’ve met people who are not part of my Madras universe, I’ve learnt to haul around my 75 kg scooter around without any help – pushing it a kilometer to the petrol bunk is a weekly affair that I’d be sad to miss, I’ve learnt to hide the telltale signs of my upper caste upbringing in my Tamil – although ‘karthale’ remains a giveaway. It has given me perspective where problems are concerned. Many a trip, to meet Narikuravas in a garbage dump and in the company of abandoned children, have been spent in a blur of tears and anger towards the unfairness of it all. Cynicism was being shoved down my throat. But all the while, self-pity had not relinquished its hold.

Shoulders had slumped. Apparently the ‘priti’ expression has disappeared. The girl who was nicknamed Flubber at school had lost the spring in her step. When I looked into the mirror on my 22nd birthday, I felt cheated by what looked back at me – a tired, resigned working woman, who looked every one of her 22 years, maybe older. And I wanted to quit, and finish the game.

But Life goes on, the way it cruelly does no matter what happens. Much of it has been spent in numb auto-pilot mode, with the occasional aforementioned grumbling to friends, who have patiently listened. I don’t know if I have been more private this time, but I have certainly controlled the urge to burst into tears in public. A serviceable grin has always come in handy, so a lot of people haven’t noticed. Facebook happened, and even the once-superior-than-thou social networking hater is now officially hooked. My best friend, the one I had to meet every trip down to Madras for sanity retention has flown the nest too. And my knees haven’t buckled.

I am sitting here on New Years Eve, in an empty house with no one for company. But strangely, I feel no self-pity or sadness. I am proud I resisted the temptation to run home to Madras for a few hours to avoid this situation. It is, after all, just another day. New beginnings start in the head, and I am determined to kickstart mine soon. This afternoon’s tears dried up to reveal a deep-seated shame for my behaviour over the last few months. Every mother has given us the funda about how some kids do not get even one square meal a day, so we ought to be grateful for what we have. But we forget it when we need to remember it the most. This afternoon, I decided to be grateful. My earlier walk alone on the beach eating ice cream was fun, despite the creepy encounter (even Pondy men get adventurous on New Years eve), and despite the fact that my iPod shuffle relentlessly dished out melancholy after melancholy.

So what if I am alone on New Years Eve, having no fun? My family is four hours away, my friends, an SMS away and the world, a shout away. There is no pride in being sad. There is only pride is taking responsibility for your decisions, which are the reasons why you are alone in Pondy in the first place. There is pride in persevering at something without chickening out. And I am going to give that pride a shot. In 2010, I will turn the corner. There will be pain, and there will be tears. But I will not allow them to cripple me. I could use a hug right now, but Monday, when I will get a hug and custard, is not too far away. I am a big girl now.

Happy New Year, everyone. It is a good time to start writing my blog again. Sorry about the story-of-my-life rant, and a very belated sorry for my pathetic attempts at fiction on this blog. I am endlessly embarrassed. I will try to resist the temptation next time.

Days pass in foggy detail, in a blur of riding all over town looking for inspiration, late night movies, carrot juice on the roadside and frustrating attempts to move a 75 kg scooter up a narrow stone ramp. The old Hyderabad city-meets-Mada Streets world is infinitely fascinating to live in. But it isn’t K K Nagar.

The ‘week’, which sometimes lasts up to 14 days, is finally drawing to a close. Blood gushes to the peripheries, rendering you hyper and restive. Work seems meaningless, as a silly grin refuses to leave your face. The clock strikes 4 p.m., but you are nowhere close to getting done. But the motivation is fierce, and quality takes a backseat. You send it in, and take off yourself, skipping down the stairs to the one bike that stands out in the entire sea of two wheelers on Mission Street, thanks to the gaudy yellow stickers on royal purple, screaming ‘PRESS’. 

Charger, purse and medicines – all else is insignificant; you know that. Still, you set aside your favourite pair of jeans, and at least 5 shirts, in anticipation of some miracle that will prolong your stay. The white shirt for the movie, the striped tunic for dinner, and of course, no trip would be complete without your Superman T shirt. The first things that find their way in though, are those dirty clothes that you are too lazy to wash yourself. Books, toiletries, trinkets – somehow they all find their space in that capacious sac. And you are off.

In what seems like an endless stretch of time, the bus slowly weaves its way out of the fetid bus stop. The bus hits the highway, and you finally begin to relax and lean back into your seat. Your legs are cramped beneath the seat ahead of you, and your own seat protests in pain. But with raindrops pelting your face and the wind whipping the wisps of hair that have escaped your ponytail, your throat only chokes up inexplicably in a sudden surge of emotion. The bus ride is akin to running into welcoming arms, in slo mo. 

You wrench the ear plugs of your I pod off, as you turn the familiar corner. Irrespective of the weight of the backpack, you break into a 100 metre dash to the gate, throw it open and run upstairs. And it’s all a haze again, Gundu lifting you and dropping you on the ground with a thud, hugging a grimacing Amma and jumping up and down, running inside the house aimlessly like a juvenile 3 year old… 

Everything seems right suddenly, the week’s cynicism washed down with urulakazhangu curry, nei-drenched sudra saadam and rasam. And the thair sadam that you’ve waited for all week, of course. Catching up on family gossip over vanilla custard and banana. Nameless movie on HBO with Gundu. Random youtube videos, chat and blog post until you realize its 4 a.m. Unearthly hour shower before curling up into your bed. 

10 a.m., you wake up to Amma’s endless tirade on how ugly your skin is, how sparse your hair is, amazed at how comforting it is to listen to her scream. More custard, followed by more gossip and a thousand phone calls, until you yourself begin to feel the need to bathe. Bisibela bath, cucumber raita and oily oily appalam nearly moves you to tears. Guilty indulgence in the AC in Amma’s room, with an Archie comic or a Mills and Boon. Non-stop needling of Gundu. Happy laughing in the evening with friends, going out, or staying indoors over raucous games of Uno.

Now you begin to dread the end of the day. Amma hands you bills and important papers to take back. You sit at the computer desperately, as if that machine can rewind time. It can’t. Gundu gives you your hug and immediately falls asleep. Appa’s call lasts about ten minutes, and then Amma hits the sack. The quiet of the house itself saddens you immensely, as you move around, putting together the things you have to take back. 

Freshly pressed clothes, books, bags are all arranged neatly at the foot of the bed. And then you crawl in, into whatever little space remains and curl up. You shut your eyes, and pray that tomorrow never comes, wishing you could go on revelling in the comfort, nay, luxury of your own bed in your own home. 

Before you know it, its 5 a.m. Life is cruel.

7.00 p.m. – Gi. His heart lurched at the sight of this name in his appointment book. The heart of a paediatrician-respiratory specialist with a successful yet mundane practice in an upmarket area, doesn’t lurch too often. But it never failed to, when this particular name came up in his appointment book, which was about once in three months. He didn’t even look beyond the 7 p.m. slot. He shut the book, and returned it to his middle aged, mother hen secretary, who bustled off. And he waited. 

The hours ticked away like ages as he waited. Food and drink tossed down without interest, appointments passed in a blur. All that was looked forward to was the 7 p.m. appointment. 

Finally, at 7, he rang the bell, to usher the patient in. The child usually walked in half bent, wheezing heavily, face twisted in agony. But today she hopped in, smiling brightly and plonked herself on the patient’s seat. He greeted the child, and waited. From the corner of his eye, he could see that she had just walked in. He smiled at the child for a full 3 seconds, before he turned to greet her. 

His heart lurched again. She looked the same, the way he remembered her from three months ago, the way he always remembered her during the months between Gi’s falling sick. The huge slanting black eyes lined with kajal, the elegantly hooked nose, the tiny diamond nose stud, the thick wide mouth, the round bindi in the middle of her wide forehead, her slender form… She was even wearing the same sari as the first time he saw her walk into his clinic. 

Deva. That was how she had introduced herself, three years ago, when she had first brought her child for consultation. Since then, he was hooked. He had been utterly charmed by her slightly apologetic manner, as she told him about her daughter’s asthma history, perhaps blaming herself for her child’s sickness in some way. But the proud lift of her chin suggested that perhaps she was a fighter, fiercely independent and rebellious. He had noticed that she had never mentioned her husband in any of her visits. And he hadn’t asked, even though it was a perfectly natural thing for a paediatrician to ask, in the child’s interest. Besides, Gi never needed more than a nebulizer session and some antibiotics to set her right. 

The child was a splitting image of her mother, minus the nose stud, and plus the inevitable chubby cheeks of an average seven year old and plastic frames. He knew for a fact that Gi had a mind of her own. On her first visit to the doctor, when he was writing out her prescription after the nebulizer session, she had asked him, without consulting her mother and without any embarrassment, why he wouldn’t give her those animal-shaped biscuits that he kept in a jar on the side shelf. Her forthright manner had startled him. His grown-up children still sought his permission to do anything. They were brought up in the strictest discipline, and taught never to speak out of turn. But Gi knew exactly what she wanted. She always explained her sickness with clarity even most grown ups were not capable of. And he knew from Deva’s indulgent smiles that she found her daughter’s demeanour satisfying. 

For a man whose wife spent more time scolding the children than letting them be, Deva as a mother was fascinating. For a man whose wife never looked at another man in the eye and wore high necked blouses with long sleeves, Deva as a woman, with her cool gaze, low cut blouses and short sleeves was fascinating. He had soon begun to spend hours, wondering what kind of a companion she would make; fantasizing what life with her would be like. But he was too afraid to do anything about these feelings; for fear that one wrong step might stop her from coming to his clinic, even if only in the capacity of his patient’s mother. She didn’t give him a chance either. She was never less than polite, never more either. Moments of desperation had even led him to perversely wishing Gi would suffer a mild attack, only very mild, just so he could at least see Deva.  

“We don’t need a nebulizer this time, Doctor,” she said with a heart-stopping smile, sitting on the other chair. 

That brought him back to earth. He smiled back, and turned his attentions on to the child, asking her how she was doing. The child responded with the enthusiasm brought about by meeting someone she liked. A tiny bit of silence followed. 

“We are moving to London in three weeks, Doctor. Gi’s father has found a job there. I am a little concerned about her health, and how she might react to the cold weather. So we came to ask if you could refer her to a respiratory specialist in London. And perhaps brief the doctor about Gi’s history…” 

He stared blankly for a couple of seconds, and then nodded numbly. In auto-pilot mode, he looked for, and found the business card of his friend who had an established practice in the wretched city. He scribbled the details on his notepad, tore it out and handed it over to Deva. He recovered soon enough, to wish the family good luck, and asked Gi to take care of herself. Just as he said that, he looked up tellingly at her mother. She was smiling down at her daughter. 

He stared at the door for a few minutes after it closed behind them. Then, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and resigned himself to his nondescript life, cloaked wife and disciplined children. It was a while before he rang the bell again to usher in the next patient.

He saw her. Chatting with her friends, throwing her head back in laughter, just as he had seen her before. Riviera 2009. He remembered exactly what had happened. Wasn’t her hair a lot longer then? 

Turn away, he admonished himself. She has caught you staring. Self-consciously, he looked around the place, as though looking for someone. From the corner of his eye, he knew she was still staring at him. 

He flipped open his phone, and called his friend to strike a non-conversation. Something that would allow him to look at her now and then, and observe what she was doing. Now where was he? 

It was just before his band was due to go up on stage to set up. He had seen her, throwing her head back, laughing about something her friend had just whispered into her ear. And when the convulsions stopped, their eyes had met and held. The next moment, he had tripped like a fool on the steps leading up to the stage. His cheeks stung as he recollected the embarrassment. He had simply not let himself make eye contact after that. But his head had clearly marked the latitude and longitude of her position in the audience. He won’t look her way, he had decided. She was still staring at him. 

And he hadn’t. He had managed to play decently, AND he had managed to avoid eye contact with her for the first nine minutes of his performance, despite stealing glances at her whenever he thought it was safe to. She hadn’t given him too many chances to do that. But he hadn’t known for sure if she was looking at him, and not just in his direction. Either way, he couldn’t have taken the risk. God. She was still staring. 

When their performance had ended, resounding applause had threatened to bring the roof down. His name had met with the most hoots and whistles. This time, he had to look, to see if he had her approval. He couldn’t say if he did, because she hadn’t been clapping. She was sitting back in her chair, a faint smile playing on her lips. And then, by the time they could clear the stage, she had disappeared. 

Now she was right in front of him, still staring. It wasn’t a lewd appraisal, nor was it a piercing psycho-type look. It was just a curious observation really. Was she interested? Or was she simply sizing him up? He couldn’t tell. He hung up on his bewildered friend, and fiddled with the settings of his phone. He remembered her so clearly, because he had run that scene in his head a few million times in the last few months. There was nothing else he could do really. He didn’t even know her name, to try and find out who she was, or what she did.  

Finally, she stopped staring. Instead, she put her head down, and strode purposefully. In his direction. He gulped, and attacked the settings of his phone with renewed concentration. Play it cool, he told himself repeatedly. Act nonchalant. 

“Umm… hi.” 

He looked up at her, a vague, preoccupied expression deliberately fixed on his face. She was smiling. He noticed that her eyes crinkled when she did. “Hi?” 

“Adit. The guitarist from Loyola.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. “I am Sam, from Stella.” 

“Oh.” Before he could think of something to say next, she went on. 

“I first saw you perform at Saarang. You play quite well.” Wasn’t it Riviera this year? He was sure it was. But he couldn’t tell her that, could he? 

“Oh.” And he tried to smile. 

“And then I saw you play at Riviera.” 

“Oh.” He was beginning to feel like a parrot now. But what was one expected to say in such situations? Saarang before Riviera? He hadn’t noticed her then… 

“Actually, I knew you were going to play at Riviera. That’s why I came.” 

Whoa. Some balls that would’ve taken. Especially the way she said it. It wasn’t giggly flirtatious, nor was it an uncomfortable forced confession. She said it matter-of-factly, not in the least bit ashamed. He had to ask. 

“Umm… How exactly…?” 

“After Saarang, I googled you, and your blog came up. You had mentioned that you would be playing at Riviera, and so I turned up.” 

His mouth opened and shut. He just didn’t know what to say. No. She still didn’t sound desperate. Whatever she said seemed so… right. And she seemed to be about to say more. 

But it was his turn now. All defences down. He was going to say something. At least now. 

“Umm… do you want to go somewhere and grab a cup of coffee?” He smiled apologetically. “I think we should … I don’t know…” 

A heart-stopping couple of seconds. He squirmed. Should he turn around and run? 

Finally, a hint of a smile showed up on her face. 

“You beat me to this one.”

 ————————– 

First attempt at fiction. And God. How embarrassed I am about it already! But thought I’ll put it up anyway. Zzz. Had thought of a couple of more serious fiction ideas first, but decided to do this fun thing instead. I am SO desperately in need of doing something fun. 

Sort of inspired by that book that I read, at least parts of, every goddamn day of my life – Erich Segal’s Love Story. Had initially obssessed a lot over what the guy should be – a singer, a guitarist, or a speaker or whatever. And what the setting should be. Then I just thought to hell with all that, and came up with this. So I really don’t care for objections such as Riviera and Saarang happen at the same time, or guitarists from Loyola don’t perform at Riviera. And as for real Adits from Loyola and Sams from Stella, its all purely coincidental.

God. How long has it been since I wrote my last blogpost? Every time I come to Madras, I always put this down on my list of things to do. But in the flurry of, you know, walking around in dirty pyjamas, gossiping with Amma, visiting Ammamma Thatha, Uno with friends at home, and movies on the computer, I don’t get around to writing a post. Plus, when you write for a living, there isn’t much of an inclination to write otherwise. (God. Have I become a cold professional, who has forgotten how to write for pleasure? *shudder* ) But right now, there is a flow, so I shall write, and shall do so, without cribbing about the company, nay, institution, I work for, because a blog is an open book. ZZZ. How boring have I become? Anyway, any cribbing shall be restricted to personal gtalk conversations.

• I write for a living. I go to bed every night in mortal fear of having gotten a fact/quote wrong, and hope that the next day goes by without any untoward incident, such as, you know, have some hired assassin skulk around some corner waiting to finish me off, or worse still, have someone call office and demand that a correction be printed. Zzz.
• I have begun to write fast. Really fast, as compared to the 30 hours I took to write a 600 word piece in college. I am proud to say that today, I am a copy producing factory. Who calls up her sources 5 times in paranoia, to ensure she has gotten her copy right. And yes, I still write in Microsoft Word, and copy paste it before sending it. I can’t get myself to write anywhere else. Word limits and deadlines continue to agonize me.
• The features I write, I just realized, have become slightly formulaic, although I try to throw in a fair bit of both heritage and lifestyle. Hmm, must change that. The first feature I wrote, I wrote like I do in this space, and as a result, it got edited quite drastically. Must find some middle ground, and write acceptable fun pieces. I am not allowed to post my stories elsewhere without permission, and getting permission is too strenuous, and unnecessary for a nobody like me.
• I don’t think I want to do this for a living. Will get back to studying soon. These days, I really really wish I could study for a living. I know I sound like a nerd, but I really really like studying, but strictly only subjects I myself can choose.
• On the personal-ish front, I really like Pondicherry. Was thinking of doing a series of posts tagged “city girl in a small town” based on my experiences and observations there. We’ll see.
• I don’t have a laptop, and have sort of decided I don’t need one, considering that I have access to the net during my nearly ten hours at office. Have learnt to be really alert – whenever a colleague walks past my computer, I quickly change windows, so they don’t notice I am chatting. It makes me feel guilty, but its not like I don’t work. As always, I multitask superbly, and at very impressive speeds now. This also explains why I don’t/can’t blog from work.
• Having my pieces edited too much is a BIG ego issue for me. BIG BIG BIG. Oh, snap out of it already!
• I miss Madras quite badly. Not like in a depressed way, but in a yearning sort of way. I always thought that when I fly the nest, I wouldn’t return too often and my parents would miss me terribly. But I hate to admit that I am the one pining away here. My folks miss me, and call me enough, but not as often as i thought they would. I am the one who comes back home every off I get. So much for all the bravado. Zzz.
• Another completely reverse thing. One of the reasons I said yes to posting at Pondi, was all those images I kept conjuring in my head, of my wearing my Stetson and cycling around everywhere, with a basket full of flowers (refer to header of this blog for clarifications. How cocky I am).  But since I report, I need to get around a lot, and fast, so my purple Scooty Pep has come there. When I am in Madras, I get around on my old green Ladybird. What life has in store for you, no one can tell. Even I couldn’t.
• I am quite happy there. The one thing that makes me feel bad is my nearly complete lack of friends at Pondi. But yes, things are getting better.  And so, in the future, I hope to spend more time at Pondi and discover it, during the offs that I decide not to come home. that shall happen as soon as my social life is worth writing home about, and I mean literally.
• Like I said, trips to Madras are looked forward to. I almost always enjoy the bus rides back home, except when a creepy man is near me, and that has happened only once so far. I am now, and only now, discovering the pleasures of music and the i pod. I am no technology ignoramus, but somehow the i pod had completely evaded me, because I listen to no music. I do now, a little. And it thrills me no end that the tracks get shuffled on my ancient, hand-me-down i pod shuffle. It IS so damn cool.
• Lived with an angelic family-friends family in absolute luxury, until recently, I moved into the house of another warm family, not freeloading this time, but as a paying guest. I am really quite thrilled to have suddenly become so grown up and independent, but its also a little scary. Scary-exciting.
• My room is super, really dark and no cross ventilation. Just little windows on top of the AC I don’t use, and dark blue and grey curtains. Its so normal perfect.
• I have completely stopped using the AC except when I am in Madras, because my house is a furnace. I am glad I am weaning off it. Now, my tolerance for cold has also come down drastically, which may not be such a good thing. When I experience for real, the white Christmas of my dreams, I will probably just be a snowman on the landscape.
• Absolutely EVERYONE is off to the US. It is SO scary and thrilling. Maybe I will too, I don’t know. Amma sure wants me to go. Hmm…
• Every trip to Madras is marked by an alarming discovery/news. Sample: last trip’s shock quotient was provided by the discovery that Enge Brahmanan is over. How my heart broke. This trip’s discovery is that Balamurugan Stores has been razed to the ground. I feel like crying a little. How painfully I miss school. Why can’t I go back to being my gawky self, the one who dug up compost pits, spent hours doing Exnora work loving every moment of it, and earned her Pepsi Cola at Balamurugan at the end of everyday’s work? How I miss Exnora. How I miss everything.
• Thanks to Appa, dear Scooty Pep got a nice clean up. I have never done it myself really. The most I can do is, spend 5 minutes looking for a parking space on Mission Street that isn’t in the line of fire from above. What I have learnt is that kaka pi does not always travel in a straight vertical line due to gravity. Its paths are trajectories sometimes. Zzz.
• I used to eat lunch at a Gujju/Maru mess right below office. The first time I went, DDLJ songs were playing in the background, and they served a super rava kesari. My eyes welled up as I realized that it was Fate that threw me and Sri Balaji Mess together. But after Serena described the kitchen and cooking conditions to me mincing no words whatsoever, I don’t know if I believe in fate anymore.
• Ah. What can I say about the pleasure of Walls orange kuchi ice on a rocky beach? Or the chocolate pyramid at Hot Breads? Nothing, except “Thank you God”.
• I have actually stopped thanking him. Still procrastinating the “questioning faith” bit, but I don’t do my routine prayers anymore. I just selfishly pray for my ass to be saved, when I write some copies.
• I wonder often if I should write a book. I don’t know if I can. But when I think of Chetan Bhagat, and his ‘One Night at a Call Centre’ that claims to be a bestseller, I take heart at the fact that anyone can write, and be successful at it, even if not (any) good. Maybe I should try, no harm.

Two thoughts that crossed my head, when I tried really hard not to think of which waiter’s sweat made it into my cup of dal last week:

• There is a foolproof method to decide if your family and the things they do are normal: imagine a family like that on TV or in some movie. Are members of the audience likely to say “loosu kudumbam”, or worse still, “ayiye”? If they are, then SO not normal. Let’s not even begin about my own. The windows had better remain shut all the time.
• There is a foolproof method of being able to tell if a person eating at the table in front of you is settu or South Indian (assuming that the telltale signs, such as tight transparent Hrithik Roshan T shirt or pattai/namam are missing): the settu will tear his roti using both hands, make a sort of a loop with the piece and scoop the gravy into the loop neatly. We? We are destined for yellow fingernails.

Phew. I think I am done for now. Will try my best to write during my next trip down. Can’t wait to go to ACJ tomorrow with friends. There is this warm, fuzzy feeling deep within whenever I think about ACJ. Sheesh I am too wistful and nostalgic and emo for my own good.

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. ]

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?!   

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.

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.

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.