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.

NORMALCY AMIDST TURMOIL

It was a crazy day. I woke up as usual to go to college, only to realize that it was raining like crazy. Stumbling out of my room, still groggy as hell, I caught Amma staring at the paper. “Bombay hotels have been attacked by terrorists. They just walked in last night and started to fire indiscriminately. Encounter still on”, she said. We stood there staring at each other, then immediately rushed to the TV and turned on NDTV.

 

What I was seeing was straight out of some Hollywood movie. Bombs, shame on the country’s situation, we are quite accustomed to. But we had, until then, only heard of school shootouts in faraway America. But this time, it was our own Mumbai. A group of twenty young men had the entire country in frenzy. And the visuals on TV! There we were, looking at pictures of terrorists caught on CCTV, and unable to do anything about it. I remember staring blankly at the screen incredulously, until I fell asleep, curled up on the sofa.

 

When I woke up, it was raining even more violently. There was knee deep water outside my house. My grandparents had come over, because their ground-floor apartment was starting to get flooded. There was no power. We were all sitting inside a dark house, and the rain simply had no plans of letting up. There was nothing we could do. There was no way we could know what was going on, in other parts of Madras, and in Mumbai. It was like we were suspended in an alternate universe. The phone was our only link to the real world. Every thirty minutes, we would get a call from some part of the country – either Appa from Bengaluru, Du from Hyderabad, or Manni from Mylapore – to tell us what was happening in Madras and Mumbai. And with every phone call, the situation in either place didn’t seem to be getting better. And we were completely helpless, literally, in the dark. Not that there was anything we could have done had we HAD power and had there been no rains, but atleast you would know what was going on.

 

I knew I had to be out there, trying to figure out what was going on, how many lives the rains had wrecked. After all I was studying to be a journalist, and took my acads really seriously. But that morning, I don’t know what came over me. After hours of wondering whether to go to college or not, I decided to TRY. And try I did: went as far as Ashok Nagar by car, but couldn’t go any further; so I promptly returned home. And for the rest of the day, wondered if I should have tried harder. I knew I should have. I hated being a chicken. I had always wanted to be, you know, the real thing. And I sorely disappointed myself that day.

 

Night fell, and power wasn’t back yet. I couldn’t even read sitting next to the window anymore, and I had slept enough that day. I had to keep myself occupied in order to not feel guilty, but I couldn’t do anything anymore. The air inside my house was melancholic, until Thatha suggested we play Aadu Puli Attam. We sat down with a piece of white chart paper, 3 big betel nuts (the tigers) and bengal gram that made the aadus. I was quite thrilled. It was like when I was young, and Amma, Appa and I would play cards in the darkness. I was quite hooked as Thatha was teaching me, quite oblivious to Ammamma’s constant cursing of the country’s politicians and Amma receiving constant updates on the phone. I played well. We played for over two hours, with me relinquishing just one aadu. And when we finally declared it a draw, it was quite late. The rains were still lashing my windows. And as I stood, watching the deluge on the road beneath my window, I thought of how detached I was. I had a solid roof over my head, the rains weren’t claiming my life, and Bombay seemed so far away, almost as far away as America. And for a few hours there, there was perfect normalcy in MY life, even amidst all that turmoil around me. And that life thereon would continue to be normal for me. And somehow, it didn’t seem right to me to just count my blessings and live life to the fullest then. I was guilty as hell, and had trouble sleeping that night.

 

God bless all those who were saving lives while we sat in the comfort of our homes.

God save our country, where any shred of normalcy is today under threat.

A NEW BEGINNING

I’ve been waiting for so long. It had been time, but there was no sign of it. I was wondering just for how long I could go on, feeling as repressed and disconnected as I had been feeling for some time now. There were the occasional showers I enjoyed, but the mood hadn’t set in yet. I felt suffocated.

 

Every morning, I would look up at the skies hopefully. Every oppressive muggy morning was not just tolerated, but welcomed; in anticipation of what might follow. And for the most part, I was disappointed. When it did rain, I was happy, but those weren’t thanks to the monsoons. It was somehow, different.

 

Yesterday, I knew it was going to rain. And like in years past, my instinct did not fail me. I anticipated it at just the right time, and got drenched, according to plan. I got home, changed and waited for the right signs with bated breath. They came. I went to bed an excited girl, and woke up to a glorious morning of soft light, lush leaves and heady mann vaasanai that no amount of concrete can ever repress. The monsoons had arrived.

 

For me, the monsoons are a celebration of freedom, of letting go, of expression without restraint. I am a November girl, and it is at this time of the year in Chennai, that I feel liberated, uninhibited, and almost reborn. Gone are the days when I used to run out on the streets screaming and laughing in the rains, whenever I did not have to be indoors, although I do that often enough now. Today I have grown up, and for reasons that would not have deterred me a few years ago, I have not stepped out to enjoy the first monsoon rains yet. Even doing things in wet clothes has now become an inconvenience, like never before. But the monsoons have the kind of power over me that nothing else does – to elevate me to the heights of sheer ecstasy and pleasure, or to reduce me to a maudlin mass of irrepressible tears. But more than anything, the monsoons remind me of all the things I take for granted, and all the things I have to feel grateful for. The monsoons teach me to thank God for life, and usher in a new beginning for me, a growing-up, where things start to look different, and this happens every year. Ever so often, I have watched the monsoon rains as the drops fall on my face, and it has crossed my head that this was probably what people called Enlightenment. But evidently, it isn’t. It is but a temporary phase that rids me of all the cynicism and disillusionment that have frustrated me. It is that time of the year, when my ideals do not sway, and my faith in the world and its people is reaffirmed. It gives me the strength to tackle anything that might come my way. It is but temporal, and as the banality of life takes over after this magical period of three months, far more superficial things start to demand my attention. But what keeps me going is that the monsoons will come again, unfailingly.

 

The occasional showers at other, inevitably hot times of the year in Chennai are the rare loving smiles that a busy, exacting, strict parent treats you to, now and then. But the monsoons are vacations, a time for togetherness, when the parent forgives and forgets all the disappointments you may have caused, and unconditionally envelopes you in the warmth of his love. He no longer feels the need to be self-controlled or controlling; he just gives. You revel in the physicality of his love, unlike any other time of the year. Suddenly, everything is right again.

 

Tomorrow, if it gets sunny again, I will not fret. For, my new beginning is here already.

ALL IS NOT LOST

The heat was getting to me. Standing there in the middle of the road bargaining with the auto kaaran was certainly not my scene. Added to which I could only say to him “Chennai Port Trust, opposite RBI.” When he asked me where, on a lark, I just said “Central pakathle”, because I could see the station from there yesterday. Every time he asked me where it exactly was, I stared like a parrot. The roads looked unfamiliar to me despite going there only the previous day, my sense of direction failing me (as usual if I may add) even when I needed to salvage my pride. I hated floundering like this especially when my classmates from Mangalore and Pune sat next to me, obviously deeming me incapable. Which self-respecting auto kaaran would ask his passengers for directions anyway?

 

 

His non-stop bickering had me screaming hysterically in a while. After a few frustrating stops and hopeful lurches, the auto refused to move beyond the Secretariat. I could have wailed out loud as we dished out 40 bucks to the man, but I forced myself to shut up. Then followed a decent 7 minute trudge to the Port Trust in the hot sun. The lift didn’t work until we had slammed the doors back and forth a good 4 times. Up there in the second floor, we were victims of inefficiency and general inconsistency of instructions, as is characteristic of government offices. A few minutes of waiting while a friend did the talking, and we were actually DONE. What a colossal waste of time, I thought.

 

As we sat in the lobby wondering how to allocate tasks and start work, this settu gurkha comes and chases us away for sitting around. Groaning, we all stood up to leave. On our way out, we see this board that says “No bribe please”. I smirked. Hypocrites.

 

 

We had to sit down somewhere to discuss who was doing what right then, because knowing us, if we didn’t do it right then, we would never do it. And we chose the Port Trust canteen.

 

 

I gaped. I honestly could not believe what stood in front of my eyes. This clean mess area, with rows of food in neat containers manned by delightful smiling grandpas by the side just as we entered, after the token counter. Neatly wiped, squeaky clean tables and functional stools. A well-lit, even if stuffy, canteen stood there. I paid exactly seven rupees for a plate with 4 delicious vazhakka bajjis with chutney and sambar.

 

 

As I sat there eating, with 11 friends who I was going to be virtually living with for the next month to do our various projects, I thought, this is it. I know I sound like a glutton, whose life is set right by the sight of food. But I do know how expensive food in Chennai is, and how empty my pockets are. I thanked God for letting good food remain affordable, and for reminding me that I still took pleasure in these little things. It was going to be easier to pretend to be important worldly wide journalists. People were going to help us without expecting anything in return. Suddenly I no longer cared about the long bus ride back home, the loads of work waiting for me or the sweat trickling down my back. Life is SO worth it. So are violently orange, oily bajjis. Trust them to turn a grouchy woman into a happy little girl who skipped and hopped to the bus stop like a lunatic.

RANDOM IPL RANTING

I thought I didn’t have a taste for IPL. I seem to have a big weakness for it. I have been done in, hook, line and sinker, since I got to catch the Chennai Super Kings vs Mumbai Indians thriller live, sitting in Pavilion terrace.

 Didn’t think in my wildest dreams that I would get to see Ponting run up to Ishant Sharma from gully and give him instructions! That’s something we’ll all remember!

 Was disappointed because I could not catch the CSK vs KKR match at Chepauk, but then, I wouldn’t have caught that rare moment of camaraderie when Hayden played daddy, after his classic straight drive 4 whizzed past non striker Parthiv Patel’s ducked head.

 

Things to say to people: Not that they’re gonna listen to me; let’s just do a sound off atleast!

 @ N Srinivasan: What sort of a name is “Super Kings” anyway? Did you give away 25000 rupees to the unimaginative idiot who suggested THIS name?

 @ N Srinivasan: What sort of a jersey is that anyway?? I am sorry, but you have no taste.

 @ Sachin: Deivame! We’re waiting to see you weave your magic in IPL! Don’t keep us waiting for too long. Please salvage the pride of the Indians.

 @ SRK: Your presence seems to be miracle drug for the KKR team. Juhi alone won’t do. You saw that for yourself at Chepauk today.

 @ SRK: We love the music video! And the jersey! And David Hussey!

 @ Vijay Mallya: We’ve had enough of your money flaunting, you pompous pig! We don’t wanna see firangs as cheerleaders; Indian women look just as appealing! Stop damaging our ego!

 @ AIRTEL/SPRITE boy: You look alright, but you can’t anchor to save your life.

 @ Kris Srikkanth: Enough already!

 @ Billy Bowden: You are our favorite umpire! Those flourishes are oh-so-cute!

 @ Harbhajan Singh: Sardars’ spirit is inimitable alright, but you’ve taken it too far. Shame on you, bully!

@ Sreesanth: If you think we’re gonna say “Aww! You poor baby” the way your teammates did, then you couldn’t be more wrong. We’re not asking you to handle the slap with dignity and maturity, because that would be asking for too much from you. Atleast show us some spunk! Some off-the-field action! Give it right back to him! Biff! Pow! Thud! Thwack!

 @ Ishant Sharma: Haven’t you proved that you are all of 19 years old? Who asked you for smart ass comments about Ponting? And what’s with the hairstyle??

 @ Afridi: We understand your predicament about being distracted, but couldn’t you think of a more plausible excuse for performing so abysmally?

 @ Palani Amarnath: You are the envy of all the youth in the country. No one has ever had it any easier, have they? Good luck for ever more!

 @ Vijay: We know that 2 crores is a lot of motivation, but you are being a brilliant sport all the same! Chennai is proud of you.

 @ Nayantara: Ugly fat spoilsport!

 @ Sivamani: Popular demand for a book by you on ‘Being a genius, living it up and spreading cheer’.

@ CSK cheerleaders: 100 marks for decency, and for dowdiness. Please take some hints from your Mumbai counterparts.

 @ CSK cheerleaders: Negative marks for toddler-level-dance-competition choreography. Tch tch tch!

 @ CSK cheerleaders again! : You plainly suck! I should have joined you guys!

 @ The makers of the CSK AV: The mamis and street boys thank you profusely. Oh, and we love the end Dhoni-to-singam morph! Corny, yet insanely cute, just like Thalaivar’s punch dialogues, and his own morph in Padayappa!

 @ Chennai crowd: You are the best ever! We, rather.

 @ All my friends who are not Chennai Super Kings supporters: It may be true that other than a few fledgling members of the team and Muralitharan, the others have absolutely no connection with Chennai whatsoever, save Dhoni’s Mysore Sandal Talc advertisement. It may also be true that M-O-N-E-Y is the magic word. But think about it: Screaming ‘Chennai Chennai’ just feels so right! City loyalty truly pays.

 

That said, one yellow T shirt and 2 yellow kurtas for subsequent matches set aside. Nothing like a CSK T shirt though. Where can I lay my hand on one?? Someone please tell me!