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?!   

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.

MY FAN CLUB

We all have our own share of fans. I used to too. I mean, I still do, but not in my age group anymore. Because right now, I am with people who don’t think I am special. Because I am not. I am an average girl in the group I move in now. Nothing to look up to, I think. No gaping in admiration/adoration and all. Trust me, there were a couple of junior girls in school who really used to want to emulate me. They would come and talk to me, tell me my hair looks nice (which was even more terrible then than it is today), and all. One of them even followed me back home from school once, because she wanted to see where I lived. I think I had a couple of secret fans too, but I don’t want to sound all presumptuous. (There, see? I got the point across sounding all humble also). I’d like to think I have secret fans even now, but if I said as much, I would really sound presumptuous.

 

So what do you do at a time like this, to obtain fans? I did not do anything consciously. Just generally, you know, played good big sister. Dropped sister at school, tennis class, violin class and all; made myself visible, you know. I was greeted by curious stares by my sister’s friends, the ones that hadn’t seen me until then. Until then, I was just Sheetal’s much older sister, some random person who was mentioned in conversations. But then, they saw me. *drumroll*

 

I instantly became an iconic figure, the akka who zipped past on her Scooty Pep, with her hair blown into a lion’s mane by the wind. I was still Sheetal’s sister. But not just Sheetal’s sister. Sheetal’s sister with a twinge of reverence. Eyes widened and dilated, mouths dropped open and speech failed. And of course, Sheetal’s sister lived in ignorance, until recently.

 

It was one more of those rounds. I went to pick up my sister from her friend’s place. She was expecting me, so I was expecting her at the doorstep. What I did not expect was about 5 of her girl friends also at the door, smiling shyly. “Coming?”, I asked. Girls start to nudge each other. One says, “Hey you tell!” to another. My sister stands apart, grinning. More whispering and nudging. Finally, one of them says, “Akka. You look like a model.” The akka in question laughs it off, waves bye, and zips off on her bike with her sister. And of course, smiles like an idiot all the way back home.

 

Poor things. They don’t even know what a real model looks like. They don’t realize that although it looks like I am zipping past, I am going at no more than 50 kmph. They aren’t old enough to realize that a purple Scooty Pep isn’t exactly cool. They think studying to be a journalist is cool; they don’t even know if I make a good journalist. Sheetal has probably told them I am smart, but they don’t realize that I may not be. They are amazed at the way my hands just fly across the keyboard as I type, but don’t care for all the typos I make. They don’t realize as I explain the whole emoticons funda to them, that I haven’t exactly created it myself, so their eyes needn’t well up in tears, you know  (I am not at all being presumptuous here – the monkeys are home all the time doing/saying some of these things, and my sister also gives me constant updates. So… ).

 

But hey, who cares? I am not leading them on to some grand disillusionment. They’ll all grow up, and forget all about me. And I’ll lose another set of fans. Sigh. So, bask in all the adulation for as long as I can right? So what if my ‘fans’ are no more than 5 feet tall, still making pee jokes and calling each other ‘boy’ and ‘girl’? Fans are still fans, no?

WELCOME, WEEKEND

It is one of those times, when nothing seems to be going right. No matter what you do, it ends up being miserable. You are disappointing everyone, yourself first, your teachers and the most important person in your life. People have begun to think you are mediocre. You find yourself unable to participate in class, tongue tied for a vague reason.

 

To top it all, you are fighting. Nitpicking basically. And feeling slightly J of people who are doing better. Getting angry. Blaming everyone else secretly in your head for your bad work. Wondering why Lady Luck always fails you.

 

But Friday evening is liberating. 2 days of oblivion. Many ways to escape your own mediocrity. No performance expected, nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

Thank God for Mills and Boons. For mindless mush, occasional hot scenes and happy endings. Of course, a corner of your mind wishes you had The Scarlet Pimpernel to read instead. Never mind. And the attempt to trace Brahmin and Non Brahmin geneology can be resumed on the weekdays. Hmph.

 

Thank God for bestowing the ability to summon sleep at absolutely any time of the day. And of course, the wonderful serenity when you wake up – without being woken up, that is.

 

Thank God for long hot showers and nice silky hair at the end of the shower.

 

Thank God for Saturday and Sunday evening Sun TV (and K TV, Vijay TV and the like). Both masala Tamil padams and Maaveeran (Tamizhil) types are mind numbing timepass. Also for Batman Begins on Pogo and all the romantic comedies in the world. Perfect weekend fare.

 

Thank God for endless supplies of kadalai paruppu, thovaram paruppu, channa, sugar and ice. And for limited supplies of Unibic’s Oatmeal Cookies, and Bradman Chocolate Chip Cookies. And oily appalam on Sundays.

 

Thank God for long walks on the beach under starry skies in the middle of the night, with the sea roaring near you, as you watch one of the most ancient rituals in the history of the earth.

 

Thank God for the telephone, the computer, the internet, chat and e mail.

 

 

 

 

 

Ok I am done. Just realized that I sound like some sort of a generic-religion religious fanatic. And that this blog is fast becoming a Dear Diary. Yuck.

 

PS: The Premio Dardos (meaning ‘prize darts’ in Italian) award is for recognition of cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values transmitted in the form of creative and original writing.

 

I would like to present this award to

Jay – for her ease and flair of the language, and the effortless way she writes. And so FAST! Grey Slate is truly beckoning us.

Sharanya – for her sheer eloquence and passionate writing. Go girl!
 

 

MMM…

Nothing I say will sound original. How many movies have we seen this in – an urban dood-type going to a village and enjoying the simple rustic pleasures of life? But it really did happen to me! Not that I am a dood-type; more an MGR-Nagar-type, but nevertheless, I had a wonderful time! I guess no matter how many movies we watch, and how many books we have read describing similar pleasures, one’s experience is truly one’s own.

 

Navya’s special report on Chennai’s water crisis required us to go to this little village in Tiruvallur district called Velliyur, which supplies to Chennai, its daily quota of some 15 million litres of MetroWater. Naturally, Navya being from the land of akki rotti, did not know where this place was. And the most rural place that I (her cameraperson – and she’s mine) have been to is probably Salem. So after just having found out that one takes a suburban train from Central Station to Tiruvallur (Madam Nithila also emphasized the fact that it would only take 20 minutes to get there by train), we set out, camera and tripod and bags in hand. The eventually 75 minute-long train journey was mostly spent giggling about the most banal of things, commenting on how demented our families were, wondering aloud if we were heading to Sri Lanka by mistake considering the time it was taking for us to get there, and also generally enquiring about the whereabouts of this place Velliyur to our co-passengers. Needless to say, no one had even heard of it. But since spirits were high and the weather delightful, neither of us complained. We laughed about it good-naturedly and silently prayed to our respective gods to help us.

 

We got off at Tiruvallur, beginning by looking around helplessly for someone who could help us. A sweet man obliged, and told us to get out of the station on the left side of the station and take an auto to Velliyur. No surprises, but very soon we discovered that the left side was not the right side. And an auto driver on the right side demanded 250 holy bucks to get to Velliyur. We shuddered and walked on towards a bus, whose sweet conductor told us that he could drop us off at the Tiruvallur bus stand from where one could take another bus to Velliyur. And we spent the next 15 minutes to the bus stand smiling at all that we guessed must be referred to as ‘town’ by the villagers – bustling streets, a rundown cinema hall, small shops that stocked English newspapers and big restaurants by the name Abinaya Bhavan and the like. We reached the bus stand and spent 10 minutes there – 5 minutes on buying safety pins to fix some essential things, buying kadalai and Cadbury Dairy Milk Shots, and another 5 minutes walking up to each bus to ask if it went to Velliyur until we finally got onto one.

 

It was a delightful red bus that sold pink Srinivasa Motors tickets. It was filled with people who mostly looked curiously at the equipment and my outlandish drawstring pyjamas and T shirt, and sometimes smiled at us reluctantly. All through the 17 kilometre ride, we looked out of the window with awe, at the lush green fields on both sides that somehow didn’t look as distant as they do from a train, the quaint churches, the austere Christian settlements, and people walking about like there was no hurry to do anything. We even caught sight of an old building that claimed to be a missionary-run daycare centre! When I asked, the lady next to me revealed with considerable pride that although Velliyur and its surrounding villages seemed like they were mostly Christian settlements, there were people belonging to all religions coexisting quite peacefully, that the people mainly practiced agriculture although the youth did commute to Madras everyday for work, and that no matter what work you do in Velliyur, whether you are a man or woman, you get paid Rs 100 a day. I am guessing now that Navya and I looked like a couple of fools, with those silly wide-eyed smiles that refused to leave our faces.

 

Even though there was no bus stand there, the kind bus conductor stopped right outside the MetroWater office. We hopped off after thanking him profusely, to the office, where a few friendly-looking men speaking Madras bashai stepped out. After hearing us out, they told us that they could show us the bore, explain the mechanism and show us the water yield at this Bore No 11 that happened to be a kilometer or two interior. And all that we had, were a few bicycles. I enthusiastically grabbed the happy green one with M Nandini written on it in Tamil, and Navya sat behind me with the equipment, as Mahendran, Ebenezer and Guru Devasahayam climbed onto their own wheels. As it always is with shaky starts, I shook the cycle a little, and Navya fell off. The camera bag landed on her legs, and the cycle soon followed as I managed to skip off and avoid a scratch. There was a great deal of embarrassed explaining and loud laughing as the camera bag was strapped to my back seat and Navya got on behind Ebenezer. We started to ride on this little cleared trail, towards Bore No 11. Bhaskaran, the supervisor caught us on the way, and immediately relieved poor Navya’s backside by planting her on the backseat of his motorbike.

 

It had started to rain in the meanwhile. What I felt then, is just indescribable. The mann vaasanai, unlike our Madras concrete vaasanai was unlike anything I had smelt before. It was otherworldly divine, and it threatened to intoxicate us. That little tongue at the back of my mind had already started to sing an Ilayaraja song in tandem with the rhythm of my steady pedaling. I was surrounded by tall green stalks of sugarcane, and there was nothing in sight for miles and miles except fresh greenery, until we reached a little clearing where we caught sight of dear old No 11. We got all that we wanted – shots of the bore and the pure water straight from under the ground that I swear we could have consumed for the rest of our lives straight from the pipe, and an interview with a nervous Mahendran with hilarious prompting and cuing from the others. We cycled back to the office, where a few more curious officers had gathered to catch sight of us peculiar city types. We waited in the shelter of the office, worrying aloud about missing the bus because we weren’t standing by the side of the road and flailing for it to stop, to which Ebenezer said, “Kavale Padadeenga ma. Naanga local boys, naanga sonna stop pannuvanga!” Which they did. The men helped us and the equipment on to the bus and waved cheerfully until we had all settled down in our seats. The rest of the bus ride was a low hum, with me promptly falling asleep, and Navya chattering nonstop on the phone with her parents.

 

After mini meals at Vasanta Bhavan near Tiruvallur bus stand, being attended to by the most attentive of waiters, we took an auto to the station, boarded the train and slept comfortably all the way. 21 took us to Simpsons bus stop, and we trudged slowly back to college, amazed at how un-tired we still were. All the way home from there I smiled.

 

I must admit at least at this point that I am a sentimental fool who romanticizes everything. But what might have been a long ordeal, dealt with fear and apprehension and cynicism, turned out to be an excursion, a real field day. I know Velliyur isn’t really the Kerala or the Sri Lanka straight out of my dreams. It must have its own problems, just like the real Kerala and Sri Lanka do, and all that I saw a mere speck in that universe. But that day reasserted my faith in simple living, the need for clean air and water and in the kindness of mankind. Being a fool is therapy, and fun.