WHERE BRAHMIN?

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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?

FACE VALUE

Is the above sight offensive? Or horrifying to the human eye? Would anyone form a perfect ‘O’ between their lips before saying “Sheesh! Look at that!” and then, also shudder? I wouldn’t. But I had tried very hard to elicit that sort of reaction a couple of days back. And failed, if I may add. All I got was a polite near-yawn. Zzz.

 

 

I knew that this would happen. That is why I wanted to opt for Print in my ACJ application form. But no, previous experience of working towards producing visuals for an addictive-idiot-box-that-people-sat-watching-gaping-while-controlling-their-bladders-for-fear-of-missing-something dictated my choice. And to think that prim and proper, model television BBC would teach me to blow things out of proportion… this is where I shudder. Not during a close up of a poor innocent packet of Lays.

 

Newspapers do have to fill pages too, but somehow, apart from the likes of pseudo newspapers and sleaze tabloids like Deccan Chronicle and Chennai Times, I haven’t seen newspapers being desperate enough to cover banality like television does to fill air time. But as part of our ‘training’, the rubbish we cover as part of our biweekly bulletins makes my toes curl and the nails on them cringe. But despite having vowed to “revolutionize TV journalism single handedly”, as part of my ‘training’, I have to do these things. And a few days back, we did a story on how junk food may be banned in schools in the city.

 

 

After being kicked out of a school by someone quite foretellingly called Mother Superior, we had no choice but to make a story of it in our own college canteen. Under the amused noses of the privileged print lot, feeling rather embarrassed, we made a poor classmate buy a packet of Lays three times (retakes) and then forced him to eat nonchalantly while the camera zoomed indecent levels into his face. Then followed more indecent close ups of a pack of Lays. Had the pack of Lays been a woman’s (face) cheek even, we would have been guilty of ‘objectification of women’. Except that the subject is already an object. Which makes the entire effort worthless no?

 

 

Anyway, where is the need to kick so much fuss over the evils of junk food that we have speculated about even before junk food was conceived? As discerning people with brains, don’t we know already? Why do we need telling, “Oh junk food is bad, don’t eat it!”? And knowing its bad only for our own bodies, if we still do it, we don’t care right? So why show the bright orange semi solid stuff in a boy’s mouth being ground into a paste? And that Lays pack! I feel even sorrier for it. What did it do? It doesn’t have eyelashes to bat innocently to lure people into assaulting it. I know I know, the evils of consumerism, the brilliance of packaging and all that. But how can you accuse a nice happy blue packet bouncing off sunshine, of manipulation?

 

 

I am not saying junk food is healthy. Condemn me if I trivialize a grave issue like a famine. My point is, let us shift our focus to those things that require our attention. And in our country, there are such issues everywhere you look. Let us spare a poor blue air filled pack sitting in a corner. Let us learn to tell insipidity engagingly. Or atleast fill our bulletins with sense. Otherwise, let’s just sit around with friends and eat chips out a bright blue pack.

OF FOOD, FOOD IN BENGALURU AND FOOD AT ADIGAS (IN THAT ORDER)

I am a good eater. Not of the monstrous quantities type, but of the loving food type. I moan when I eat good rasagullas, smack my lips after a good pizza, and thank god for every wallop of butter he sends my way. I am the sort who would try every dish in a buffet (only in moderate quantities, if I may add), except those with revolting kathirika in it. Hell, I even try out kozha kozha vendaka, which my settu friends style-ly call bhindi, like it’s the coolest thing around. And now, I have the dubious distinction of having tried out EVERY single item on Adigas’ menu in the four days I spent at Bengaluru, for breakfast, lunch or dinner.

 

Any self respecting, authentic Madrasi would have relatives in Bengaluru. Somehow, being as authentic and self respecting as it gets, I’ve been to Bengaluru probably 7 times in my entire life, staying at Appa’s cousin’s place each time. But now, thank god – no one will cast aspersions on my Madras-ness anymore – Appa started work at Bengaluru a couple of months back. My cousin moved there a few months back too. So this trip was going to be different, you know, not just a polite staying-over at a relative’s, careful not to step on anyone’s toes. Naturally, I was excited, considering that a whole load of close relatives were also going to be there then. So, a few weeks back, when my Bengaluru friends were talking of eatouts there, I asked them to recommend some places for me to drag my folks to. And what I got was: “You are vegetarian no? Just please yourself with Sukh Sagar and Shanti Sagar.” That did not please me. I had vague memories of eating idlis for breakfast at Shanti Sagar years back. And the idlis by themselves were not memorable. Suddenly, I wasn’t excited about going to Bengaluru anymore.

 

 

But Appa took me to Adigas for dinner on my first day there. Appa’s excitement was not merely palpable like it usually is; it was extraordinarily vocal for a quiet man like him. Appa, the simple soul that he is, always regards expensive food with a certain degree of wariness, and always manages to find some fault with the service, the ambience or the napkin colour. But he completely trusted inexpensive food in clean surroundings, and he had pledged his allegiance to Adigas. And I pledged my allegiance to Appa. I was looking forward to it.

 

Oh. My. God. Everything was right about it: the taste, the hot metal of the spoons, the non-fussy presentation, the little chunk of melting butter on my ho dosa, the happy faces, the bustling interiors, Appa’s knowing smile as he watched me gape, everything. But the prices were all wrong. I could have rolled on the floor and bawled. I felt so bad for the guys running the place! Just HOW could they keep it running by charging 12 rupees for a karabath with that offending slice of tomato on top, with as many cups of sambar as you want? How? Now I knew why my classmates thought food in Madras was expensive. Feeling gratitude and sympathy, I nearly went to the counter guy and bowed in deep respect, until Appa pulled me back.

 

Thus, I went to Adigas every day for the next 3 days, to try everything on the menu. And every single day, Appa bundled me off into the car before I did anything to embarrass him and the people who worked there. With occasional change in eating patterns in the form of sandwiches and lassi at Cool Joint, Spanish Rice at Jaya’s place, cke at Café Coffee Day and DBC (although the peanuts on top really truly killed me), my gastronomical experience was complete. Now I officially love Bengaluru.

 

I know that the next time I walk into Saravana Bhavan, I am likely to spew venom and plant a soonyam or something. Because, when I was standing at an Adidas showroom after buying Appa’s third branded T shirt, and my first, staring blankly at an Adidas Club poster, (of which I could become a member if I made a purchase of over Rs. 2000) a familiar voice said over my shoulder, “We can only become Adigas Club members.” He’s right. And oh, I am quite nasty to my rivals.

THE PSYCHE OF A HYPOCHONDRIAC

The worst thing a doc can do to you is to show you pictures of your own insides. After a painful 20 minute examination of my retina, that involved the flashing of a light with the power of a 100 candels (or whatever), the vitro-retinal-jvhoehrbielk specialist subject me to images of my own eye to tell me that there was some degeneration that needs a laser surgery to be set right. (It was then that I realized that my only vanity, in reality looked so yeww, not unlike that little bloodshot glob stored in some preservative fluid in some gory movie I saw ages ago, that I wouldn’t believe was an eye  – the pictures in the Class 8 science textbook notwithstanding; those weren’t pictures of MY eye. What was I thinking? Concentric rings in luminous browns and blacks, an artistic masterpiece?) I half suspect that the degeneration was in fact caused by that damned light he flashed in my eyes, causing me to see these psychedelic images of my own nerve ends floating about in the foreground wherever I looked.

 

Anyway, point is I need one surgery, to correct my retina, to make sure it doesn’t develop a hole and allow the vitreous gel to flow into the hole to cause retina detachment and eventually, blindness, and then another, to correct my grossly large back-of-the-eye, caused by chronic myopia, all in the space of a month, that also has on its agenda, numerous visits to the tailor, (induced by) 2 weddings to attend, a million outings, possibly the start of my post graduate course preceded by orientation, Dasavathaaram (for the first time, and consequent times), (all of which result in) loads of excitement and emotional upheavals (Yes, I cry at weddings and at movies, jump with joy when I meet my extended family, get all fiercely passionate when I start doing something new, gush when my clothes are right, louwe with all my heart and exaggerate a great deal.) No way do I want these “procedures” to try and spoil ANY of this for me, no.

 

Added to this, Manni chooses today to tell me about an episode of “Dr. Sun News” she caught, that had the visiting worldly wise doc telling someone on the phone that eating ice caused a great deal of acidity to begin with, that would eventually end in inability to digest anything, and hence chronic loose motions. Worse, she had to tell Amma all of this, before the phone was passed on to me with a See?-I-told-you-so look. The second I put down the phone, Amma resumes her diatribe about my carelessness, about how ugly I look, my spotty skin, my sparse mane, and about how youth is on my side and salvaging what little I do have.  Now, so much medical advice in a day does not make me exasperated, it instead conjures up these images in my mind’s eye – a maaneram Dalmatian-human cross, with cat whiskers stuck to its scalp with an adhesive about as potent as post office gondhu and a bright fluorescent orange eye patch over its right eye, walking into class on her first day of college, dreading loose bowels. And these stupid, damned green-blue-red-orange nerve endings in the foreground! Go away! Shoo!