sunshine again

"I've spoilt myself living in Bangalore," I thought, one zany day, "Let me treat myself to some Chennai."
So here I am, in the city of wide roads, little smartypant kids who know every Rajnikant, Vivek and Vijay dialogue,
shockingly gutter-mouthed motorists,
wisecracking automen telling their passengers "petrol rate yeri pochu ma…" (petrol rates have risen) just when papers announce that there will be no price hike,
music and film festivals that turn into 'tamizh vazhga' (long live tamil) fiestas,
lording of The Hindu, lording of amma,
Sun TV, set-top box, HUGE movie hoardings,
super kaapi,
jasmine and oil smelling hair,
winding flyovers, in-city buses with scrawny college boys dancing on top,
women who don't hesitate to grab dirty old men by their collar and throw them out of moving buses,
wise men who scramble away from the women's seats,
disappearing monuments,
the exultant "tamizh thaana?!" on discovering tamilians from other States,
Koovam, Spencers mall,
begging mafia, water mafia, sand mafia… oh, there's just so much!

Aside: Somehow, the word 'Chennai' has just no effect. So official, it sounds. So I will say Madras. Colonial? So be it.

I turn a deep maroon to say that all it took to ease into the city, and sweat along was the end of my Bangalore prepaid SIM card. Come new Madras number, and I've said my last "tata!" to Kempegowda. Shame. Shame upon me.
The last two days have been spent house hunting... Before I actually got on the task, I figured I'd see a real estate ad in the papers, make an appointment to meet the landlord/landlady, see the place, fall in love with it, and instantly go curtain shopping. Leave alone home accessories, I haven't still found one piece of floor I would like to step on everyday after work. And a wart-sporting, steel-scale-holding budget witch follows me around, rapping me in the knuckles every time my eyes light up at a wonderful, but annoyingly expensive house.
I now realise I should've kissed the walls and doors of my home in Bangalore a lot more. Sigh. I hear the new décor trend is to paint your walls white and then keep them unclean enough so they turn other shades. That way, there is even a surprise element to it all.
Now, in the search for my new home, I've walked into snail shells, brothels, palaces, convent dormitories, prisons, religious conversion centres, and nice homely little houses. But what I cannot believe is the number of people who've appointed themselves my real estate agents. From friends to aunts, colleagues to Vasantha Bhavan (VBs- a south indian fast food restaurant near office) waiters & cashiers, neighbours to shopkeepers… everyone's in on it.
I walk into VBs for coffee and "You got it-a?" has replaced "Hello, ma". We all pour over the classifieds, laughing over every ad that says, "24 hours water supply" and "fixed rent 3000/- negotiable". After all, during eight months of college, I only ate every meal there and translated complex demands like "no skin in coffee, please" and "I have strands of hair in my sambar" into tamil.
But what has now bound me to them for life are their offers to let me stay in their houses if I didn't find a suitable accommodation. ("My house is always open for you, ma... but it might be little humble for you..." Humble?!! I don't see anybody offering to let me stay in his 8 bedroom house...)
The kannadiga manager first tripped over himself with joy when he found I knew Kannada. After that, he refused to speak in any other language, and kept announcing our Indiranagar connection to all the waiters as they nodded with interest sufficient enough to keep their jobs.
Hmmm... maybe moving wasn't such a bad idea after all. The Madras grin is as beamy as Bangalore's anyway. The only addition is the squint in the sun-tortured eye. All else is happily warm. So things couldn't be brighter.