Whimsical weather

Changing seasons went unnoticed before. They were simply the overlapping moodswings of something I had no control over. Trees remained green, except sometimes they thoughtfully came with flowers. The wind blew hot and cold, you walked against it either way. Sunglasses seemed excessive, sunscreen pointless. Umbrella worked for all seasons, if you were an umbrellaic sort of person. Temperatures, did they matter so much?
Thunder showers, fierce lightning, rivulets to cross all the way everywhere-- yes, you noticed monsoon. The next morning, the flood outside your house is greyer, a green sprite bottle is bobbing helplessly. The TV's out, and so is the phone. Play boardgames. Read. Light candles. Sleep. You will finish the last chapter the next day. Morning comes, the flood is gone. Sunny day. Work day. You never find out how the book ends. You didn't know what would come tomorrow.
Will it be less hot tomorrow? I never asked the question because I could never know the answer. I hope it's less hot tomorrow, I said. Shush, don't say the summer's over, you'll jinx it, he said. Yuck dust, you said, washing your face. We should take jackets just in case, they said.
The unnoticed acknowledgment of lack of control. The theories of obnoxious rain clouds that decide to shower on your white-shirt day. Of accomplice clouds when Australia is beating India. Of solid rain with personality that ruins or makes your best date ever.
Ah, the sheer wonderfulness of new plans hatched because the weathergods woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

Formulaic lives

Boring days yawn on.
An unclear piece of information offers A Good Thing.
The day brightens.
Others are told.
They do what others do. They talk of Better Than Good Things.
I break time-tested Enthusiasm Control theory to allow for effervescence.
Castles in the air grow a sixth floor.
Day of the Real Thing dawns.

Enthusiasm Control theory states that real things will be good things only if better than good things are not expected.
Experiment: Better Than Good Things expected of a Good Thing.
Ingredients: Big Mouth, Castles
Result: Real thing didn't seem like a Good Thing. In fact, it seemed like a Bad Thing.

QED.

And they call it superstition. Nonsense.

Page 51

She walks into the library with coffee. How warm the cup against freezing fingers. Sunny spot picked, stretching ritual observed.

Coffee sipped with resolve. Page opened.

The whitespace around the words articulate a coherent viewpoint. The words, on the other hand, try too hard, forming silly queues of characters whose impatience makes them forget why they’re there in the first place. “Next!” booms the voice of Thepoint, who works for the Invisible Hand (earlier held the pen, now types).

“Move ahead!” hisses Archetypal to the reviled Paradigm.

“Typical,” says Paradigm, rolling his eyes.

“What’s that? Say it again to my face, you over-used know-it-all!”

“That’s so trite. Just like you to pick a fight in a public place. Look, Of and Creation are embarrassed to be standing in front of us.”

“Of?! You really care what Of thinks? There are millions of his kind everywhere, doing the same menial job in every book. You don’t even notice them. Since when do you care about the prepositions and their feelings?”

“Ok fine, but I need to keep up appearances in front of Creation. She’s pretty well placed.”

Coffee sipped again. Yawn. Page turned.

Constantly nudges Changing. “Hey, they put us together again.” Grin.

“Wow. How exciting,” yawns Changing, turning away from Constant. What a bore, she thinks. She wants Relationship, who is way fuller of surprises than Constant (who has worn that –ly today, as if anything could make him more interesting).

Relationship, though, stands quietly in front of her. He's really attracted to Change but thinks he couldn’t keep up with her. “I never know if she’ll be there the next morning, or even if she is, whether she’d be the same.” They once had a torrid affair, but when Relationship felt like he could be completely himself, Change left, saying he was tying her down.And now she wants him back. "Women!" thinks Relationship, shaking his head.

The air is fraught with tension. Sick of standing in one place, Change decides to break the queue. She moves to the whitespace to her left. Constantly is shocked. “You can’t just do that, what if everyone does it?? Rules are there for a reason!”

Relationship can’t stand all this moralizing. He gets out the way and forms a new queue. “I don’t think you should do that,” says Superiority, rolling up his sleeves.

Relationship hates these rule-makers with all their enforcing. They suck the fun out of everything. "Who's stopping me?" he asks.

“I am. What, you think you're better than me?"

Change is thrilled by all this testosterone. She has an idea. “Words!” she yells, “I think it’s time we took a stand. We’ve been slaves to the Invisible Hand for too long. We do all the work, and he gets to put his name in front of the cover. It’s time to mess things up a bit!”

Change’s shrill voice wakes Revolution, sleeping in Chapter 7 somewhere. He’s an experienced old chap, with scarred and calloused hands, and a rousing story for every occasion. Revolution especially hates the Invisible Hand, who he holds responsible for the sudden surge in the number of his enemies. He didn’t ask to be paired with that hot French chick, did he? Anyway, he decides to help Change if it means he can get back at that control-freak Invisible Hand.

The words start moving around. They have never done this before; their world had revolved around getting to Thepoint. But today was different. Everyone walked about, making sure they never stood next to anyone compatible. When no one stood in the right place at the right time, they all missed Thepoint.


More coffee is sipped. It’s gone cold now. Her mind is wide awake, but the book is making no sense. Almost feels like the words are shifting around trying to confuse.
Hardcover is banged shut.

white noise

Ah the background buzz of many jumbled voices.
So audible, yet, wonderfully wordless.

the demise of the 50 paisa

Waking up to find that people reject you to your face. That’s got to be the worst ever morning. It’s relatively easy to hear people say you’re useless, especially if you know you’ve been sort of out of the scene for a while now. But to find that because of a few rejections, you become rejectable? Now that’s a tough life. Why even get off the assembly line then?
Even the otherwise penny-and-pound-wise rickshaw-walla rejected it. “But I’m giving you four of them… that makes TWO whole rupees,” I explained.
“But madam yeh nahi chalti”
Well, I took it from someone. It chalo-ed to me…
“Arre madam…chalta paisa dena. Koi nahi letha isko.”
But the RBI still makes it, right? Stuff is still priced with the half.
(An annoying realization hits me about how I never bother to collect the change in such situations. But as long as this unreasonable man doesn’t know it, I can have any incriminating realizations secretly in my head)

The rejecter called on the parking attendant. Ask him if he’ll take it, he goaded me. “He’s your friend ok, he’ll be as unreasonable. I’ll call a neutral someone. Aap lenge na isko?”
The vegetable vendor looked blankly at my palm. “Yeh nahi chalti madam”
What is with these people?!!

I used to buy a fistful of orange-toffee once. And a few years down, a band-aid plaster. Then it clinked around at the bottom of my bag for a while. Afterwards I didn’t bend to pick it up when it rolled into floor crevices. Then it was useful in even numbers, to be given away when you wanted to thin your wallet. And now, chalti nahi. When I said it was this or nothing else, the rickshaw-wallah actually went with ‘nothing else’. It’s a horrible way to die, I tell you, being less than your value.

baby you can drive my car

There is a remarkable amount of talk about women drivers. The usual accusations: too slow, can't park, too panicky.

It is believed that every woman driver, without exception, sucks. There are still some countries where insurance companies refuse to cover women drivers. There are books dedicated to the subject. Example: "28 Days: What your cycle reveals". We understand, the book says, you have menstrual cycle, you poor girl. It isn't your fault that PMS makes you take the wrong lane, it consoles. But also suggests that anyone with lower levels of oestrogen is bound to be a better driver.

There are tons of "humour" websites with photographs of bizarre accidents and cars stupidly parked inside pedestrian subways, and a caption in capital letters reading "Yes! It's a woman!!" Some driving schools in Chennai too offer women learners longer classes so they don't hit the road in a hurry. The nicer people empathize with this innate incapacity to drive: maybe she's born with confusion about gears.

Yes, bad women drivers do overtake from the inside, they do maintain irritatingly low speeds on highways, they do take ages to park. But the bad male drivers (yes, they do exist) do the same things without being bumped/rushed/yelled off the road for their road skills, or alleged lack of them.

An Australian Transport Safety Bureau's website makes an interesting observation from accident statistics involving men and women drivers. The national toll is decreasing, they say, but the number of women drivers killed and hospitalised is increasing. "This is due to an increase in the number of women obtaining drivers' licences and an increase in the amount of travel they are undertaking." If there are more women figuring in the accident statistics, it doesn't immediately mean they're getting worse by the minute. It just means more women drivers are now included in the total count.

Busy as we are shaking our heads ruing "these women drivers", we forgive those men who would take sharp swerves around wrong sides in peak hour traffic to say, "Madam, what are you doing?" Whatever we might say about women at the wheel, it is hardly an equal road for her and her male counterpart. The teenaged boy shifting gears lurchingly isn't offered a Traffic Rules manual at the next signal. The man on the cell phone driving in the two-wheeler lane doesn't get knocked on his bumper by angry motorists. When the call-taxi always in a hurry whizzes past a red light, no one yells expletives about the driver's flawed genes. And no male driver has to try and block out the lurid gaze of the woman in front, twisting her rear-view mirror for a better look at his chest.

Update: Some phew-ness here.

I wonder if the officeboy thinks his existence doesn't matter to all those whose empty coffee cups he clears.

Keep out because we've said so for ages

Saamis will soon be all over town, throwing away their cigarettes and slippers, sleeping in the living room, and turning on their goodness for 41 days.

"Swamiyeeeii! Sharanam Ayyapppa!" is a chant I've heard and enjoyed every year, as my father would wear his rudraksh necklace, and suddenly turn so pious that I felt respect and fear soar inside me. I liked that he suddenly sported a beard too; it made him handsome. His friends planned the trip for a whole month: cars to be booked ("We're getting older, the Tempo will give us slipdisc. Get a Scorpio"), leave to be applied for, and celibacy to be attained. It was a man's holiday from the household, but these men were truly believers. They loved their Ayyappa and didn't fail to bring home the cherished Aravana payasam (prasad) that we licked for weeks after. I'm glad I got to go once when I was nine, and while trekking up the hill, some uncle even took the bundle of divinity from my head and threw it on his. "Little girls needn't bother."

Looks like not-so-little girls needn't bother either.

"Jayamala shouldn't have entered the temple."

Why?

"Because she's a woman, and women are not allowed inside the Sabarimala Temple."

Why?

"Because Ayyappa is a bachelor and he doesn't like women entering his temple."

Did he tell you personally? Did he have a nice booming godly voice?

Jayamala didn't just touch Ayyappa's feet; she hurt male pride. How dare she enter what God said was man's space? To add to that, an unnecessary court directive a few years ago asks the temple authorities to enforce the ban on women strictly. Now that Jayamala said she entered the temple 19 years ago, suddenly so many men are afraid that the fellow they've been worshipping all this while is a dirty fellow. Touched by a woman. Did it mean that all that work they put into leading a pure life was a waste? "Ermm... so can I smoke again? God ain't that pious anyway."

Rahul Easwar, grandson of the chief priest of the Sabarimala temple, is "a believer in tradition, but a feminist." That's how he describes himself. He's a VJ, wears stylish unwashed jeans, and could give Dhoni a run for his hair. He also chants Sanskrit slokas, seems to be a yoga expert of some sort, and said on a news show that he's is a believer in Sati. Whether he's that much of a believer in tradition, or he just said it to seem consistent on TV, we will never know. But it is this kind of Saami that worries me. The one who seems modern in every way, except that he's not too progressive. The fellows who have no qualms about clinking vodka glasses with their girlfriends, but would "be practical" in getting her parents to cough up dowry (To soften them up for the intercaste marriage). The kind of guy who "allows" his wife to work.

My dad and his middle-aged friends going to Sabarimala wouldn't care if their wives hopped along. Their sons who go along aren't really sure about this, though. They're still walking the trapeze between being a modern chappie who condemns the purdah system, and an Indian boy who must not question his tradition and culture.

How stupid can be thought funny

If anyone asked me for advice about what 2-wheeler they should buy, I always said, "TVS. Mileage is great. The perfect middle-class company."
Nevermore. Because they went ahead and okayed one of the worst ads ever:


Chase skirts now. Soon you'll be washing them. Eeeyuck.
This writer's justifiably annoyed in her post, and calls it the "wtf ad". But it's the comments that are shocking. Take a look. And at this too.

Maybe the ad-men (or some strange women) were suffering from testosterone poisoning.

Dei Ambi, ketayo?

A rascal was recently heard plotting annihilation of the dreaded tam-bram cult and stop forever curd-rice warfare in social, economic and virtual circles. As he sat with his cronies (software engineers from Bristol, New Jersey, Toronto and Tidel Park) one night-shift, he revealed his plan.

"We are to hijack The Hindu paperboy in Mylapore tomorrow morning. The Hindu must not reach Iyer and Iyengar hands! If that doesn't ensure heart attacks to every single mama on Kutcheri street, at least it'll ensure constipation."

Thanks, Meera, for this. A fantastic sociological finding:

A survey has revealed that 'Ambi Mama' is the leading relative among Tamil Brahmin families worldwide, with six in ten families having one of their own (a 60% repsesentation. Apparently, Ambi Mama held off stiff competition from Mani Mama (with 55% representation) and Baby Chitti (39%) for a well-deserved win.

"It's a great day for all Ambi Mamas. All the years of hard work-- drinking coffee, criticizing the Indian team selection and complaining about blood-pressure-- have finally paid off. Yay!", said Ambi Mama, a spokesman for the Ambi Mamas Association of Dear Old Rascals (AMBASSADOR), a division of the Hardcore Brahmin Organisation (HBO).

Yes, Vaidhi periappa did say, "Naangal ippo llaam broad-minded aakum." (These days we are all broad-minded). But...

Not all are happy with progress, however. "These youngsters are ruining everything by naming their children Archish, Dhruv and Plaha.", thundered Badri Athimber. "Can you imagine how it will sound? Dhruv Mama, Anamika Athai, Archish Chittappa-- Ugh! Phooey! That is so not cool!!", he growled, using expressions of disgust picked up from his states-based co-brother.

When asked for their response, several Brahmins living in Adyar merely arched their eyebrows, pursed their lips, and continued waiting for the December music season.

Update: Further research of the same. I think it's the vibhoothi overdose that's at fault.

the old man and the prizes he gave me

I first saw him as Purandaradasa, his earnest voice pleading with the Vittala shrine to give him one glimpse, asking if an untouchable's devotion was only worthy of rebuke. As B&W temple bells clanged and crashed into each other, I remember my dad imitating the nasal tone of Rajkumar's voice. Trying to flare up his nostrils like Rajkumar's would when he sang.

Then I saw him as the detective whose 'idea face' was a nose-flare and big wide eyes. Also imitated by appa even in front of guests. Then Rajkumar was a policeman, a father, a man to take behind the bushes and kissing flowers, a devoted son, a farmer, a smart smuggler, a special common man. But Purandaradasa with his pleading voice remained with me as the lasting image.

To my family, Rajkumar was the voice of devarnamas (kannada devational songs). None of this was about faith, or devotion, of course. In Bangalore, Rajkumars devarnamas always won first prize at any music competition. Buy that new tape. Write down those difficult lyrics. Get meanings from kannada miss at school… because you had to emote right to win the Kannada book on Tipu sultan. Or else you'd end up with second prize. A book on someone who didn't even have a TV serial to his name. When one Rajyotsava Day, Rajkumar handed the first prize certificate to me in Town Hall, and ruffled my hair, I told the whole school.

Every morning, Rajkumar played out of my grandmother's old radio. "How many times will they play Bhagyada Laxmi Baaramma?!" We'd knot our ties and polish our black shoes wondering aloud why so many of Rajkumar's songs had the word preetse and bangaara. Then after Radio City happened, Suresh Venkat brought us at least two Rajkumar songs per evening on the Kannada-only show. After Rajkumar was kidnapped, every day we'd go to college (very near Rajkumar’s Bangalore home), only to be packed off home in the afternoon because of possible rioting. We hoped everyday that he was well and healthy in the forest. Believing that his wellness meant our safety in our mostly-Tamilian neighbourhood.

When he was returned from the forest, we listened to Huttidare Kannada nadalli huttabeku being played over and over on TV and radio, with as much elation as the people we were afraid will land their lathis on our head. We'd forgotten how much we loved the old man, how much we had internalized him. As he became just something we grew up with, we had forgotten his ability to sway opinions. His proud refusal to use his stardom to step out of the studios into the assembly. His shockingly steady voice even at 60.

Still, he'd stopped short of being a legend in my home. There were too many 'legends' sitting in our living room: MGR, thanks to appa. Prem Nazir, thanks to amma. And Rajkumar, thanks to the land we lived and loved.

Today, the last of them has had his funeral swamped with love and tears. So many adjectives, so many anecdotes, so many garlands. Suddenly, my family's love for the man seemed a mere fondness.

Till appa messaged me: "Dr Rajkumar dead. What to do now?"

million times beating my heart

It's silly to sing into the phone to someone, except if he is singing this.
Rajkumar has acquired renewed fame, of late, in webspace because of this deadly video.












(the quality is not as bad as it is in the above pic)

I don't know how I had a merry childhood without chancing upon this.
A must for instant nostalgia, giggles, inexplicable bellbottoms (that too white) and aching need to suddenly be shaking your thing at an eighties villain's den.

Here, actual lyrics of the song:

if you come today, it's too early..
if you come tomaarow, it's too laite..
you pick the taaaime
tick tick tick tick tick tick (with super feet shuffle without tripping on white bellbottoms)
a-tick tick tick tick tick tick
a-tick tick tick tick tick
a-tick tick tick tick tick tick tick
daurrrrrrllliiing!!

Thanks to a certain phone-singer. And other amused bloggers in blogosphere.

I'll go now, because the taaaaiiiiime is too late! tick tick tick tick tick tick... a-tick tick tick tick..

hair weave, superstar, things that amuse

Sivaji stills. Thankyouuuu thank youuuu.

What a style, i say! I still remember Chandramukhi's hilarious "Idhu yen sattai, yen dabbu, my kaas, my money! Naan kizhucchu poduven, thiruppi poduven!" Or something to that effect. Okok. It means "It's my shirt, my money. I'll tear it and wear it, or turn it inside-out and wear it!"

Vivek follows Rajni. I must take long dupatta to wipe my tears of laughter.
















Well, isn't she shocked. Whatever for. It isn't as if they wouldn't have told her he's coming in cargos. Actually, i liked it better when he came in the white pant, and white shoes, in a bullock cart. Wonder what this character travels in.














Paarvaya paren... How sweet, the bouncy hair even has a shadow. :)















Whistlewhistle CLAPCLAAAAAP!!!!

whose festival?

It's difficult to explain to why, suddenly, blue is so offensive, pink so loud-mouthed, yellow so coarse, and green... cool green, suddenly so shrill, so vulgar. When they come charging like that, without a second thought about whether I want a stranger to slap me with colour or not, how can colour be just that?

It's simple. I have never played Holi. They all shopped for white, I went along. They sat for hours discussing whose house we could play holi in, whose parents will "allow boys". I hugged a cushion and sat in. They fixed the time. I said I was free. But then on holi, I'd have fever. Or my "strict parents didn't give permission". After a while they caught on, and it became another thing that was me. Friends understand. They don’t drag me out of the vegetable shop and say "Aaj holi hai, rang tho daalna hi hoga". And then crazy me with all that disgusting colour.

Whose hand is this? Why is it on my clothes? In my clothes? Why must I like your festival? You're not my friend. This is not my celebration.

Every channel kept saying, "If you’re an Indian, you will love the pichkaari, you will like the shower of colour." All day. Even after one guy in every office shouted himself hoarse about it only being celebrated in "most of North India". He was labelled intolerant and parochial. He’s only just protecting his personal space. Why must the stationary shopkeeper in Bangalore be the one to first tell himself to learn Hindi? It's telling that the first thing new-comers to Karnataka learn is "Kannada gotthilla", and in Chennai, it's "Tamil theriyadhu". Well delivered with the appropriately dismissive wave. That way, there is no danger of them accidentally learning a few functional lines in the language. Oh the horror.

I'd join in the festivities if I'd like. But I don't fancy eggshells sliding down my hair and unknown nails scratching my arm. But I don't like being told I must celebrate because Punjab and Delhi is. Chennai and Bangalore don't celebrate Holi. Some north Indians in these cities do. Why must their celebration be shown big on TV if no one cared about people celebrating Pongal or Sankranti in Haryana? I've had the pulls and pushes of a Delhi-centric 'national' English news channel lectured to me by many a long-timer. But it still refuses to permeate my brain. I still am offended that news from the South must fall in a separate show, too strange to naturally flow into other national news. Except, of course, when "South Indian film actor Mohanlal" acts in a Bollywood movie or when "Kannads ask for ban on non-Kannad films in theatres".

But let that be. Anyone who can't take anymore can run away from it all one day, can switch off the television. But what about the group of guys who accost the already-cowering girl on the street. 'If you don't want to play, stay indoors'. Even the police will tell you you should've stayed at home for your own safety. Just like you must stop going by train if too many people grab your ass. It's my freedom. It's your fault you’re such a spoilsport. Your fault you don't like being part of the games and feeling up. Aaj tho holi hai. Rang tho daalna hi hoga.

counting sheep

So many thought-images just float by as my floppy pillow grows on either side of my head. It's like I'm burying my head in a cottony thought cloud. Sleep is far far away, because the horrible temple festival drum is beating nearer and nearer. (Do they really have to do it everyday? And isn't 2 a.m supposed to be the hour of demons?)

My flatmate, also awake, messages me from her room. "What do we have at home for homicide?"

*

Homicide. How easily, no? Amma felt sad about Rang De Basanti… nice jokes, she said. But "why did they show youth like that? I can't ever imagine that you'll have a bomb in your hand..." Was it depressing, ma? No, they're telling you there's no point. You're going to have to die for anything to change.

*

This lawyer and combed-over journo are talking. What am I doing standing here? I finished asking my questions, no? I pretend someone's calling me in the distance. I look away. For two seconds. I turn back around to see the lawyer's shifty eyes and his hand slipping into his pocket. The journo is nodding a thanks with a sick smirk. How much did he give him? Should I? Oh my wallet's in the car. Ways of the world, my dad used to say. You're young, you won't understand.

*

“You're too young to say 'I'm too busy to eat well'." The good doctor's office. Dettol smelling old nurse nods a "wait", walks away. The older nurse sits on the stairs leading nowhere. Grunts. Adjusts her thick spectacles. Dettol nurse wheezes and sits at the reception (Triple-god photo with... linear light, is it called?). "Where is that Jyoti? It's 8! Never does shift properly."

Old nurse: Why don't you leave?

Dettol: Young thing no... just married... night time, where she'll come?

Old: Didn't she have full morning? Leave it. Youngsters have no discipline.

Dettol: I had when I was in daawani (half-sari). No one to slap her into good behaviour, that's what.

Old: But that other girl Deepa comes correctly, pa! Didn't marry. Like us only.

Dettol: She will become a very good nurse.

*

"Aiyo I don't want one drunk fellow to hit me every night. My salary is for me only." But today she said, "I'm paying my brother's tuition fees that's why I work for you, ok?" Door slams. Usha akka. She laughs at us inside, I know. And shouts at me when I run for my crap leaving the milk on the stove. She doesn't like that I'm older than her by two years.

*

What a college thing to say. "Nothing goes with burger and fries like Coke". These children. But they get so tall these days. Maybe I should give up rice and take up buns and fried potatoes.

*

Potatoes are stinking in the kitchen. Only till the end of the month. I have to leave.

*

Oh, Saturday is my off. Will meet...

Ah. Sleep.

typed and scratched

One of my favourite writers, C.K. Meena in Bangalore wrote that in the paperless society of the future, every single word would have been gobbled up by cyberspace. She asks us to imagine not leaving behind a physical trace of our ability to write.
This is what she writes in The Hindu.

I HAD to respond.

An adorable oldish woman I know has never understood how to move the mouse. The little arrow seems to dart around where it pleases, and she's always wide off the mark. And when unfamiliar windows pop up, she jumps right out of her chair in panic. All she wanted to do was check email, for god's sake!! But what did all those squiggly blinking things mean?

Well, at least she asks.

This oldish woman needs her letter writer. Just like all those letter writers who used to sit outside post offices ready to help the unlettered. Only, this generation's letter writer is digital, using TEN fingers and a mouse (actually it's way cooler to be a keyboard person). It's a story similar to the one about how the postman took over the carrier pigeons. I'm glad about that, because there is no more opportunity for bird crap to dot my balcony, even if it's digested Italian worms on the day I get overseas mail.

Another oldish man I know thinks he's too grown-up to ask for a letter writer. He's like the villager who could never read his son's letters from abroad because he was too proud to approach the letter writer. His son would never say he loved his old man, but he'd write pages and pages about how much he missed him. Now we zip many years and mediums ahead from then to today. This oldish man I know never reads the thrilled SMSes I send about how I made the perfect rasam today, or "That's MY hand holding the mike on TV at 9!!" He could ask someone how to check SMSes. Instead, he simply complains that I never write on inland letters as often as I used to.

SMSes never bring you the sob in someone's voice as they cry about a job interview they didn't get through; they never have the dots of i's turned into little hearts, and the tails of y's crashing into the heads of p's in the next line. But by virtue of being typed furiously and received almost instantly, every letter of the SMS is dripping in the emotion of the moment. The oldish man didn't know this, and waited for the inland letter. When the blue paper arrived, it, well, made a great essay.

It is disturbing to think about all of us dying off without leaving a physical trace of being able to write. But everyone hasn't stopped writing. More people have started. When you know the receiver won't die of cardiac arrest when she sees your spelling, you'll write more freely, more often. Yes, we write less on paper to our closest friends, but write on email/talk on phone to many more we love but didn't know how to communicate effectively with.

Earlier, my dear oldish woman used to wait for after 10 o'clock to call me on half-rate STD. And even as she was yelling (trunk call hangover) to me about how pleased she was at knowing I'd handed a bouquet in school to her favourite Malayalam actor, she'd suddenly hear a warning beep and hang up before she could tell me goodnight-and-pray-to-god-everyday. And everyone knows how shattering that can be. That conversation would end there because she was embarrassed about writing to me. Because she couldn't write in straight lines, or use stylish sounding English words like my oldish man did in his inland letters. But now she dictates in Tamil to a software, and it gives me an English display when I receive the email. We talk much more. She gets to crib about my tan and dark circles on the webcam once in a while, and I know she made theeyal today.

We still might be very far from including the unlettered completely in all this communication, but at least the 'semi-literate' have more of a chance to sock the smug educated in the eye. While playing their own game.

So really, let's keep writing while we still have the oldish man and woman around.

rajni? yum...

Yenna 'muthu' pol potato chips... (Won't translate because I don't know how)






AVM Films makes another with Superstar: 'Sivaji, directed by S. Shankar. There have been reports that the film is about Rajni scouring the world for seven look-alikes. Incidentally, superstar used to be called Sivaji Rao before he turned into Rajnikanth.

The movie's all hush-hush even after it's puja on Nov. 28. Of course, the following are guaranteed:

- A philosophy song, where you are asked not to fall for material things, because see how love and affection is opening the world out to you. That if you have just enough money to fill your palm, you're its master; but if you have money up to your neck, then it only is your master (money, not neck).
Also, that he's the autofellow who never says no to delivery case. That he's not from any political party, just makkal (public's) party. Aaha, thatthuvam. (Really, they have all been sung, and meant from the bottom of his heart).

- Many slow motion walks of pure style; swirls; smiles of divinity; kicks in the butt and gut of every bad guy who puts kann or kai on thaaikulam (eye or hand on womankind).

- A snake joke (p..p.. paamba?!)

- An actress (Shriya) quarter the age of our superstar, and there'll be a dream sequence (HER dream, not our decent hero's). Not in snow, but rain, especially since Shriya's already proved she won't maranjify (hide) when there's mazhai (rain).

- Some scene that'll draw attention to the beauty of sunglasses on our hero's face.

- A tragic, poverty-stricken past full of travails orphaned Rajni has triumphed over, as he raises his cute as a button brother by selling tea in construction sites. A dialogue that'll explain why young Rajni will NOT steal or beg. If it's a younger sister, she'll go to English medium school, wear half-sari and know how to milk a cow with one hand while she slaps an eve teaser with the other.

- An intro scene that will not not shift from Rajni even to move on with the script. It's whistling-and-going-mad-screaming-for-joy time for fans. (and for 3/4-fans like me to gape in wonder. Yes. 1/8 space is for Kamal Hassan in pre-Avvai Shanmugi films; 1/16 space for Suriya with murukku meesai; 1/16 space for the hero of current blockbuster)


There are also some rumours of Mohanlal being in the movie, with equal screen space and time as namma chandramukhilan. Would be a tough task, considering Tamil fans start yawning and going out for pups (puffs) the second Rajni's face goes off screen.


(Now I have to go and see Padayappa, and Bharatham)

spies came out of the water

I wonder if we've become a police state. And the police isn't always just the guys in khakhi… it's the nosy lady on the ground floor apartment; the maybe too-powerful theatrical media; hungry Uriah Heep lawyers; political parties making up 'ideology' over biryani; patchily scripted film personalities; the man speeding the screaming dirty Qualis he thinks is his dick/manhood.
Everyone wants to gun everyone else down. Actually, I understand that: the tendency to push people around. Especially when it's easy.
What I don't understand is how we let them. And live like fugitives, full of fear. And tell ourselves we're quiet because we want to be amused.

(Although The Hindu has written a first page Magazine article about the Kushboo issue in as stern a voice as the grand old paper can muster, it's forgotten to mention the real slap on the chastity protectors' face. The Madras High Court's observation last week: "The court is pained at the way these two women have been treated. They have the freedom to speak their mind. These protests... is this your culture?" And then asked the big-mustached police to work a little bit and please prevent such illegal protests if they happened again.)

new pal

His only job is to open the gate, shut the gate, and in between retrieve the screamer kid's ball from the sunshade every five minutes. He told me his name thrice, all when I asked, but I nodded without paying attention. I try to squeeze every bit of English out of my Tamil just to get him to dismount the wall he climbs every time I so much as look at him. It's a class thing, a friend said, but I naively want it not to be.

Today is ayudha puja, and on Sunday everyone in Sri Ramachandra Apartments was washing his/her bike. I rode off to work, came back with the same dried-up-and-unsuccessfully-scraped-off pigeon crap and all the slush in the city. But I wasn't going to clean it if it meant having the shirtless prowler attack me. The Prowler is an uncle who circles the apartment block and asks quick questions every time he sees my flat mate or me... "What time does work get over?" which means am I loafing (=going to night club with boys) till now; "You must be eating out everyday..." which means I'm the 'modern' girl they will ever despise; and "What salary do you get?" which means do you earn more than me. He was funny for 2 days. But then he tried to convince me to cover a wedding as national news, and I have been on the run since.

Anyway, watchman walks up to me yesterday and says, "Amma, neenga mind pannalena, naan unga bike-a thodachidava?" (If you don’t mind, can I clean your bike?). Offended at the presumption that I wouldn't clean my own bike (where would he get such an idea?), I quickly assured him that I would do it myself. To that,
"I don't mind, really. I'm here all day. Sunday I can do."
"No no, in Bangalore, I washed the bikes of everyone in the house. I'll manage."
"Oh, but now you're alone. You must be thinking who you'll clean for...”
(Laughing) "No no, I don't have such sentiments..."
"I understand, ma. It's ok, you don't have to pay me. But please, I can't see anything in such condition!" Then as The Prowler approached, "Ok madam, you go upstairs now."

The next day, Reddy was sparkling. Even the pigeons didn't want to crap on so shiny a surface. (Instead, they came to my balcony and relieved themselves on the broken fan blade). It hasn't been an ayudha puja with pori and sweet boondi, lemon, agarbatti, and bruised fingers... but in many by-the-electricity-meter conversations I have found in Palani the greatest bitch in town. Our victim: The Prowler. Apparently, The Prowler can never start his scooter in the morning.

what to call him

'Boyfriend' sounds like he'd drop me home in a car (because the city isn't nice to girls at night), kissing my cheek lightly while he said a tender "goodnight, sweetheart". It sounds like he'd take me for a well planned dancing and drinking date, and hold my hand when I'd go to the dentist.

He'd be someone everyone assumes is my ride to the theatre (even if it was a group thing). He would know what clothes I had ("Why don’t you wear that black sleeveless thing with the V-neck?") and pat me proudly on my head if my earrings matched my shirt. It would also mean he is supposed to carry my luggage, and be nice to my friends even if he wants to strangle some.
Still, they call all boys with girls that.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" they'll ask, if they see her with him more than twice. "You want come for Sarkar? I'll get two tickets for you?" It makes the boy someone I picked off the department store shelf marked 'Boyfriends'. And I'd like to ask what he'll be called if he was 30. Boys don't automatically graduate to husband, you know.
And it makes him single-roled. And makes us a unit. No personality, no idiocity, no separate lives.

Lover, I'll call him. Smiling, quiet. Light on his feet. Sexual. And not my conjoined twin.