Auteur, madarchod!

When you are in bed all day, wrapped in a bedsheet in the sultriness of Madras, knocked out by a fever, wavering ever so subtly between sleep and waking until you don't know which is which, your brain starts functioning in a zone of its own. Time becomes fuzzy, even irrelevant. Fungible. Ah, yes. That's the word, fungible! I like that word, it's so cuddly, so flexible.

Your brain thinks thoughts, your brain reaches startling conclusions, and when you try retracing the steps you went through to reach there, you find the breadcrumbs eaten away by the demon-like birds in your head.

The little iPod embedded in my brain, constantly buzzing, always on shuffle, sings now in Anu Malik's voice, "She gives me fever, fever, fever." His distinctive inflection, his fake not-Bombay-not-America accent, his slight tunelessness at the end of each line, all ring clearly in my head. This hasn't happened in a while. I open my eyes, and find my neck drenched in fevered sweat, the fan groaning while it whirs unenthusiastically, and vague sounds of a Tamil serial from the adjacent room. I reach out to the bottle of water on the bedside table and drink a rather large gulp. When that water break morphs back into my febrile sleep, I hear that voice again. Anu Malik. That paragon of frivolousness. That antonym of mellifluousness. "She gives me fev-uh, fev-uh, fev-uh."

My closed palms feel warm, my feet feel cold. I shiver a little.

The song makes it way to the core of my existence, it consumes my soul, it kindles the flame within, and it unearths a curious memory that lies buried deep, deep within.

I am now in the summer of 2000. My friend and I have been packed off to Trichy to spend some time with his aunt. The mornings and evenings, we spend cycling in and around the little town. We unexpectedly run into some girls in a park. We make nervous conversation with them. The voices in this conversation seem to come from a well -- there is a slight reverberation about them. Like dream sequences in the movies. The girls ask us if we want to watch Arnold Schwarzenegger's End of Days in a theatre nearby. I hold one of the girls' hands throughout the movie and kiss it just before the climax. She blushes.

The kiss wakes me up. I am back in the present, and I realise that my brain just added its own cinematic masala to a rather monotonous holiday. I smile. I doze off again.

Now we are in my friend's aunt's house in Trichy. It is a dreary, meandering, dull, drooping, dreadful, afternoon. We are channel-flipping between vague Bollywood music channels. And we discover this song. The anthem of my fever. "She gives me fev-uh, fev-uh, fev-uh." A pre-Big Brother, pre-UP-Bihar-lootne, pre-yoga-in-extreme-tights Shilpa Shetty, looking extremely desirable, canoodling a drugged-out Sanjay Dutt on an uncomfortably shaped sofa in a dingy set. And in the background, off-key women chorus singers going "Whose that girl with the lovely, lovely smile...", soon to be joined by Anu Malik trying to sound lovelorn and horny at once.

The movie, I finally recall, is Jung.

I am not in that drawing room anymore. I am now in Kalpana Theatre, Udupi, and the moth eaten seats bring a flood of memories. Of the the jail-like ticket queue, of Rs. 18 balcony seats, of drinking local cool drink Ba-Jal during the interval, of vague art deco construction, of actually kissing a girl in the the darkened halls while watching Mission Impossible 2 in Hindi.

"She gives me fev-uh, fev-uh, fev-uh," Anu Malik continues singing, now in surround sound. Shilpa curves and cavorts around Sanjay Dutt and the sofa. I am not sure which of the two is luckier. My friend's hands are not where they should be. Our verdict, "Shilpa Shetty has come out good, man!" She scorches our senses and blanks out the rest of the movie.

(I am now reminded of Sanjay Gupta's previous outing, Khauff, which I watch in the same theatre with the same friend. Until the movie starts, I think I have come for an English movie called Cough.)

As Jung hurtles towards its laborious climax, I hear a threatening baritone from my left. I turn around to see a dark, bulky, french-bearded figure bearing down on me, asking, "You must be a fan. You seem to have seen all my movies."
It dawns on me. The new entrant is Sanjay Gupta himself. I reply, in a voice that isn't my own, "Not all. I missed Aatish: Feel the Fire. Although I must admit, of all your movies, that one has the most thrilling title."
He smiles, "You lucky bastard. Imagine how many times I must have seen it during editing."
"That explains the mindnumbing Hameshaa. I knew it couldn't have come from a straight-thinking mind," I console him. "Your expertise always lay in remaking Hollywood movies, featuring silly, overloud comedy, steamy song sequences, desperate posturing, a bored Sanjay Dutt and faux grittiness."
"Thank you for reducing my life's work to a stereotype," he says.
"Oh, come on. I'm telling you that you're an auteur," I offer, "A French word, monsieur. That must make you feel posh."
He collapses into the seat next to me, and says, "You know. It's funny you use that word -- auteur. It's become famous in India these days." There is a gleam in his eyes, as he turns around to the projection room and shouts, "Projectionist! Start from the beginning!"
I look at Sanjay in horror, "Dude, I cannot go through this movie again."
"I merely want to refresh your memory, pal," Sanjay says. The 'pal' proves he watches too much cheap Hollywood for his own good.

The titles are now on the screen. Familiar names whizz past me. Jackie Shroff, Sanjay Dutt, Raveena Tandon, Anu Malik... And at one point, he stands up and screams again, "Projectionist, pause!"

I stare at the screen in shock at the name on it. Anurag Kashyap. Yes, that very same Anurag Kashyap -- the Hindi New Wave hero, the man they call the saviour of Indian cinema, the toast of the Cannes Directors' Fortnight -- is involved in writing an embarrassing rip-off of a middling Hollywood film called Desperate Measures.
Sanjay roars with laughter, "But Anurag is an honourable man!"

I am dismayed. I ask into the void of Kalpana Theatre, "Et tu, Anurag?"

A pair of dark-rimmed spectacles appears on the screen. Soon these are filled by large, keen, black eyes. A round, stocky face forms itself around the spectacles, and an uneven beard grows. In a barely masked North Indian accent, the face speaks, "I can explain myself!"
"Admit it, Anurag!" Sanjay hollers, "You did this once more. This movie called Paisa Vasool."
I ask, utterly disappointed, "Anurag, you wrote that cinematic excreta also?"
"No, no. Wait," Anurag tries.
But Sanjay interjects again, "Anurag is an honourable man! Hahahaha. You see, young fellow, where Gangs of Wasseypur comes from? It's not him going nudge-nudge-wink-wink at masala. He's just making what he knows how to make, and people are attributing nudges and winks. Auteur, saala madarchod!"

"Order, order," I shout, my legal instincts coming to the fore, "We must allow the accused to present his case."
"Milaard," Anurag starts, "Around 1999, there was this series on TV called Darr starring Kay Kay Menon and Irrfan Khan. Neither actor was well known then -- their career defining roles still more than half a decade away."

I remember it being a fairly gripping series about a dope-head serial killer (Irrfan) called, if my memory serves me right, "Desi Jallad" engaged in a battle of wits with a policeman (Kay Kay). I wonder where the accused is going with this.

"It was directed by my brother, Abhinav Kashyap, and the two of us co-wrote it. At some point during the series, my name stopped appearing in the credits, and the series turned a little less edgy and a little more melodramatic." He pauses, catches his breath, and asks, "You want to know the truth?"
"Yes," I say.
"You can't handle the truth," he says, his voice acquiring a stentorian quality.
"Dude, too many movie references. Stick to your story."
"Sorry, milaard," he says. "The truth is, I never wrote Darr. My brother wrote it, he directed it."
Sanjay laughs. I make notes in my notebook, and say, "Yes, Mr. Accused. Go on."
"You see, Satya was out by this time, and he only wanted me to lend my name to it. You know how far a name goes in show business. And I did this only for my brother. My own brother. My own blood. Same mother. Same father also. Mere bhai ke liye main itna bhi nahin kar sakta kya? We both came from Uttar Pradesh searching for jobs. We slept on benches, footpaths, beaches. We often ate Tiger biscuits for breakfast, lunch and dinner because you got nothing more wholesome for Rs. 3. Sometimes, we didn't even have enough money for that... Is what I did wrong? My hunger did this, milaard. My desperation did this."

Sanjay wipes a tear off his cheek.

I think for a while and pronounce judgment, "In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. 'Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,' he told me, 'just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.' "

Anurag says, "Saale, milaard ke bacche, you think only you've read The Great Gatsby? Even Bachchan Amitabh has read it now."

I smile sheepishly. "Wait. You haven't explained Paisa Vasool. Your co-writer (and director) on Paisa Vasool was a man called Srinivas Bhashyam. He can't be your brother. Even if he his, he's definitely not same mother, same father."
"You must understand. Bhashyam's greatest achievements at that point were that he was Assistant Director on the hilarious Tamil classic Magalir Mattum and Second Unit Director of Mani Ratnam's blockbuster Bombay. He was making a Bollywood debut with Paisa Vasool. I was helping him out... After all, even an artist needs to eat some light Indian breads with lentil soup twice a day, no?"
"Srinivas Bhashyam sounds like he would prefer rice and mulligatawny soup."

I hear a distant voice. It is my grandmother's. Anurag, Sanjay, my friend, the theatre, all dissolve into my bedroom, now bathed in a dim yellow light from a distant bulb. My grandmother says, "Wake up, kanna. Eat some rasam saadam. It will do you good."
I say, "One minute, Paati. Coming."

I start my laptop, open Youtube, find the song, and listen to it.

The Battle of Ganpath Apartments

I have been battling rats for a few days, and various people have advised me variously.
***

 "The good old grandfather rat trap, nothing works like it."
(I live with my grandfather, so I have an actual grandfather rat trap.)

"Mortein Rat Kill."
(Clean and easy. Hmmm.)

"You know that thing.... That sticky sheet with Tom and Jerry cartoons on it?"
(Oh god. No. I don't want to scrape the rat off it afterwards.)

"In a rat trap, you must put a masala vadai."
(Why don't I open a branch of Karpagambal inside the trap for good measure?)

"This Mortein is very tame, da. There's this thing called Shakti Get Out. That can even kill you if you're not careful."
(Shakti Get Out. Oh man. This looks promising. Actually, it looks like a flattened ellurundai. Noxious only.)

"You think it's in a cupboard, you say? Hmmmm. Open the cupboard, find it and hit it repeatedly with a heated iron rod."
(That will make sure it's not cold-blooded anymore.)

"When you use Mortein Rat Kill, make sure you leave one exit open somewhere. Once I came back from some travels and had to scrape off a dead rat from my floor with a spoon."
(Dude, really. Did you have to tell me that?!)

"Rats breed very quickly. A kill in time saves fourteen."
(Oh fuck. I've delayed it for three days now!)


"Saar, I will give you the most important advice. You can put tengai and nei in the rat trap, you can put masala vadai... But the one that will work the best is NV. I had a bhai neighbour in my old house. He told me this. Find some NV neighbour, put the rat trap in the room in which the rat is, leave the NV in it, close all doors and give it ten minutes. That's all. You have your rat."
(NV in this house! Siva, siva. My thatha will catch me in a rat trap next.)

"Dip whatever you have left in the trap in coffee decoction. In our households, we get only Brahmin rats."
(Oh, that's why it was collecting all that string. To make itself a poonal.)

"I have the number of this pest control guy. It'll cost you a couple of grand. But he'll do a clean job."
(For a couple of grand, I'll do a clean job.)

"It's all about strategy, brother. Guerrilla warfare. You are the Mughal emperor. The rat is Shivaji. You have to understand how it strikes, where it strikes, when it strikes. Only then can you beat it. Don't underestimate your foe, like the Mughals did."
(My problem is that I overestimate it, really.)

"Can you claim the damage caused by the rat as a deduction under Chapter IV?"
(Hmmmm. Current repairs? Or Section 37? This is an interesting legal issue.)

"In these hard times, it is crucial that you are brave."
(Hum honge kaamyaab, I say to myself, repeatedly. Hum honge kaamyaab.)

"Your fan stopped working? Dude, this might be a flying mutant rat."
(Or a bat.)

"Once you catch the rat in the trap, don't kill it. Release it in the wild."
(Guindy Snake Park?)

"Killing a caught rat... Hmmmm. That's an art form."
(Yeah. We'll demonstrate it at the Modern Art Gallery.)

"Tie it to a rope, and beat it incessantly."
(The blood will spurt all over, its insides will be outside. That grisly mix of flesh, blood and bone. Tempting.)

"The most painless way to kill a rat once you've caught it is to pour boiling water on it. Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak and its gone!"
(It's not really gone, is it? There's a boiled rat carcass right there for you to dispose.)

"Make sure you don't have to scrape it off the floor with a spoon."
(Don't remind me of that image repeatedly, da. Please.)

"The rat might go, but it's soul will live on. Community memory, brother. They will remember your house. They will seek revenge. They will fight to reclaim their land."
(Thank you for those words of encouragement.)

***
Really, thank you all for being so supportive. The Family was exterminated yesterday. Two adults and four kids in all. The house feels like my own again. Now to par-tay.

Train House

"Park your car in that corner, you won't be able to take it inside the street," the old lady said, hauling a mridangam from the back seat onto her shoulders. I parked the car, picked up the other mridangam, the heavier one, and followed her onto the street. With a sprightly gait that belied her age - she was seventy-two - and unmindful of the weight of the mridangam on her shoulder, she turned into the most invisible of gullies that led to this sprawling network of narrower gullies.

"They really should fix that streetlight," she said, pointing to this dark pole. It was eight-thirty in the evening, and it was too dark to even tell if there was supposed to be a light on that pole. Then she realised, "Oh, there's no power!"

She shined a torch from her phone, and took a right turn into an even narrower gap between two buildings only wide enough to admit a small motorcycle - even a malnourished Royal Enfield wouldn't make the cut. The buildings on that street were locked in a tight embrace, covering every inch of space, almost growing into one another, sharing walls, terraces, balconies and doors. Compound walls were forgotten as a concept, breathing space was given a go by, and the view from any window was only another one. Even in near darkness, I could sense that I had stepped into another age. I had to remind myself that I was still in Central Madras.

She stopped at a narrow iron gate leading to a long, tapering, snaking corridor lit by two tired bulbs and lined by three worn out motorcycles. "We have a small generator - I can use one light and one fan when the power is gone," she said. At the end of the corridor was a dull blue door that had surely seen happier times. When she opened that door, a new world unfolded behind it. I didn't realise that there was so much space behind that iron gate. Her torch light revealed more iron gates next to the one we entered, and I wondered if all of them hid worlds like this.

"I used to live closer to the tank, but the owner wanted the house back for his daughter's family," she said, "But this is not too far from the tank. I walk down, sometimes, but I'm growing a little old, no? I am looking for a house closer to the tank, though." I smiled. Civilisations grew around water bodies, I had read in my history classes, but I couldn't believe that proximity to a tank was still a prime consideration for choosing where one lived.

On the ground floor was another blue door, of the same construction as the one outside, and the indistinct hum of a Tamil serial - that mix of pounding background music and thundering melodrama - floated from behind it. I thought I heard a child scream, but that might have also been the serial.

In the corner of the corridor was a closeted flight of stairs that had been standing for half a century at least. I didn't ask her how old the building was, but the stone stairs had a particular kind of construction that suggested that era. "Thank you so much for coming. You see how difficult it would have been for me with two mridangams up these stairs." The stairs were steep, and the mridangam I was carrying was boring into my shoulder. If the walk were a little longer, I might have needed a little break. "You're carrying the big one," she said, "I can't even lift that anymore. It's that heavy. But that naadam..."

We reached a landing that was almost cruelly taken over by a large and incongruous asbestos door. She unlatched it, and led me into what used to be the landing - it had a tap in one corner, a chair and two pairs of slippers on a tiny wooden shelf - now converted into her sit-out. She kept up the chatter, as she fumbled through her handbag for the keys to the inside door.  Her nephew, a well-known mridangam player himself, lived in the next street, she said. The neighbours here kept to themselves, she hardly knew who they were, she complained. "They don't even come and talk, you know," she moaned. She still gave me a fairly detailed biography of the family living in the house watching the Tamil serial.

The inside door said, "Mridangam and vocal classes" in a scribbly Tamil handwriting. No one could see this board when the asbestos door was shut. I wondered if that door was a new addition.

She found the key, finally, and opened the door and led me into a room that was not much wider than the door itself. On one side of the room was a wooden bench with two pillows on it. The other side of the room was a thin shelf that held a bewildering assortment of things. She put her mridangam on the bench, and I followed her. There were two more mridangams in that room, both standing proudly on their thoppis. I walked up to one and struck it. "Tom!" it rang across the house. I was quietly proud that even though I hadn't played one in three years, I could still get a clear tom out of it.

The narrow room ended in another door, beyond which there was a columnar kitchen, about two-thirds the length of the first room. "That's about the entire house," she said, proudly, "The first room is where I sleep and take mridangam classes. This is the kitchen. And there," she said, pointing to another hidden door on the right side of the kitchen, "Is a bathroom." The entire house was built like two coaches of a train with a toilet and bathroom in the vestibule.

A thought struck me - it would be nice to disappear into a house like this, in a gully like this for a few months. It was hidden away from the madness of mainstream Madras, but it was still right there, in the centre of it all.

"Sit down," she said, "I'll make coffee."
I had to go back to a friend's concert, I protested. I'll come back another day, definitely, I promised. "It will take me five minutes to make you the coffee," she insisted.
My friend would be most upset if I missed her concert, I said. Another day, one-hundred percent, I assured her.
"At least have some kali," she said, "Today is a special day for Nataraja. You know that, no?" My grandmother had mentioned something in the morning, and so, guiltlessly, I nodded. She hurriedly put some kali on a steel plate and handed it to me. Suddenly, she said excitedly, "Oh wait. I wanted to show you. I have Anna's photo here on the wall." I looked. It was her much more famous older brother, and it was the photograph most widely released to the press. "A very nice photo. He looks so happy!" She attended almost every one of his concerts in Madras, "I am not able to travel too far these days. You know, Anna plays in places like Madipakkam and Annanagar... Then I can't come. But otherwise, I come, somehow or the other." And she always sat in the front row, and enthusiastically kept taalam for the stage.

Next to her brother's, was her own photograph. She was with our dark-glassed leader in it, receiving an award. "Kalaimamani," she said, as I finished my kali and handed the plate to her, and added "I got that years ago. You can wash your hands in that sink," like the two were a part of the same thought. I looked closely at the photo. She did look younger, and so did our leader. I had heard strange things about that particular award, about when, why and to whom it was given, but she didn't look like she could pull any strings.

There was another photo next to it, a still from a popular Tamil film. I remembered that scene well - a bunch of mamis reinterpreting a popular Hindi song Carnatic style at the behest of a man dressed as a mami. There she was in that still, in the left-hand corner, playing the mridangam. I remember being amazed by the fact that they had actually found a mami to play the mridangam.

I smiled, as I bid her goodnight and walked out the door, but I couldn't help wondering, given her talent, if her life would have been different as a man.

Grandmother of the Bride

Mohammad Amir bowling is one of the more beautiful sights in the world - fast, fresh, whippy, and seaming, he lights up dull evenings here in Madras. And then there's Mohammad Asif, trundling along from the other end, weaving his wiliness around that unsuspecting outside edge. On one such evening, I sat before the television, watching these two when Paati sat beside me and said, "Will you turn down the volume for a second? I need to talk to you."

Paati always had the strangest things to say, and mostly, they concerned food. She would offer some strange dish, usually, "Shall I make Maggi for you with some kadalai in it?" or "What about bread with tomato and molaga podi, toasted with cooking oil?" "Perhaps you'd like some mango juice - one half of the mango was spoilt, so I squeezed it along with the other half to compensate." I usually listened to these questions, and dismissed them politely. Sometimes, impolitely. But Paati never failed to offer these quirky culinary delights.

On this particular day, it didn't seem like she was offering me anything to eat or drink. I felt she actually had something to discuss. I wondered if she had her leg-cramps, whether her eyes were watering, it could've been her teeth, or her hands, or that shooting headache she complains of sometimes. She once had a 'gastric' pain from her head to her stomach, radiating from end-to-end endlessly.

But she seemed fine. Perhaps she wanted to buy something for the house. Once she wanted to buy a folding bed, in addition to the four in the house, because you need one for the guests. Once she decided that a steel almirah must be duly purchased for keeping my books. Once she demanded a separate TV she never really watched.

"I am organising a wedding," she said, with a faint smile.
I was surprised. Organising a wedding - at eighty-six! It couldn't have been mine, she didn't have the guts to suggest something like that. There was only one other cousin eligible, but my Paati wouldn't bother with his wedding at her age.
"It is between a neem tree and another sapling," she continued, with that smile still lurking on the corners of her face.
I was startled. But I maintained a straight face and asked, "Why? What have these trees done to merit this treatment?" I really wanted to ask her if this was an inter-caste wedding.
"So," she started. My Paati tells the most convoluted stories - like the Panchatantra, where one starts with a story, and then moves to another one, and another one nestled within it, and so on and so forth, before each shell is reopened, and each story is revisited in reverse, and all neatly tied up in the end. "You know, that a niece of mine gave me a neem sapling. I planted it in a little pot on the balcony, next to the manathakkali plant. It was growing really well, and slowly outgrowing its pot. So, I called Sarasu, the lady who sweeps the steps, and asked her to plant it outside somewhere. When she uprooted it from the pot, She discovered that another plant was intertwined with it. She told me that this was great luck, and that I had to marry them off for lifelong fortune."

I wondered if it was some Rama Sene at work - marrying off intertwined couples.

Paati was in her flow now, "So, Sarasu took the plants to the Amman kovil on Boag Road and planted them there. A vaadyaar will come sometime next week and decide the date of the wedding. I have already arranged for a veshti and saree to be bought for the bride and the groom, and one more saree for Amman and a veshti for the vaadyaar." Darth vaadyaar.

I was now too stunned to speak. Paati said, "I know you think this is ridiculous, but I believe in all this. See, your cousin in the US gave birth to a boy the day I found these plants, and that other cousin found a good job. All this is because of the intertwined plants." I wondered if discovering intertwined people also brought good luck. What about intertwined dogs? Or cats? Or books?
***

A few days later, she told me, "The vaadyaar came today from the Amman kovil. He is from the Nagavalli Amman kovil."
Thatha jumped in with this little detail, "It's on the platform right next to Sivaji Ganesan's house."
"He said that the wedding will cost a thousand five hundred. Four brahmins will be fed, and some naivedyam will be given to the people who come to the temple that evening!"
"When is the wedding?" I asked.
"On the fifteenth."
"Fifteenth, fifteenth. Sunday." Thatha repeated.
"On Thursday, the vaadyaar will come and collect the money."
"I have been discouraging your Paati from the time she brought it up," Thatha said, suddenly. By this time, I found the whole wedding too beautiful, too poetic to let it die. So, I said, "Thatha, please. It's just a small thing. Let her have her fun."
***

As Thursday approached, and a fever raged within me (the intertwining wasn't bringing me health), Paati began getting expectantly fidgety. "Should I make a sweet for the wedding myself?" she asked me. I gave her some sound logic, "See, at your daughter's wedding, you didn't cook. Only the samayal fellows did. So lets just let it be, no?" "Should I give the green saree to the bride and the red one to the Amman?" "That sounds like a plan, Paati. Amman usually wears red, no?" I said, offering my expert knowledge on the Nagavalli Amman's fashion sense.

Thursday morning, I was too tired from my fever to drive to work. I worked on the internet and a phone, sleeping for an hour, working for an hour, and pretending to be important to the world. Every time the doorbell rang, Paati would jump and rush to open it (her leg pain, her limping, were pushed to the background), only to find the milkman, the flower-lady, the courier-dude, the vegetable-lady, or a man collecting donations for a temple. By evening, Thatha was muttering under his breath, "Kandraavi. Dirty fellow. He's not come at all. Keeping us waiting like this all day. I told your Paati on that day only - don't try and organise something at her age. She can barely walk, and she's trying to organise a wedding."

I looked up from my laptop and asked Paati, "Do you want to go check the plant and the vaadyaar in the temple?"

She agreed immediately. Ninety-year-old Thatha and a four-year-younger Paati trudged down the stairs and in my car to the Nagavalli Amman temple on the platform next to Sivaji's house. When we reached the platform, we found that there was no such temple there. There was an Amman temple, but she was of a different variety. We asked a fruit-seller, who directed us to the road behind Sivaji's house.

When we reached the road, we found no kovil. I looked around, Paati was getting a little irritated, but Thatha got down the car and confidently walked towards what looked like a house. "That's the temple!" he declared. It was, in fact, a house. Thatha tried asking someone where the Amman kovil was, but his deafness meant he didn't hear a word of what was said.

Suddenly, I saw this large hoarding for a festival at the Nagavalli Amman kovil, and hiding behind that hoarding, was the kovil - the size of ten matchboxes, adjacent to a gutter. "That's the temple!" I said. I led them towards it when loud devotional music started playing from a conical speaker above it. Thatha discovered a temple festival office just behind the temple, and Paati immediately recognised her vaadyaar in the makeshift office.

I expected this vaadyaar to be the topless, pot-bellied, bearded, severely sacred-ashed and veshti-clad. Instead he looked like an extra from Goripaalayam. Long, curly hair, almost like a Afro, a thick moustache, a gold chain, a bright green shirt with the top button off, dark green loose pants, rings on six fingers, a pair of shades in one hand and a Reliance phone in the other, and bright, white shoes. When he saw Paati, he smiled brightly and said, "Amma! So nice of you to come here!"

I asked, "So, where are the trees?" Are they still up to naughtiness or have you unintertwined them?
Paati asked, "Why didn't you come home today?"
He said to my Paati, "You see, Amma, the trees..."
And suddenly, someone increased the volume on the loudspeaker, and we didn't hear the rest of the sentence. Thatha hadn't heard a word of the conversation until then even.
Then the vaadyaar shouted out to some boy to turn the damn music off.
When it was quiet again, he said, "The neem tree, Amma... It died."
"Died?"
"Yes, Amma, the leaves all dried up, and it died."
"And the other plant?" I asked.
"Oh that," he said, "That died a week ago."
Paati was heartbroken. The vaadyaar was unmoved, "That's why I didn't come today, Amma." He walked us to a small enclosure next to the temple, right by the gutter, and pointed out the flora to us. The neem tree was just a stick standing on the ground, and the other plant was nowhere to be seen. The vaadyaar said, matter of factly, "So, if you buy two more plants and come, we can get them married off."
"But weren't they to be married off because they were intertwined?" I asked.
"You can always intertwine the new plants," he said.

Thatha, who finally heard and understood what had happened, said, in English, "I think this isn't worth it."
"Lets go, he is cheating us," Paati said, again, in English.

And that was the final word on the entire affair. We got into the car and drove back almost silently.

Saturday, the Thirteenth

Partying on Saturday nights has never been a routine for me. In my childhood, I found myself at my neighbour's house by seven-thirty pm waiting for our music teacher to come. Classes took up rest of the night, often stretching to ten o clock or beyond. In Bangalore, I went to my aunt's place on Saturday evenings and spent most of the weekend lying down on the sofa or the bed, and dragging myself to the dining table for meals. On such Saturday nights, I would wait for my uncle and aunt to finish their nightly-TV-watching, and settle down into one of the English movie channels.

On this particular Saturday night - it was the thirteenth of either April or May, I can't recollect - I watched this particularly nondescript movie called Big Bully. (I would have forgotten this movie completely if I hadn't watched the Blessy's brilliant Bhramaram that dealt with a similar theme in a much more nuanced manner.) After the movie, I groggily made my way to the loo, and then to the bed.

It was a double-bed parallel to the wall. I slept on the edge and there was enough space for someone to sleep behind me. I was just about asleep when I felt someone climb over me and sleep on the other side. My cousin was still staying with her parents then, and I presumed it might be her. I wanted to check anyway. I opened my eyes, I was definitely awake, but I felt like my body was bound to the bed. I couldn't move. When this temporary paralysis lifted, I got up and found the room empty. Out of curiosity, I walked into the hall, a long room with a wide window at the other end, moonlight peering through the translucent glass.

There she was, a short woman silhouetted against the window, walking ever so slowly and disappearing into the kitchen. I went back to my room, turned the light on, lay staring at the ceiling for a while until I dozed off.

Next morning, at the breakfast table, my aunt asked me why the light was on all night. I told her this story. She looked at me, surprised, and said, "You know, many years ago, your Mama also had the same experience - he said someone was in the room, and he couldn't get up!" My uncle wondered whether I saw his deceased sister, who was of similar physique as the woman I described.
***

Today, five years later, I get a mail from my cousin with a link to this article. Two extracts:

"7. Sleepy hallucinations
We're all used to seeing strange things in our dreams, but what about when we're not dreaming? So-called hypnagogic hallucinations occur during the transition from wakefulness to sleep (just after our head hits the pillow). And hypnopompic hallucinations hit during the waking-up process. People report hearing voices, feeling phantom sensations and seeing people or strange objects in their rooms. Bugs or animals crawling on the walls are a common vision, said Neil Kline, a sleep physician and representative of the ASA."

About sleep paralysis:

"Sleep paralysis

During REM sleep, dream activity ramps up and the voluntary muscles of the body become immobile. This temporary paralysis keeps us from acting out our dreams and hurting ourselves. Sometimes, though, the paralysis persists even after the person wakes up. "You know you're awake and you want to move," Kline said. "But you just can't."Even worse, sleep paralysis often coincides with number 7 on our list: hallucinations. In one 1999 study published in the Journal of Sleep Research, 75 percent of college students who'd experienced sleep paralysis reported simultaneous hallucinations. And these hallucinations, when they occur with sleep paralysis, are no picnic; people commonly report sensing an evil presence, along with a feeling of being crushed or choked. That sensation has given sleep paralysis a place in folklore worldwide. Newfoundlanders know it as the "Old Hag." In China, it's the "ghost pressing down on you." And in Mexico, it's known by the idiom "subirse el muerto," or "the dead climb on top of you.""

Spooky.

Season Snippets - Mood Mridangam

A series of short posts on little things in and around kacheris this December Season.
***

A joke from the last season. My uncle walked out of the toilet in the Music Academy and said, "I just witnessed a great cosmic phenomenon - a long line of Brahmins, all piddling!"
***

"Hey. The counter for season tickets for Music Academy open tomorrow. Nine-thirty. I'm told there will be a big crowd. Be there by eight-thirty."

I was there. At eight-thirty-one and a few seconds. The first sight I see is of this elderly mami and mama opening their tiffin boxes and eating idlis coated with molaga podi. Chomp, chomp. In the lobby outside the mini-hall, there are these people drinking coffee from plastic cups and discussing some ticket issues loudly. Slurp, slurp. They've clearly been there for a while.

I enter the mini-hall, my initial self-righteousness about having turned up very early substantially eroded, and find a much larger crowd that I had imagined. All in hushed conversation with their neighbours on various issues. Chatter, chatter. A man, who realises I'm a newbie when it comes to season tickets directs me to a seat. He tells me, "Only 750 ticket available." I ask, "2000?". Not there. I try, "8000? 6000?" All over. Only 750. People sitting around me, all clearly newbies to this ticketing ritual, complain about the Academy's opaque ticketing system and favouritism. Grumble, grumble. After nearly an hour, a man announces, "Even the seven-fifty-rupee tickets are over. Those who do not have slips may kindly leave."

Peeved and hungry, I walk down to Woodlands and let my frustrations out on a blameless plate of upma-vada with hot filter coffee, while whining to my uncle on the phone about the tickets. Chomp, chomp, slurp, slurp, chatter, chatter, grumble, grumble.
***

Arun Prakash's greatest skill is in setting the mood for any piece with his mridangam - he seems to read what the main artiste is trying and recreates that effect perfectly. I can still remember a chilling Hiranmayeem that TM Krishna sang at Odakathoor Mutt in Bangalore accompanied by him. The mridangam and the voice attained unity that day - you would think they came from the same source.

Yesterday, when Ravikiran announced, "I shall now play a Thyagaraja kriti in Raga Neelambari, 'Nike Dayaraka' in Mishrachapu taalam," I could almost see Arun Prakash licking his lips. After a most soothing alapana from Ravikiran and Lalgudi Vijayalakshmi on the violin, they started the kriti. The percussion side remained silent for about three lines. Then, they began punctuating the kriti with single beats. Slowly, they built up to just three touches at three-two-two. This was interspersed with very interesting, but very minimal, very delicate rhythms. Neelambari's lilt was given just the right pedestal to thrive on.

After the Neelambari, when the audience was suitably blissful, a Garudadhwani came. Tatvamerugatarama. And the mridangam was right on the button, exuberant and joyous!
***

Return of the Odds and Ends Post

See previous such posts here, here, here, here. I'm sure there are more, but I can't find them now.
***

Hanuman

I'm a slightly religious guy, although temples don't really interest me. I prefer finding my Gods elsewhere. Like lots of people in my generation, I've gone through an atheist phase, and then I've come around to where I started - although, in the process, my conception of this Being might have become slightly more sophisticated. Coming back to the point, temples don't really interest me. So, I often evade and avoid visits to temples (unless there are concerts happening there). Even so, the Anjaneya temple in Nanganallur has always intrigued me. Every single person who has gone there has told me that it is a must-visit. I haven't heard a single bad report of the temple - even people who tell me it is really crowded always add that it was still worth it.

The other day, I had an opportunity to visit such temple - Guru was getting an award from the Rotary Club of Nanganallur for his services to Carnatic Music, and I was the driver to Nanganallur. Mami (his wife - a most sweet lady) came along. He was least interested in seeing the temple (actually, he was worried there'd be too much crowd - Sunday and all that, given his advancing age etc.), so Mami and I (ooh, that makes it Mami and Mami) went to the temple.


Now, when people hype up something majorly, often it disappoints. The temple didn't. The idol ("32 feet high," Mami whispered in my ear, as I stared at it in awe) was large and beautiful. There was this stateliness about it (not easy to achieve when the statue in question is a plain black, monolithic monkey with folded palms), and there was a dignity to the way the temple was kept. I liked that. Don't get me wrong - I love my chaotic temples, but this had a real dignity to it. Really enjoyed myself there. (Also saw a Hayagreevar Temple where said Mami did an archanai in my name for my early marriage. That was a bit trippy.)

I even liked the awards function that evening. Except for the Rotart District Governor (who spoke too much and knew little), no one else engaged in mindless superlativitis (none of the he-is-an-avatar-of-Lord-Krishna-himself-type stuff - only some very well-written words about ). At the end of it, there was a heavy saapaattu. Felt like a wedding - two payasams, sambar, vetthakozhambu, rasam, chips, chepankazhangu (chamagadda) roast, ghee, fruid salad, curds etc. Yum.

I will soon forget the contents of the meal, I'm sure. I might even forget why I went to Nanganallur. But that Hanuman will stay with me.
***

The Post Office

I went to the T. Nagar Post Office with aforementioned Thatha to collect his pension. Each year, in November, all pensioners must give this thing called an "Existence Certificate". Basically, you must certify that you exist. "Respected Sir, As evident from this letter, I still exist. Regards, TVKRS Subramanian" type thing. I once heard of a case in one of the High Courts where a man hadn't given this certificate for 3 years, but still got his pension. Suddenly, when he gave the certificate in the fourth year, the Government discovered that there was no certificate for the three previous years and demanded that he return his pension. He argued in the High Court, successfully, that if he exists now, he must have existed in those three years also. Unless he was Jesus Christ or Vishnu (who came back ten times).

Anyway, I went to the Post Office with Thatha. The pension section is on the second floor of a building with no lift - some basic planning, perhaps? (Thatha is surprisingly fit for his age, and I can think of people twenty years younger than him who'd find it hard to make the trek up the building.)

Nevertheless, he called the mobile number of a friendly lady who worked in the pension section, and she told him she was in Bombay. They had a conversation for about five minutes where they caught up on each other's lives (her Appa was not well, apparently, and Thatha informed her about his own recent sortie to the hospital), at the end of which she said she'd send someone downstairs to get the form and take his signature. He said he'd ask his grandson to go up and bring the form. Friendly substitute lady came downstairs with me, introduced herself to Thatha, asked about his health, he found out some basic info about her (Husband's job? How many children? Son? 11th Standard? Going to IIT class?) and took his signature.

The institution doesn't work, but the people still seem to make it friendly enough - just like how many nationalised banks and government departments work.
***

Twins

When I was (much) younger, I couldn’t tell the difference between Anandabhairavi and Reethigowla, Darbar and Nayaki, Bhairavi and Mukhari (sometimes Huseni also!), Kedaragowla and Yadukulakambhoji. Today, I find it hard to understand why I couldn’t tell these apart! (I sometimes still don’t understand how people who know no music tell really close ragas apart, rarely, if ever, making a mistake.) I think it is like telling the difference between Sehwag and Tendulkar. When Sehwag burst on to the scene, I’d often look at him bat and presume it was Sachin. And he’d take a single, and the guy at the other end would look the same. Soon, you begin to tell Sehwag from his backlift, his slightly wooden legs, his bat-speed, his savageness on the on-side and his slapping cover-drive. Sachin’s legs are always in position, he doesn’t look brutal even when he lifts it over mid-wicket and his cover-drives are lovely punches. They haven’t changed over the years, you’ve learn to identify them better. When you first see them, you only learn to look at the patterns you already know. You’ve seen a Sachin. So, when your mind is faced with Sehwag, it only sees the similar stance, the build, the irreverent shot-making. Only after some time, do you begin noticing those differences. When I was first faced with Reetigowla (after I had already learned to identify Anandabhairavi), my mind immediately slotted it in the ‘Anandabhairavi’ folder. Only with time, did it see those differences.

Now it knows that for all their likenesses, Anandabhairavi and Reetigowla are very different animals. Anandabhairavi seems to enjoy meandering in the madhya sthayi – that glide from panchamam to nishadam to panchamam that defines the raga, the twisty sgrgm phrases; and has heart-rending tara-sthayi sancharas (recall the anupallavi in Marivere). It has been interpreted, reinterpreted, encroached upon over the years, but it retains its classicist nature – like Sachin. Reetigowla, on the other hand, has trademark mandhra-sthayi sancharas (unlike most Anandabhairavi interpretations), has a lovely plain double nishaadam (oh, I love that sound!), an odd symmetry amidst its jumpiness (the nn-s/ gg-m combination, for instance), and a different kind of joy from what its predecessor offers. I’ve always thought of Reetigowla as slightly moody. When the artist has got it right, he’s on a roll, but on days that he hasn’t, you’re waiting for the next guy to come in – like Sehwag. Reetigowla might have looked to Anandabhairavi for inspiration, like Sehwag did to his guru, but it has carved an identity that gives it its own flavour.
***

('Twins' might appear in the next edition of Sruti - if you like Indian classical music/ dance, I'd strongly suggest subscribing to it. Check out maadi!)

Travel

I'm known for unplanned, impromptu travel. I also consider myself an expert at it. I had to use all my expertise to pull off yesterday's bus journey.

First, I booked a ticket on a KSRTC bus on the internet. The bus was surprisingly empty. Didn't understand why. Then, thanks to some directionless driver and vague dinner plans with Appa, I almost didn't reach the bus stand in time. Somehow, things fell in place and we reached Majestic with time to spare. Had a quick coffee, found the bus and boarded it. A good friend called with some happy news. Discussed it with him, and entered the bus. Conductor ticked off my ticket. Sat at seat number 5.

Suddenly, another middle-aged man came to seat number 5. After a quick check, we realised that my ticket was for the wrong date. I was a day early for my bus.

Asked the conductor if he had another seat. Initially, he said he did. So, I waited in that bus until it was about to leave. Then, the idiot tells me he doesn't have a seat.

I walk out of the bus in frustration and two touts hound me and ask me if I want a ticket to Madras. They said there was an AC bus for 950. I showed them the finger. Literally. Then, the guy said, "Non-AC. 500." I was tempted. I walked along with them, when they started negotiating again, "Saar, 600..." I was a bit desperate and I might have agreed. But some other dude standing far away signalled to me saying, "Don't go."

I don't know why I took that decision to not go. I went to the other dude who found me an AC bus for 600 bucks forty minutes past midnight. Had a chai and illuminating conversation with this other dude while we waited for the bus. Definitely the friendliest tout I've seen in my life. Ismail, his name. I tried out my Hyderabadi on him, and he was excited. "Not bad," he told me, "You can speak passably." He didn't even let me pay for the chai.

I wonder what makes us trust some people and not trust some others.The first two touts were as touty as Ismail. Somehow, I decided he would find me a better bus. And he did. Years ago, I trusted a lorry driver in Anantapur. Then, I knew I had nothing he could steal off me. I had about two hundred bucks in my pocket, I didn't own a phone, iPod, laptop or watch. I was wearing hawaii chappals and cheap clothes. If he was giving me a lift, it was out of the goodness of his heart, I believed. And I was right.

On the other hand, I have made errors of judgment. I once even paid heavily for being chatty with an auto driver.
***

In any case, I reached Madras safe and sound this morning. Was the most comfortable of bus journeys. I'm a little sleepy. Will catch up on that after lunch - one of those rare exceptions to non-afternoon sleeping. And then I shall meet more people and take the night train out. Back to Bangalore.

Random one-day travelling sure is fun!
***

A Strange Morning

I blog from a Cybercafe in T. Nagar (I had to produce photo identity and give my mobile phone number just to get in), in the middle of what has been the strangest of mornings. The strangest of mornings, I now believe, are often mornings where nothing strange really happens. After a busy day and nostalgic evening (I went to Higginbothams on Mount Road after years - Amma used to take me there when I was a kid, and somehow, in the last few years, I've never been there. It has changed since I last went there. The books aren't where I remembered them to be. But there's still that same old-world loveliness about it - the building, the interiors, the complicated system of collecting your bill at one counter, paying cash at the next and collecting your bill at the third.), I came home and just crashed by nine-thirty (this was the result of a horrendous train journey - the train, supposed to reach Cantonment Station at midnight, reached at 1.40, and I had been dropped off at the station at 11. Then, I had the dreaded Side-Upper berth. People think the side-middle is a bad berth. Let me assure them, as an experienced customer of the Indian Railways, that the Side-Upper is the worst. Because the side-middle exists, the height of the side-upper has been increased. This means that the sloping edge of the train makes it impossible for one to do anything on the berth but slide in and slide out. Also, the side berths are too short. I cant sleep with my legs stretched. Then, there's the usual Bangalore-Madras problem - in Bangalore, it is a bit chilly (it was raining that night) and by the time you near Madras (at unearthly hours of the morning, mind you), you're sweating. If you're stuck in an upper berth, you have to get down, wake the lower berth dudes and ask them to open windows and turn on the fan. Painful, I say.) I hadn't seen the TV throughout yesterday, and I quickly checked mail in someone's office last evening.

My dream was funny - I dreamt of being asked to play some song in Sahana (can't remember the exact song now) by my teacher. I remember thinking that I didn't know the song although my teacher insisted he had taught it to me just last week. Then, my notebook revealed that such a song was taught to me, and I tried playing it from the notation. My last memory of that dream is that my playing sounded nothing like Sahana, and I complained that I needed reading glasses, because I couldn't see what was written in the book.

Also in my dream, TV news said that Prabhakaran was dead. I woke up and thought about this. (I hadn't still heard the news that he was actually dead, mind you.) I concluded that I had this dream because I discovered TamilNet a couple of days ago, and at Higginbothams, I came across two or three books by this guy (I forget his name) on the Tamil Cause, and why the LTT must be taken seriously.

The front page of The Hindu really shocked me. Perhaps, Thatha was watching the news just before I woke up and my sub-conscious mind heard it. Maybe I saw it somewhere - at a newspaper stall last evening, or some TV in some office that I wasn't concentrating on. Twelve years ago, I remember dreaming that Karunanidhi was dead - I had this dream in my father's student's house in Nepal. Karunanidhi is still alive.

This morning has been a series of long, important phone calls, of humming Sahana while shaving and showering, of hot idlis with maanga thokku, of this wondrously odd novel called 'Zero Degree', of all sorts of newspapers from around the world on Prabakaran's rumoured death, of disjointed thoughts, unformed ideas, vague plans.

Nothing strange has happened. But I've felt strange all morning.

The Odds and Ends Post

So, every now and then, there's one of these - a collection of random angst, outpourings, jokes, links and suchlike. As always, in bullet point format.

My Brother's Birthday

Today is my brother's birthday. I wish him a great day, month, year. Wish him more writing, more fun, more jokes. A joke dedicated to him on his birthday (since I've spent most of the day in the hospital):

Munnabhai MBBS = Durjan Surgeon.

Rama's Birthday
Ramanavami happened. I have a ritual on Ramanavami (and have had it for 4 years now) - I give a concert privately to myself. Sit in a quiet place with a sruti box. Start with a varnam, and then sing/play various Rama songs for about two-and-a-half hours in concert format replete with alapana, neraval, swaram, a main ragam, a sub-main, some small tukkadas. This year, I made a concious effort to include as many non-Thyagaraja songs as possible in the list. I played Mohanam as main (Ra Ra Rajivalochana Rama), Nannubrovarada in Madhyamavati, Brochevarevarura (Khamas) - all compositions of Mysore Vasudevacharya, Ramachandram Bhavayami (Dikshitar), and of course Palukebangaramaayera, Rama Rama... There were some perennially favourite Thyagaraja songs also.

It is my favourite time of the year!

It's funny, though, that Rama is today associated with the most unwanted elements. First, and most prominent, is the Rama Sena and its culture-vulturing, its war against pub culture (that beats the war against Iraq to the most pointless war in the world), its war against immoral women, and its upholding of a warped, ancient Hindu Dharma. Then, there's the whole did-he-build-the-bridge-or-not controversy, where, ridiculously enough, the Supreme Court is called on to decide if he existed at all. Then, there's the Ramajanmabhoomi mess... I'd like to quote a Tyagaraja song right now, but I shan't.

Random Conversation on Love since Last Post

"Are you still in love with me?"
"No. I think its faded now."
"Yeah? I'm glad!"
"Yeah. Love is like a pair of jeans. If you're in it for long enough, it fades."
"What about pre-faded jeans?"
At that point, I had no reply. (And even if I did, it was some non-notable one.) But then I wondered, pre-faded jeans = arranged marriage?

This love and fading jeans analogy has much scope. Hmmm. Must explore.

A Wednesday

I watched A Wednesday today, fully and finally. I know this statement is politically incorrect and could lead to serious loss of social life, but I didn't like it. I thought the premise of the film was flimsy, and its execution was cliched. Go on then, excommunicate me.

Pyaasa

I watched it again last night. No one makes films like him. No one does. Really.

Of Two Plays

Finally caught a show of God - a play by Woody Allen. This new group in Bangalore called Tattvam Theatre was performing it. I thought it was fairly well executed, although it didn't go entirely with my interpretation of the script. I also felt in places that I had laughed a lot more when I read the script than when I watched it. Crucially, I was a bit disappointed with the half-hearted adaptation to Indian circumstances. All of Woody Allen's works are written in a context, and outside that context, many of the jokes lose their humour. Therefore, I think an a fuller adaptation (at the very least, Bangalore-ising the entire play instead of a half-hearted Bangalore- New York type adaptation) would have been much better. Also, I didn't like a couple of actors. Lastly, it looked like they had taken too many ideas from a Youtube video of the play being performed by some other amateurs. A little thought and a little research (for instance, Sardi's - often referred to in the original play - is a famous restaurant in the theatre district of New York. A Wikipedia search would have told them that. In adapting that to McDonald's takes away from the humour of those lines) would have made it much much better. In any case, it is a very difficult play to pull off, and despite a sluggish start, they really did a wonderful job, and deserve a round of applause for it. Oh, the guy who played the Actor deserves fourteen rounds of applause. Absolutely wonderful!

The second play was The Doctor Despite Himself by Moliere, performed at Alliance by a group called Miracle Entertainment. I had major reservations about this play.
1. The script wasn't the strongest around - and by no means is it Moliere's most revered work. Wonder why you'd still want to do it today in the same way. It is a story that could have been completely adapted to modern Indian circumstances and performed with more natural dialogue (I'm not too fond of Christ College type people playing Jack and Tommy and Lucas speaking sentences beginning with "Aye!")
2. The dialogue is a translation of some 17th Century French into 18th century English, and the actors just couldn't emote in that language. Hell, some of the actors just couldn't emote.
3. The production was super-tacky. The sets weren't imaginative, the lighting was really patchy, backstage work was much like college drama. The director dude (who spoke too much at the end of the play) said this was their fourth play, and still made some song-and-dance about amateur theatre. Boss, at some point, you must shed that amateur tag? And a fourth production is a reasonable time to expect that?
4. And, the curtain call. Um, why did you inflict that on us?

An Announcement

I'm seriously thinking of starting a Carnatic Music blog. No no, not one of those blogs with some technical discussions on vague ragas quoting from the Sangeeta Sampradaya Pradarshini. This will be a fun exercise - concert reviews, jokes, the occasional serious article on some issue (rants about bad amplification systems or mobile phones, for instance), photos and related items. Basically, a blog where one writes from the heart. Cheesy enough?

Anyone interested in being co-blogger, helping with design/technical fundae, angel investors, donors, mail me - swaroop dot mami at gmail dot com - or leave a comment here. The idea is still in my head. No concreteness yet. So, suggestions welcome.

A Letter

Dear Pretty Girl Running Around Sankey Tank who was being stared at by a Weird Guy,

Hi. I am that weird guy. I know it sounds creepy and horrible that I am writing a letter to you, but I really felt the need to explain my actions to you. I was guilt-ridden when I realised what the whole incident must have seemed like from your perspective.

I realise that you must have seen me running in from a distance. Well, at least, I saw you running in from a distance. I realise that when you saw me staring at you, you must've begun cursing me, muttering under your breath. You must've been complaining about how an averagely pretty girl cant even run in a park without being stared at by random men. You must've been wondering how desperate the menfol in this country get, and how dirty their thought process is. You must've been fulminating against the backwardness, conservatism and horniness of Indian society and culture.

Well, I wanted to explain my actions. You see, I don't usually stare at women. (There are notable exceptions. But they are, well, notable!) I didn't stare at you because you are a pretty girl running around a lake. I never stare at someone just because she is pretty. I stared at you because you looked remarkably like a friend of mine who now lives in the US. The resemblance is almost as striking Rohit and Raj, Seeta and Geeta, Michael, Madan, Kaman and Rajan, Omprakash and Om Kapoor, the Prince and the Pauper. The resemblance, funnily enough, doesn't end with your face, you are about the same height and weight as her also. For almost ten seconds, I thought I was watching her! Which is why I stared at you curiously. I don't think you noticed, but I smiled when you came closer. That's because I realised that you were actually someone else. I apologise profusely for any inconvenience caused.

This letter is also to tell you that if you are actually Don, then beware. The police have a Vijay waiting for you. They'll just capture you and replace you with my friend. And then, she'll destroy your gang.

Thanking You,

Swaroop

Update: Just realised. This is my 100th post! Yay! Is it significant that the tags for this one are 'incidents, ramblings, women'?

Subcultures and Whores

Today, we have our first real guest blogger. You might remember Xebo from some time ago, who embarrassed me with scathing questions. But this one's a real guy. And a real funny guy. Presenting (drum roll, bated breath, etc.) the man who could have been Retd. General Manager, Canara Bank, Palakkad Branch, but decided to become an expert on Marginal Utility, the man with more than just a working knowledge of Greek and Latin, the wone and wonly, the unstoppable, the leader of leaders, the king of kings, the devourer of poppadums, the downer of beers, the irresistible (okay, I'm running out of breath), JAGANNATH IYER!

Jokes apart, Jag Iyer ("Iyer: not caste, but class", "The Higher you go, the Iyer you become") is deliriously funny - both when he doesn't intend to be, and when he intends to be. This conversation on Gtalk with him meets the high standards of humour and analytical thinking that he's set for himself:

(Oh, the conversation has been modified and edited for family audiences)

6:09 PM Jagannath: I think, looking back at it, that law school was all about creating these exclusivity clubs

me: X was a club of his own, really ;)

6:10 PM Jagannath: even thinking about such "issues" and theorizing them was a subculture, come to think of it ;)

The S subculture

With the likes of K and T adding their twopence worth

me: The Obscure Debating Rules Experts Subculture!

6:12 PM Intellectual Property Whores was the most pissing off subculture!

Jagannath: Hahahaha yeah---IP Whores

KAT was the most tolerable of the IP whores

because he was into a lot of other things

W was a big scamster and an IP whore

6:13 PM But the most pissing off are people like K---who became IP whores to suck up to other IP whores!!

me: Hahaha. Y's superciliousness on IP matters really pisses me off!

6:14 PM Jagannath: Y thinking he's an IP God and a capital markets stud are offshoots of X's most lasting contribution to law school subcultures

6:15 PM X was the inventor of the "I-suck-at-everything-so-I-will-pretend-to-be-cool-by-being the-master-of-the-obscure" subculture

6:16 PM me: Hahahaha

Jagannath: Since no one in our class was really an IP whore, and Y doesn't mix with the IP whores, he was safe if he was an IP whore Mastery of the obscure has two forms----

6:17 PM the more pure form is practiced by X, which is to pick up genuinely obscure things and whore them

6:18 PM the bastardized, and riskier form, is practiced by Y---where he relies not so much on true obscurity but rather unverifiability---when there is no one else to challenge your mastery

In other words, andhon mein kana raja, or in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king

The payoffs are commensurate

6:19 PM Y a higher payoff since the "IP stud" or "capital markets stud" is a more valuable tag than "Monty Python trivia stud"

me: Hahahaha

6:20 PM Jagannath: On the other hand, Y is also exposed to the shaft a lot more than X, who stays cocooned in his absurdist paradise

6:21 PM You know what, this conversation, suitably edited for names, could a funny one on your blog.

me: I am speechless, Iyer. That is the most comprehensive exposition on the matter!

Hahahaha

Jagannath: Hahaha

me: I'll put it up...

Guest blogger!

Jagannath: Killer

6:22 PM You had a guest blogger before, didn't you?

Or was it you in disguise?

me: It was me in disguise!

Ok da. I've got to cut. Important business.

6:23 PM More details next time we converse!

Jagannath: Chall

*chal

see you later

6:24 PM have fun!

Ciao

I am speechless! He just seems to pluck words out of thin air and weave them into intricate ideas of whoring and bastardisation! Jag Iyer, take a bow.

Peter-Pottering

I've been away. Chasing elusive tigers. Rafting on bamboos. Playing Mynah. Chilling on ferries and consorting with the light waves on the Malabar Coast. Pondering over the questions of life. Questions of the Smartness of Man. Questions on Animal Behaviour and Animal Chilling. Eating Death-by-Chocolate. Peters and Marys. Old Peters and Old Marys. Mad Peters and Mad Marys. Bark Collectors and poachers. Madras' contribution to English Grammar - how it de-Peterised the Peters in us.

I also had six hours to kill at the Cochin Airport last afternoon. These are some reflections, and short incidents on the trip that I wrote about at the airport.



Smartness of Man
"Finally... Oh, damn."
"What happened?"
"For a second, I thought I could see nothing man-made in my view, and then I realised that the bamboo raft was visible."
"Look the other way, maybe you can..."
"No. The guides are there. Their clothes are man-made. Man has this tendency to disturb everything around him. Right?"
"Yeah."
"Wait. I have a new theory - all animals disturb. When an elephant walks through a thicket, it disturbs the plants and stuff. But there aren't enough elephants to cause permanent damage."
"No. The damage caused by the elephant is ordained by Nature. Otherwise, there'd be too many trees and so on. Thing is, man is too smart, and so he looks to beat nature. He's too smart for his own good."
"Maybe he's not smart enough."
Pregnant pause.
"Profound!"

(I love the way this conversation progressed as if it was between two aliens looking down on earth.)

Peter and Mary
The most useful word on the trip was 'Peter'. The word has its origins in Madras Tamil.

Although Akanksha did raise concerns over the anti-feminist sentiments of the term, which made us occasionally use 'Mary' as an alternative, 'Peter' was what we usually stuck to.

pe·ter /ˈpē'tər/ n. a generic term to describe anyone who is, or wants to be a foreigner, usually from the US, UK or EU. Specifically used to describe foreign tourists. Usually carries a large camera, backpack, wears a pouch and has turned pink in the heat. e.g. Many Peters hang out in Kerala.

pe·ter adj. refers to things that peters do. e.g. We did some Peter stuff like watch Kathakali and Kalaripayattu, or You'll get stuck with Peter prices if you don't bargain properly.

pe·ter, pe·tered, pe·ter·ing, pe·ters intr. v. to do things that Peters do. The Peters Petered around the Peter part of Cochin on Saturday.

Mar·y / mâr'ē/ the female of a Peter. "Dude, hot Mary. 11 o' clock."
Note: Mary is rarely used as a verb or an adjective.

On Purpose
Travel gets you thinking. Especially trekking through the jungles. As dried leaves crackle under each footstep, you are drawn into a world of your own. The magnificence of creation renders your daily pressures of deadlines and entangled love-lives irrelevant, and you're able to ask yourself the larger questions. A good trip isn't one that gives you answers - it is one that asks more questions.

As I saw elephants, boar, bison, and deer - all chilling in the jungle - spending most of their day either sleeping, eating, drinking water or releasing the remains of their eating, I couldn't help thinking of the larger purpose of life. We do so many things - we are lawyers, doctors, engineers, janitors or sportsmen. And we condemn those who chill - those who only eat and sleep. Humans are meant for larger things, we say. We aren't animals. Movies are made on people getting lakshya in their life. Calling someone a monkey is even considered racist.

Why? Why cant you and I spend the rest of our lives chilling? Find food. Eat. Sleep. Get up. Find food. Eat. Why does this sound monotonous to you and me, and not to the rest of the animal world?

Oldness of Peters and Marys
A trend that Akanksha pointed out during the trip - most Peters are fairly old. There were hardly any young, strapping Peters in Thekkady. After much thought, she came to the conclusion that young Peters hang out at the more expensive places like the Taj at Kumily, backwaters of Kumarakom, Delhi, whereas younger Peters and Marys are usually around places like Fort Kochi, Goa, McLeodganj, Pondicherry that are all much cheaper.

The Crazy Peters are usually the younger sort. The older are more racist, and less Indophilic. The younger do the whole 'exotic India' routine - peacock feather mantras, Yoga course in the Himalayas for six months, Indian music with real Indian instruments like the tabla, Maharishis and Swamis, Kamasutra. The older hang out at the open air coffee shop at the Taj and complain about the heat and dust.

The Big Sleep
Walking along the coast in Fort Kochi, we saw a board pointing towards a Dutch Cemetery. A question of deep philosophical significance was asked, "How does it matter if the Cemetery is Dutch or not?"

Reminds me of this paragraph from the last page of The Big Sleep:

"What did it matter where you lay once you were dead? In a dirty sump or in a marble tower on top of a high hill? You were dead, you were sleeping the big sleep, you were not bothered by things like that. Oil and water were the same as wind and air to you. You just slept the big sleep, not caring about the nastiness of how you died or where you fell..."

***
As you can see, it was a fun trip. We went on what is called the Tiger Trail, run by the Periyar Tiger Reserve. Their website is more than useful, and their guides are real pally - especially if you can speak a smattering of a South Indian language. Even Akanksha's Tamil will do! And just for trip value, here's another snap from the trip - one that somehow signifies the meaning of the whole tour...

1, 2, 3, Slight Happiness...

I still remember going to Guru Kripa Studio in Udupi as a little kid to get my first passport sized photograph clicked. And unlike the scores of passport photos I use these days, this one was for a passport. It was an occasion at home - the two little boys were dressed in all their finery to make sure they looked good in their passports that would last them for ten years. All the excitement surrounding the photo reached its climax when I threw a tantrum - I wanted to wear my maroon Snoopy shirt for the photo, and Amma had pale blue stripes in mind. The latter would have looked stately, but the former had character. And even at the age of seven, I chose character over formality.

And so my old passport had this picture of a little boy in a maroon shirt with little Snoopys (Snoopies?) staring into the camera with his over-large eyes, his short spiky hair making his protruding ears even more prominent. Even with that shirt and hairstyle, there was something formal about the photograph, the solemn expression on a seven year old's face, fully aware that it will be captured for eternity and used by grown-ups for serious businesses. (Or it could just have been something I ate that afternoon.)

There is something about passport photos that makes people give their unnatural expressions - sometimes as if they're actually holding a slate with their names and crime numbers, sometimes as if they're apologetic about the way they look on that day, and often as if they've put their week's share of make-up for that photo.

I think it's the general weirdness of the whole clicking-a-picture routine that brings out the worst in people. Firstly, you know you're being photographed, and unless you're a model and are used to it, you tend to view the camera as this alien eye watching you, and you have this instinctive reaction to not show your true colours. Sometimes, you're trying too hard. Face it, whatever we do, we can only look as good as we are. Secondly, you know you're the only one in the photograph - that creates a feeling of insecurity because you know that there is nothing else in the photo to distract the viewer. Thirdly, this is something you'd rather not do, and unlike those pictures of you in college with hands covering your face, the point of this photo is to see your face clearly.

But that first one was the last serious passport photo I took for a while because we shifted loyalties to Studio Abhilasha in Manipal. The photographer was a stout, bald-headed man whose English wouldn't have seemed out of place at an English Spoking Class. His studio was a messy room partitioned by wooden panels into three - the main reception, the studio, and the third room to which he'd direct you with, "Please sir, fresh before photo." There was a little basin with Ponds Dreamflower Powder and Mysore Sandal Soap.

That line always made this ritual more fun - "fresh before photo". You were suddenly put at ease. All the nervous hair-adjusting, collar-straightening, shiftiness was abandoned. You were yourself again. When you sat on that little stool, he'd place the lights like Chaplin in one of his movies - choreographed humour! Always the same two things would fall down, and he'd trip on the same wire.

And then he'd say that trademark line that took away any little seriousness that we were saving for the photograph:

"1... 2... 3... Slight Happiness..." Wide Grin. Click!

Crime and Punishment

All day, I have been watching various people expressing their opinions on why Sanjay Dutt should have been pardoned and let off under probation. Now, the Information and Broadcasting Minister has joined the bandwagon.

"As a minister, I do not want to question the judiciary, but in a civil society time has come to gauge the parameters for an unintentional fault, for which Shri Sanjay Dutt had already suffered long enough, in first instance."

What I don't understand is how the world seems to assume that he would have gotten off. What shocks me more is the mass of opinion that believes that he deserves to be let off. Let us remind ourselves of what Sanjay Dutt has done - he was in illegal possession of AK-56 rifles and a 9mm gun. He even confessed to having kept grenades for some time in his house. His defence was that he believed that these were for his personal security. Who was he under a threat from to keep an AK-56 for protection? While he might have not known what his actions would have led to, it is ridiculous to presume, as Mr. Dasmunsi has done, that it was an "unintentional fault". What did he think these weapons would be used for? Noble causes like waging war on Himesh Reshammiya in the years to come?

This sympathy for Sanjay Dutt seems to suggest two things - one, that we aren't able to accept that our heroes could be punished for their wrongs; and two, that we think the judiciary should share this public sentiment. Without going to deep into the debate of whether the judiciary should reflect public opinion, I believe that in criminal cases of this nature, a judge must look at the facts and evidence put before him, and pass whatever sentence he deems fit, because irrespective of what the standing or popularity of the accused is, criminal justice requires to fulfil the objectives of retribution and reformation. The judiciary, and not the people, or the film fraternity, or Mr. Dasmunsi are in a position to make sure that these ends are achieved.

Film stars in India have always had more than their share of reverence, sometimes bordering on worship. We also sometimes tend to confuse film stars with their screen personalities. If this judgment had come in the Khalnayak era, we might not have had this much trouble accepting it. Just that this judgment comes when the image of Sanjay Dutt is that of Munnabhai - a gangster with a heart of gold. I guess Sanjay has to face the truth now, just like Munna did in both movies. The world will hope, that the end, like the movies, is a happy one.

***

Of Fielders and Openers

Couple of weeks ago, I spoke too soon when I wrote Dinesh Karthik off as an opener in Test Cricket. I referred to him as 'the fielder', because he didn't show much promise with the bat, and not could he do any bowling. I compared him to Jimmy Kamande - the infamous Kenyan cricketer of whom Harsha Bhogle asked after five matches, "What does Jimmy Kamande do?". I was aghast when he was picked over Yuvraj for this Test series.

He's answered his critics with fine half-centuries in the two Tests. He's shown that he can attack and defend confidently. He's always been a fine fielder, and a player with what Greg Chappell called "good attitude".

But there's still a doubt - is he better than Sehwag? Humble submission - no. Sehwag has 12 hundreds in Test Cricket. Too early for Karthik to score hundreds, perhaps. Let's give him a little more time. My point is, he doesn't look like he can score big hundreds. The best openers - Gavaskar, Hayden and the like had the ability to score big hundreds. Sehwag has 8 scores of over 150 - an extremely high percentage of his hundreds. When he gets set, he dominates. He's scored a triple-century and two double hundreds. All in the subcontinent. But then we're forgetting his 195 in Australia and his 180 in West Indies. In the last home series against Australia, he was the only Indian batsman to score a hundred. His form in the longer version has dipped only slightly in the series against South Africa. In the matches since that famous series in Australia, his average is 50.35, higher than Sachin Tendulkar, Saurav Ganguly, Wasim Jaffer, Dinesh Karthik and VVS Laxman. The honour of the Indian batting order in the last three years has been saved by two batsmen - Virender Sehwag and Rahul Dravid, and to drop one of them for having one bad Test Series against South Africa is stupid. Sehwag has been India's most consistent opener since Gavaskar. It is high time we recognised that fact, and stopped tinkering with the combination at the top. Instead, perhaps, some changes in that famed middle-order may be more sensible.

Given all that, I'm impressed with Karthik. If he can score hundreds, I might even be willing to concede that he could play as a batsman in the side.

***

Love and Death

Ingmar Bergman met Death yesterday. He was 89. I wonder if he asked Death for a game of chess. Thank you, sir, for giving us those powerful images. Thank you for making me think.

Tribute to him here through two stills from “Persona”.