Monday Blues

Are you a perfect driver? Do you know the nuances of driving inside out? Are you a stickler for road rules? If your answers are in the affirmative, gosh, you are a misfit to be a driver in Chennai city [taro-city] where drivers on the road, mostly the atrocious auto ones, create chaos and anarchy not for them but for others.

So, it is good if you know driving by halves so that you could be a slanging match to those half-boiled drivers on their bizarre driving. For, they learn driving only though a half-a-day capsule driving class as their dying wish is to sit behind the wheels of a car and not to learn proper driving.

I met with a touch and go accident on a Monday morning while I was returning back home from Marina beach after a hectic jogging. The mishap occurred because I made a grave mistake: I observed the traffic rules. There were many occasions when other drivers on the road badmouthed me; calling me names coz I was driving normally observing the prescribed speed limit.

Even my family members always loathe traveling in my car. ‘Who would like a camel-ride on a metro road’, they would quip. Once a flippant little girl said to me sarcastically: ‘uncle, do you know there is a part called accelerator exist in every car.’

Coming to the accident, this was how it panned out. I was driving my Santro on the extreme left on the road, halted my vehicle when a schoolboy in front had difficulty negotiating a pot whole as big as a shrew’s mouth. But then, a biker from behind rammed into my car. She did as a normal drive would do in Chennai. Yes, bikers here won’t accomplish two things at one go: driving and at the same time observing traffic rules.

After slamming her vehicle into mine, she did what any reasonable person will do in the circumstance: varoomed off and disappeared in a split second. The young school boy too cycled away without noticing that he was the cause of the accident, a freak one at that.

When an accident occurs even in a remote place in Chennai, you’ll first see a crowd rushes to the spot from nowhere … like a flash in the pan. The arrival of the crowd has always been sudden and swift like a lightning. And then, somebody in the crowd, instead of offering first-aid, will start advising to whoever is in a state to listen. That means, to anyone who is technically not dead or dying.

Naturally, I too was at the receiving end. ‘You should have been more careful’, I heard a lady speaking from the throng. ‘I was careful and that’s why I stopped my car’ I bellowed hiding my usual thin, subdued voice. For, I know the crowd psychology… I know the way a throng would behave in such a situation. That’s way I shouted in a falsetto voice so that the people standing around me would think there was nothing wrong with my driving. The lady who shouted at me now looked at the other way.

‘Was she drunk’? Another scrawny man, seemed a peddler, shouted. ‘I don’t know.’ I spouted my lips. There was an awkward silence for a few seconds before someone chimed… a pesky intrusion. ‘You’re lucky. Last week a cyclist mowed down a motorist in the signal. The driver died on the spot, his skull was broken.’ This is an exaggerated morbid fetish … a hyperbole. The speaker must be a script writer though he did not let any such airs’, I thought amusingly. You will always have people like that, recounting gruesome accidents in the most ghastly ways to someone who is beginning to reconcile with the trauma he/she is involved.

Seeing the commotion, a beat constable came running over to us. When I started narrating what happened, he cut me short and asked: ‘Did you notice the register number of the bike?’

‘She sped off even before I could feel that someone hit my car’ I began slobbering.

‘Oh, there you’re. Educated people are like that. You aren’t alert, but blame the police for not booking the offenders,’ the beat constable shot back accusingly.

‘Can you at least tell me how she looked like?

I didn’t want to disappoint the cop this time. So, I happily started giving forth the facial features of the biker who rammed into my car:

‘The biker was a lady, sir. She was incognito, covering her face with duppatta. Her whole face and head was shrouded. She wore sunglasses. She had long gloves pulled up to well over her elbows.’

The policeman stood aghast, looking at me sternly.

The road was now getting busier with  heavy morning traffic. I started off my car hoping the police would net the lady soon.

Image courtesy: Google

Inputs source: NT                                         

Catching up with Nilam

[This post was written when Chennai was in the grip of fear on 1^st November, 2012. When Cyclonic storm Nilam was all set to strike the metro, weather bloggers predicted unprecedented disaster and devastation to the metro.]

Cyclone Nilam that hit Chennai last week was expected to be a grandiose affair having had all potentials to devastate the metro. But then, a cyclone is not a messiah and it never leaves a spot without getting it lambasted through tornadoes or hurricanes or constant, aggressive pouring, that scare even a Noah. Fortunately, Nilam got dissipated, became tame when it crossed the shores of Mahaballipuram, a heritage treasure-trove, about 60 km south of Chennai

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For those who were indoors, the only effect they thought that Nilam left on its trail was the abrupt shut down of power supply from midday to midnight. They felt isolated from the outer world since TVs’ became mute, not able to flicker. They were groping in the dark like the people living before the advent of electricity. Through the dim light of melting candles they felt they still existed.

I love cyclones. For, with its many upheavals and being beyond the reach of man, it shows its unbeatable, supreme prowess over man and his pet dogs -- science and technology. I too hate cyclones since they bring in its train only holocaust and devastation to humanity. How can a person love and hate a thing? I must be a crank.

Fear of cyclone starts the moment weather bulletins flash on TVs. When a forecast announces a trough disturbance, rapidly increasing its size and strength and moving north/west, we begin to shudder thinking that the would-be storm is going to decimate the world.

So it begins in our minds. A storm with gusts of over 120mph, still growing in size and speed, as it moves toward a decrepit city or a cosmopolitan metro. This time we were privileged to get the Nilam. Giving it a name at some point did little to diminish the mysterious excitement of the whole thing.

A Restaurant owner became taciturn and timid. Giving me a glass of Chennai filter coffee, he asked me suddenly with fear-ridden eyes. ‘Sir, will Nilam strike at his area?’ I startled, looking at him quizzically and said: ‘Why on earth, do you ask such a bloody question?’ ‘Because’, he was a bit hesitant and replied, ‘I have opened this eatery very recently investing a huge fortune. I fear the cyclone will make it all go at one stroke’. I didn’t know how to dispel his fear. I had only pity on him. Everywhere, people are like the restaurant owner only self-centered no matter it is storming or not.

The cyclones themselves are always astounding and thrilling. We have some wild bunch of people who would venture into sea-shore whether it is raining furiously and sideways, hoping for a gust powerful enough to lift them up off the ground.

When we got our ears glued to FM radios [the only communication channel we could be linked with] that’s updating the movement of the Nilam and the catastrophe it’s causing around the city, I was surprised to hear the RJ announce that there were bunches of adventurous youth parking themselves in the forbidden seashore, snapping the furious waves, the turbulent sea and the darkened sky just to upload them on their social sites. The awesome power of nature, the freedom of the unknown, of innocence, of playfulness- all of it was so alive and fascinating. Everything was rich and wild and sweet and amazing, even difficulty and danger.

I wait for another cyclone.

Rewinding myself to my childhood days, I could still remember how we, the children, at the time of a gathering storm, would huddle in a corner of the house, scary of the howling winds or thunderclaps. As always, mother was our rallying point. Seeing our fear-ridden faces and trembling bodies, she would make us sit around her. Giving each one of us a rice-ball mixed with some curry, she would say: ‘Storms are nothing but gods coming over to the earth. They come in the form of swirling winds and bolts of lightening only to destroy the baddies. They would be benignant to those who are good and innocent. You children, you are always good. So, you needn’t worry about storms’. Getting convinced of what mother had said we would retire to our beds with new-find courage.

However, times have changed. I could never say such things to the children of today or justify the arrival of storms. When told that a cyclone is in the offing, one of my neighborhood children retort saying: ‘Why, uncle? Why worry? If need be, we can buy some windbreakers to deal with the storm.’ I could only laugh at his childish ingenuity.

New-age children with their knowledge and understanding about the Nature and its course are better placed than us in taking the calamities of nature in their stride.

Image courtesy: Google

Quotes courtesy: ‘There is only Now’, by Scott Morrison]

Talking Through Hat!

Flanked by rows of shops, where you could buy anything from pin to plane and your dead mother to pretty brides, the narrow, garbage-filled lane called the Renganathan street, is always crowded. The street is a famous icon of T. Nagar and people from all parts of Chennai and Tamil Nadu flock to the lane for shopping, especially during festive seasons.

The lane is so narrow that even two people could hardly walk together. You need to be an acrobat as you will have to quite often jump over the uncleared heaps of garbage that block your walk on the lane. Come monsoon, the lane becomes a chaotic water grave and you need a Norah’s arc to safely sail through the water-logging lane.

One hot sunny day, I was walking behind a group of three women [an oldie, a haughty middle-aged and a short and lanky teenager]. Theirs were a sort of Moon walking; and I didn’t get even a leeway to go past them. But then, I relished trotting behind them because I was enjoying their animated pep talks, insouciant behavior and their hurling barbs at one another.

The threesome looked rustic and semi-literate; spoke in dialect. They were endlessly chatting about all and sundry things under the sky: from Adolf Hitler to Abdul Kalam; from terrorism to dentures; from micro-ovens to cow dung cakes; and from hubbies to puppies. There wasn’t a single matter they didn’t discuss.

Their talks were quite absorbing since they mostly tried to demolish the views of others on a subject. Each one of them attempted to score some brownie points over the others, showing their know-of-things were better than their accompanying friends. They continued to walk their way and I followed their trail enjoying their heckling at each other, their childish arguments and their bizarre attitude of ‘I’m OK, but you aren’t’.

“I like Abdul Kalam, but he’d look smarter if he gets his hair combed backward,” said the lanky teenager and giggled. “Shut up” protested the oldie. “How dare you talk like that about a Noble soul? Cut the crap, you, the midget” The group became silent and it seemed they were resenting the youngster’s remarks about Kalam.

 But, the silence was only short-lived. Putting up a brave face, the middle-aged started talking rather proudly: “If I were the PM, I would …” her voice trailed off as she got interrupted by the oldie, who said: “I know what you would do? A woman from the ‘ankanwadi’, [anganwadi is a child / mother care center] you would cook for the whole of India. Won’t you?”

However, the middle-aged did not budge. She shouted back. Jerking herself upright, she continued: ‘If I were the PM, I would arrest all the terrorists and offer each one of them a glass of milk.” ‘Milk!’ shouted the group in chorus and looked quizzically at the middle-aged. “Don’t get confused, buddies. By milk, I don’t mean cow milk, but a glass of kalli pal [poisonous sap of the caltropis plant] and get the terrorists killed instantly. “Bravo”, the threesome screamed, clapping hands.

Now, the teenager got the podium [?]. Letting out an air of pride, she told her friends that she couldn’t wear all her jewels as her hubby was locking them up all in a bank locker. Short-lived were the teenager’s balloon of pride. The middle-aged busted it saying, “Kala, take out your jewels from the locker at least once in a month and get them polished. They are brass-coated, you know. If not polished, they may expose your family honor.” The group laughed again … laughed until some pedestrians looked askance at them.

Got worked up by the uncharitable remarks of the middle-aged, the teenager started badmouthing her with choicest expletives, calling her names and trying to attack her physically. It was with an effort, and after much talking down to the teenager, the oldie brought peace to the group.

Now, I found a walking space between the group, but I didn’t choose to walk away from them. Mesmerized by the group’s displaying of all nine kunas [traits] of human beings both in their words and deportment, I decided to walk behind them for some more time, watching them more curious and perking up my ears to hear about another bombshell they would, at any time, throw at one another.

It was time for parting for the women. All along, they did not shop anything; they’d bought only a pack of handkerchiefs for the teenager. “Take care, friends,” the oldie said as she was about to leave the group. “I’m told that a broken, out of control Russian satellite may hit the earth any time. Be on your guard. Nalaikku parkalam” [see you tomorrow]

As soon as the oldie left the group, the middle-aged laughed aloud and said to the teenager: “Poor woman! The oldie didn’t know what happened to the satellite? It had since fallen into the backyard of my house. My hubby had dismantled it, and used its scraps to put up fences around our garden.”

I stood aghast for a while and then started off laughing my heart out.

Next time, when you walk down the Renganathan street you’d better widen your eyes and perk up ears so that you may witness or hear people, walking ahead of you, may indulge in a kind of talking through their hats, entertain you  and make you forget the ordeal of walking through a chaotic, messy and garbage littered lane.

Image Courtesy: Google

Embracing the Past- Part II

She was walking back and forth the East Car Street searching the AVT [Anand Vinayaka Temple]. The Street was not dormant as it did decades back. The somnolent street had now metamorphosed into a main thorough-fare… a hub of trading activities. Falling into a maze of grand structures and skyscrapers, it had changed itself beyond recognition.

 ‘May I help you Thaye [mother]? You seem searching for something here,’ she heard a beggar’s voice from the entrance to a mall.

 ‘Anand Vinayaka Temple’, she replied, looked up morosely at the beggar; her eyes were still scanning the street for the temple.

 ‘Anand Vinayaka Temple’! The beggar exclaimed, his voice drawled, eyes became somber. After a long pause, he said: ‘Thaye, you can’t see the temple. It was demolished years back, razed down to widen the road. They are keeping the Vinayaka idol in another temple.’ He paused again and asked her: ‘Where’re you staying, Thaye?’

 ‘Minerva Hotel,’ her voice trailed off, she stood frozen with shock and bewilderment.

 ‘OMG! That was the hotel built on the debris of the AVT.’ The beggar now looked deeply into her eyes. ‘Aren’t you then staying over the erstwhile abode of a god?’ the beggar now laughed impishly and moved away from her in quick steps.

 She stood flabbergasted, felt a sense of guiltiness squeezing her heart. A quick flurry of thoughts numbed her body, and a broken mind told her that she had committed a sin by staying a place which was once her Vinayaka temple. She wasted no time, retreated to the hotel, checked out hurriedly and deposited herself in a cheap lodging house.

 A crimson ball, the sun was calling it quits and slipping into the sea when she reached the seashore. Earlier, she didn’t choose the straight road to the coastal area, but preferred to walk down to the seashore through narrow lanes and alleys, which were very familiar to her and they still had the print of her feet in tact. While walking, she could discern that the whole town was breathing a new air of change and development. Even its lanes and alleys did not reflect even the vestiges of the glorious past. A becoming, and high-profile town, it had the waves of development lashing at it constantly, making bonfires of all the cherished old monuments like the AVT.

 The seashore too was not at its old splendor. She saw the sea had rebounded a few yards from the shore and the reason was the recent Tsunami. The sea with its foam crusted waves was no longer the old green canvas, it had turned grey, having got itself bedraggled by the effluents that were being pumped into it by those industries mushroomed all over the town.

 She retreated to the town piecing together a breaking mind; betook herself to the places which, she faintly hoped, would retain its old ambiance and charm- where she could happily hug her past. People she saw and met on the roads looked strange with no homely airs. They seemed to have no belongingness to the town where they were eking out their livelihood. The ongoing industrial development, she realized with a tinge of regret, must have brought people to the town from far and near. She heard a medley of dialects spoken around her and found the local culture unabashedly sleeping with the alien one.

 She went to the area where her house was once located, but couldn’t meet a single known soul over there. When she asked an old man about the whereabouts of those who were residing there once, he curtly told her to look out for them in the cemetery. When she got onto the side of her old school, it wasn’t there having had the fate meted out to the AVT. A grand multiplex stood elegantly over the place which was once her school. For the first time she felt like a stranger in her home town.

 Mid-night. Dark-hewn Universe fell into an abyss of silence. She looked out through the window from her suit. The town was dazzling and glittering, invaded by floods of lights. She was crestfallen. Her disoriented mind was in revolt not being able to find out her roots and kiss her past. She took out her laptop from its sleeve, sent a mail to her husband:

 ‘hi, dear,

 am today winding up my trip here. i do it with reluctance and regret. the town is not mine. it had long back stumbled into a sort of anarchy after swallowing up all the old monuments, old tranquility and the social atmosphere. The erstwhile mellowed, magnificent face of my home town is not found anywhere. it seems to be an evolving city, fully commercialized; its contours not in place. in this wild jungle of modernity, am like a mother lost her child in kumbh mela.

 i came here to embrace my past. but, this town, built on the debris of old heritage, has no past; it cherishes only in its present and dreams about more future anarchy. briefly, i feel i don’t belong here. the town can never be my own. it had razed down my moorings and dreams. i won’t come here again. i know that the only way i will ever see it is in my memory.

 bye darling. tc. convey my ‘hi’ to mom and kids,

with love,

anusha.

 ***

The Chennai-bound bus moved slowly out of its bay, would bounce forward only when reaching the National High Way. It was not crowded, having a few passengers on its board. ‘Who, the moron, would undertake a bus journey and that too for sixteen hours on end under the scorching sun’, she thought. Reclining on her seat comfortably and resting her head on the head-rest, she closed her eyes, determined not take even a last glimpse of the monster town, once her paradise.

 She could only close her eyes, but, pitifully, not able to blink away her tears.

 [Concluded]

Image Courtesy: Google