What is wrong with you ?

That is the line I dread to hear.

I dont know about you other men folks in this group, but I have been seeing a pattern in the complaints my wife has. They are in 3 levels.

1. Low level: Small things. Things one tends to gloss over, if one were a red-blooded scratch-in-the-morning man. Such as : "Do you know how much hair found on the bathroom floor? And not all of it comes from your head. ITS DISGUSTING!! Go clean it all up." or "If you wash you face in the bathroom sink, wash ONLY your face, NOT THE ENTIRE SINK. I go in after you, and there is a big puddle where I stand. CLEAN IT UP" Or the ubiquitous "Why do you leave the seat up? One of these days I am going to fall in when I dont see that the seat is up!"

2. Mid-level: You did not see the bangs I had. Do these pants go with the shirt? Tell me, and if you are wrong, it will be on your head. Its cold out, and you never even bothered to tell me it was cold out before we left, so I could have asked you to pick my jacket up. I dont even have a decent jacket, and you are dressed for a walk down 5th avenue. When did we buy this skirt ?

3. High-level: Topics in this category are THE MOST incendiary in nature, quick to set fire to things. I usually fall prey to this. "Your parents are in madras, and it has been 2 days, and they have not called my parents". And the latest one "You took the tupperware from the tupperware cabinet, and did not even bother to look that they were arranged in a proper order. You just grabbed it, and let them all fall down. 30 minutes of my work"... and the list keeps growing...

I am just loving it. And we are not even living together. I am going to keep a living document that documents all this. In 1 year, I shall have enough to publish.

If y'all men could write a little bit of your experiences, if your spouses shall let you share i.e., it will be appreciated.

Y'all have a nice day now. 

Of Barbers

It was twenty-five years ago, on a hot summer morning in a forgotten dusty suburb of Tiruchirapalli that my story begins. This place is what we call “The Estate”, the reason for which is another story. The mango blossoms were in full bloom intoxicating the air with their smell. Millions of bees flew about in our garden gathering their wares.

That day a subordinate of my father’s came to our house. I learnt very quickly that the fellow, Mohan, also moonlighted as a barber. I remember now wondering how, with so young a name and at 35, he looked as though he was 50. For a barber he had no hair- not one sprig, anywhere on his head, and the face was pockmarked after a childhood battle with the pox. He also had 10 children, for all of whom he was the chief hairdresser (I overheard my father tell my mother that he had been on a son-hunt, to try until you get that son to carry your “name” forward). I listened in alarm as Mohan described his monthly ritual of hair- trimming his kids. He would sit them down in an old wooden chair with planks that he could raise or lower according to the height of his kids. Then he would brandish this vessel (“patra” in Telugu), and place it on the head of the unfortunate kid and trim around the vessel. He proudly described himself as the inventor of the “patra cut”. In my young imagination run amok, I could see 10 tormented souls roaming the streets of the estate with their heads shaped like a vessel. Upon hearing the story, I tried to extricate myself from the situation. But it was not to be, and the monthly ritual began under the mango trees in our garden. With the bees going about their business, things started going awry very quickly. There would be an occasional attack of bees, while I was totally at the mercy of an irate Mohan who tried to finish the job with one hand, while trying to ward away the bees with the other. All this while I was swaying this way and that to avoid the bees! The end result varied from an almost bald pate to one that did look like a “patra cut”. They say time flies when one has a good time. In this case, time took a nice casual stroll, while I agonized for 5 years.

However, the tide changed when I finally graduated to a “saloon-cut”, with professionals. At that time in our estate, there was this one “saloon” owned by an old man who resembled movie actor “Major” Soundararajan of Tamil movies of the 70s. The old man’s son, who was perpetually under training it seemed, would be given the opportunity of cutting mine every time I came in the door. My bad luck with hair-cuts continued with this son. I sat paranoid while hearing the father instruct the son from a neighboring chair where sat another petrified patron. Occasionally he would scream “Ayyo!!!!! Enna panrei kazhudhei!” (What have you done you worthless ass!!). A few obscenities followed that I hardly comprehended then. The old man would take over. Then, after a few clips here and there, I would quickly be packed off home, not knowing the havoc wrought on my head. I did not know at that point that the customer could actually be given a view of the backside of the head with a strategically-positioned mirror. The worst part of these hair-cuts was the trip back home. All my friends lived close by, and I had to pass by their houses to hoots and cries of “Ennada? Kilavan menjittana?” (So the old man mowed it down eh?).

The eighties rolled by. There was a realization in the estate, like the 60s in the rest of the world. Another saloon emerged in competition. Everything was radically different in this new shop. This new one was run by a seemingly swashbuckling young man from the city. He wore flashy “terricot” shirts, wore a loud watch on his wrist that spelt “Citijen” and had the hairdo of Rajnikanth, the reigning folk-hero of the estate. His shop was quite a thing to observe too. There were nothing but calendars and posters of scantily-clad women. Needless to say, the shop was filled with men, half of whom came to ogle at them pictures. For a 15-year old, it was a different experience alright. After the several pictures of Lord Muruga and the old man’s dead parents and grandparents in the “other” shop, this was a change. However, the hair-cuts were no better. As it turned out, the new barber had a serious lack of talent which he made up with the tantalizing distractions. It did not seem as though any of his clientele really cared though. The 80s went by with everyone looking as though they had been through a weed-whacker.

School and college came and went, quite uneventfully. There was this one time in college, when I went for a haircut. It was new, and the man who worked there had come from a hair-cutting school, which was unheard of then. Most people (all men) learn from their fathers, as though it was an ancestral trade. Here was a man, all of 18 years, who displayed QUALIFICATIONS in the form of a certificate! I was impressed, for I sensed the end of the road for my misfortune. That is when the quiz started: What size cutter to use, rolled up or down in the back, executive or summer fashion… I flunked the quiz, and came out looking just like my previous 10 years.

After graduation, I came to the United States. I thought it would be different now, since I was on another continent.

I was in Chicago in another barber shop. This time, the barber was an old man called Charlie. He liked to talk up a storm while cutting hair. He had an aquarium choked with fish. He claimed he caught all of them, although I suspected he bought most of them. Who catches a little shark in a lake? Charlie once told me this story about this Indian kid who had once come in for a haircut. When asked, what kind of haircut he wanted, he demanded that Charlie shave all the hair off. Since it was not his policy to question people’s choice of fashion, he did as he was asked. After the 5 minutes that it took to shave all of it off, the kid asked that he collect all the hair, put it in a paper bag and give it to him. I realized then this story was about a friend of mine, who had shaved his hair to send home to Lord Venkateshwara of Tirupathy. This was the first time though that I was hearing of it in third person. Charlie continued “That kid came back a couple of months later. I don’t forget a face like that easily. He came and he sat down and asked for a haircut. I couldn’t stop myself from asking if he wanted it - for here or to go.”

An idea struck me then. I decided to do something different that I should have done a long time ago - something that would end the agony once for all.

I told him “Charlie. Take it all off!” He was stunned. He said “Excuse me?”. I said “You heard me. Take all my hair off.” He tried to reason “How ‘all’, when you say all?” One inch, half, quarter?” I remember my father tell me, you are supposed to take all your hair off only in a temple. So I would technically not be committing blasphemy if let a wee bit remain.

So I said, “Okay, leave 1/4 inch behind”. He replied “okay you asked for it”. Then, he took his trimmer and raced through the center of my head “to give you a sample of how it would look”. I was a bit petrified. But reason got the better of me. I said to him, “That’s just what I wanted. Go right ahead. Only, make it look uniform”. So he said, “This is the last stop. There's no turning back after this”. I said, “Fine”. He persisted, “But you would need to convince a lot of people when you show them your ID card”. To which I replied, “Charlie. Look at me. You think a bald head is going to going to change anyone’s mind about me?” That did it. The act was done. I was looking at a new identity in the mirror-one that seemed at peace with itself.

Accepting the inevitable is one way to deal with one’s destiny. My grandfathers were bald, my dad is balding, and I know I will be too. I know I will have an answer now whenever anyone asks me “What happened?” I am going to say, “Got a new headstart in life”.

Thoughts in a stinky head

Kala warned me this morning on the way to work.

"You did what ?!!?!" She exclaimed. While trying to reduce the volume on my cell phone and muttering silent obsceneties at the Jetta that cut me off on 390-S, I repeated what I told her a minute ago; "I used the hair oil you gave me last weekend".

(Winters can be cold in the Northeast, as most of you no doubt know or have watched on the Weather while fanning yourself in your little condos. What you probably do not realize is that it can wreak havoc on your (hair) follicles. I blame these darned frigid conditions and my father on my blooming forehead. Kala recommended I oil my hair every now and then, and shampoo it. It worked great in India while we were on vacation).

I dont know if you guys have heard of "Dabur Amla Hair Oil", made from home-grown gooseberries and with choice Ayurvedic herbs etc. Kala offered it to me on my last visit. This morning, I had a nice shower and decided to use it. Applied a wee bit and went on my way to work. Then this conversation started. She kept on the littany "You used it ON A WORK DAY!!!". I said yes, and she offered her explanation for why that was a bad idea...
She asked me "Baski, do you smell something funny?".

I said "Now that you mention it, yeah. I thought the smell was a tad strong in the car". She said "Its the hair oil!! Now you will be smelling like an overripe pickle all day". I thought "Great! Just on a day when I have 4 CLOSED DOOR meetings to attend". I assured her I did not use too much of it, and that the "smell molecules" usually degrade in sub-zero conditions. I did not account for the fact that (a) Today was supposed to be particularly warm at 47F (b) They usually have the temperature at warm and toasty in the meeting rooms. To make matters worse, there was a meeting in 5 minutes of me reaching office. I walked in to a filled hall. Faces were smiling, warm greetings were being exchanged, and I found a spot to sit: Plush in the middle of the hall between a few of my colleagues. I bent my head as though in contemplation and whiffed. Yes there was a strong odor: Of overripe tomato pickles. I cleared my throat and braved myself to stares from people from around me and suspicious sniffing. Before I could take notice, the meeting started...

There were a few announcements in the beginning when I took the time to look around. The nice chinese lady was clearing her throat a little too often. She was wiping her nose tip quite frequently. The man in front was in agony, from what I could see, head bent and doing what looked to me as though lurching (like when retching to vomit). I gave a cursory glance at the people in the row behind me, and saw they were sitting with their backs straight, as though trying to escape something quite ominous. The meeting progressed. I saw that there were many people clearing their throats. Coughing, heads shaking as though to clear a blurring sensation. When you are sensitized to something, you tend to see things in a totally different light, dont you ? It might have crossed my head that this was after al the flu season. Given that there were an unusual amount of people with flu-like symptoms in that hall. I contemplated my next move. Now that I have brought in a new odor into the hall, will anyone associate it to me. I mean, there were about 120 people in the room. Then I noticed that the man sitting next to me had his hand in a contemplatory gesture; you know where the palm of your hand covers your nose and mouth. I knew then I would singled out pretty soon. Time was running out for me. I thought, maybe if I turn the chair a little bit away, it might help. Nope, that didnt either. Then I started dreaming: "What if I ran out of the hall, to my car and drove home (all of 15 miles), shampooed my hair and drove back. I might make in back in time for the end?" Then the talker started talking "And Bhaskar is responsible for this activity here...". And I thought "Great! Thats what I want. Put the spotlight on me..". Panic settled in. I started twirling my pen and started DISMANTLING IT! I broke it with a loud CRACK!!! Heads turned. Panic intensified. Then a sort of zen thing came over me. I figured "So what? What if I stink? Will they fire me for obnoxious odors? Will they me stinky behind my back?" and so on and so forth. I reasoned with myself. I looked around again. Now I saw sick people. People with bad colds. People who were crying from too much passion. People with what looked like bored expressions to me. Head shaking was now attributed to disagreement with the goings-on in the meeting. A calm befell me.

I said to myself: So what? I stink. Big deal. Lets see how much hair you have when you turn 33! Meeting ended. I had a coughing fit, all of a sudden. And left the room in a hurry.

The end.

Sisters of Malleswarom & Finding Gayatri Aunty

Bangalore: Nowadays the city that never sleeps. Unusually cold at 15°C at 6 am. Autorickshaws by the droves, swanky new cars, well-dressed men and women, a LOT of white people, and a marginalized sector of older people. We went by train from Tiruchirapalli to Bangalore. We loved the new system of regulated auto fares from the railway station in B’lore. You stand in queue and tell the operator where you wanted to go, just the vicinity would do. We were going to Malleswarom, a tamilian haven in what-used-to-be a kannadiga paradise of Bangalore. Now with the influx of software junkees, this bustling metropol is beginning to resemble Manhattan in its cultural hotspot-ness.

I remember Malleswarom as a quiet hamlet nestled among rows of tall Casuarina and Sampige (don’t know the name in English) trees lining the roads and in people’s large gardens. The year was 1993, when I stayed there when working in AMCO Batteries. It fit my personality very well. I was not a city person (still am not). I needed a small room in a small neighborhood, where people spoke my language (telugu, my other language was not understood in Malleswarom then, still is not) and had petty fights with their neighbors about their 3-year old kids peeing in their garden. The rent was Rs.200 per month for a room that was as big as a closet in my Rochester apartment. This took a sizable chunk out of my paltry Rs.2500 monthly salary. The rent was cheap because the landlady was from BHEL, Tiruchirapalli and liked the fact that a Brahmin (that would be me) was a tenant. I should have told her that I did not wear the crossbelt and definitely did not know any shlokas. But I didn’t, which served me well. So I ended up living in my own one-room paradise, 2 floors above Ganesh pickle factory which she (Lakshmi amma) owned also. In the evenings, I returned to the entire street smelling of curry and pickles which emanated from the ground floor of this house. The work went on on weekends even. There were these 3 women whose main work was to slice and dice mangoes and lemons in the back of the house, and dry them in the terrace (which my room adjoined); mix with the oil and pungent curry powder in large stone mortars in the back of the house. The women were large and well-muscled and looked like they could easily take on Ayesha Ali (Boxer Muhammed Ali’s daughter who is also an emerging boxer) and beat her to a pulp. Hell, I was scared of them. Sometimes, the curry spatter would get onto my shirts that were drying in the clothesline by where they worked. I just washed them again. It was definitely not worth the trouble. The result of all this was that I must have smelt like one thin mango pickle myself when going to work. Of course the grime of lead peroxide and vulcanized rubber at work must have drowned it in a hurry.

There was this man who managed these women. I think he was called Ganesha. He might have been 25-30 years of age. He didn’t speak tamil or telugu. Surprisingly the women he oversaw spoke Chennai tamil. I don’t really know how he managed them. Whenever we met each other on the passageway upstairs, the only question he would ask me was “Oota Ayitha?” (Have you had your food?). This would happen at all hours of the day. I spoke only passable Kannada. Fortunately or unfortunately for him, all I could reply was “Ayithu” (Yes I did) or “Innu Agilla.” (Not yet). It was a very convenient conversation. The innate meaning of the exchange was the following: “Damn, there’s this fellow again. How am I going to get out of this without saying too much?” thinks me. “Ayyo devarei! Illei bandhu bitta ee manusha. Eega en madodhu naanu?” thought him (the same thing in Kannada). Then he did his little ritual. Smile, bend the head, ask if I ate food. If I did, ask if it was good; if not say ok. Then look at watch, and say “Time enayithu?” (What is the time?), and escape. It was such fun to enact this ritual, everyday for a year!

Malleswarom in 2005 is in a state of metamorphosis. There are still 18 crosses and 17 mains (its like our US system, horizontal streets are Crosses, and vertical streets are Mains) as there were 10 years ago. What used to be independent bungalows with beautiful banyan and jackfruit trees in their gargantuan front yards have been transformed into 7-10 storey apartment buildings with a strip of dirty shrubs in the front to pass for foliage. However, there are still free-willed house-owners who are still holding out to these space-hungry builders. One such houseowner is Kala’s uncle (Mom’s sister’s husband) “Ramesh Chitthappa”. It is to his house that we were heading out to from Majestic Circle (Bangalore Railway station). A bit of wrong turns here and there later, we found it. It is called “Burma House”. I checked with him on the odd house name. He said that the house belonged to his ancestors from whom he inherited it. They had migrated from Burma in the 1930s and named it so to retain their memories.

These refugees or returnees from Burma have not been talked about very much in our contemporary literature. Apparently there were an estimated 200-500,000 people who had been in Burma before the army took over in the guise of a revolution. Most of them were forced to go back to India with whatever they could save and muster up in a very short time. A choice few, like the ancestors I mentioned above, had the time and the muster to accumulate substantial wealth before leaving for good. I knew one of the first unfortunate kind. Growing up in OFT, one such lady was “Ayah”. As far as I recall, she had worked in our house at least for 10 years. I don’t recall asking her what her name was. For us, it was just “Ayah”. She had a weird tattoo on her forearm. With the wrinkles on her forearm, the tattoo looked like tamil writing. I never bothered to ask what it was. I was just fascinated by the fact that one could write on one’s skin indelibly. She used to tell us how she used to work in Burma (“Varma”) in the sugarcane fields there, and how they had to leave their house and cattle behind to come to India. She used to live in a tenement by the highway with her unwed daughter and earned enough to make ends meet. But I digress.

A word on this house in Malleswarom: It was built in the 1930s and many additions have been made over the years. There were so many rooms I got lost trying to go to the bathroom. It had the look of an ancient house. He has 3 daughters and 1 son. He also has his 2 older sisters (aged 80 and 82) living in the house. These two sisters were a riot to talk to. They used to teach music to kids “in those days” for “Tonty fye rupees”. They complained that music teachers nowadays cheat by charging for each keerthana they impart. Krishna, the last of the kids, is evidently the apple of their eyes. They are terribly protective of their brother’s kids. When I entered the house at 7am, they were already up and watching TV. They had their daily quota of religious discourse by watching Ramanandsagar’s Ramayana. Instead of reading Ramayana and Mahabharata, they were doing the abridged version on TV. The kids also told me that after the morning ritual, they usually switch to watching cricket, wherever in the world it was being played and was on cable TV. If any of you have seen “Triplets of Belleville”, you might find the title “Sisters of Malleswarom” apropos.

After the taking a shower and having a delicious breakfast of idlis, freshly ground coconut chutney and a distinctly Bangalorean sweet called “Kajjikkai, we head out toward Shivajinagar close to where was where my aunt (the one I wrote about earlier) used to live. Her name is Gayatri, and our mission was to find out how she was doing. First, we had to find the house she lived in 10 years ago. I had mislaid her phone number and actual postal address during my moves from Tulsa to Rochester. I had to find the place from memory…

Surprising as it may seem, I had done the exact same thing 10 years ago. Then when I had joined AMCO, my mom had asked me to look Gayatri aunty up. It was like a scene from an old Pandaribai movie. I was getting ready for the bus then. My mom found a moment when my dad wasn’t around and gave me this old invitation for a house-warming ceremony. It was my aunt’s house-warming ceremony invitation. Mom told me that Gayatri aunty used to send her letters and invitations all the time throughout the years (there were 18 of them) she became persona non grata to the family. My family is a strange one you see (Details will be given later if need be.). Such correspondence was supposed to have been torn up and thrown away. But mom had kept this one. It was all the information I needed then: House name, address, bus numbers from Shivaji Nagar and Majestic bus-stations. It was a Saturday evening that I had kept free for this purpose alone. I boarded the corresponding bus, and asked the conductor to let me know when Lingarajapura stop came up. He was nice enough to give me a heads up and drop me off at this god-forsaken village of a suburb of B’lore. I thought to myself “Oh hell! How am I going to find this place with a knowledge of kannada that would make Vadivelu look like he is a kannadiga. There were a couple of bakeries still open. I needed to get my bearings straight anyway, so I got some cakes and some fruits and chocolates there alongwith with a general outlook of the place. It was 6pm, and clouds were gathering fast when I finally set out on my quest. I thought if I was lucky, I’d get to their house before it started pouring. Little did I know that it is important to know where she worked and who her husband was. All I knew was she was Gayatri aunty. So I started knocking on people’s houses and asking them if they knew a certain Mrs.Gayatri from either HAL or BEL. It was pouring down, when I finally knocked on this lady’s house who, as it turns out, worked with my aunt. As she was telling me the directions to her house, her dog (a poodle) the little rascal starting getting all worked up and was getting ready to tear my toe apart. I finally did get to her house, a full 3 hours after I had started. I was rain-soaked for exactly 2.5 hours. The cake was soaked, and so were the chocolates. I rang the bell, and was praying that it was the right house and that there would not be a dog. This little 12-year old girl opened the house and looked at me like I was another used vacuum salesman. I asked in stammering kannada if this was Gayatri aunty’s house. She screamed “Baaaa! Yaaro bandhidhaarei!” (Mom! Somebody at the door for you!). She had a nasty cold then, so “Maa” came out as “Baa”. She was Rashmi, my niece. My aunt came out from the kitchen, and I was dumbstruck. She was a slimmer, younger version of my mom. I remembered her face from when I was 5 or so. Her husband, Mr.Kumaraswamy was also there. Then I saw a movement closer to the floor, and saw it was a 5 year old boy trying to get some attention in all this commotion. It was Bharat, my nephew. They were settling on for a warm meal, that to me then looked like it was a feast at the Taj. I got a warm welcome then that still warms my heart up. My grandfather who babysat these kids had told the kids about Bharathi and me. I spent the whole night talking to them about the years that had passed between us, about how my granddad had been killed in a hit and run accident, about growing years with my mom and uncle. I never had so much fun at a relatives EVER. I kept going back there at least once a month, as long as I worked in Bangalore. That was then. This was now. 2005, and a lot of alcohol had muddied my memory cells.

My kannada was far worse this time around. A few thousand buildings had sprung up, street names were new. Before starting, we had looked at the yellow pages and found a couple of prospective address, which now turned out to be duds. The zipcodes didn’t match, and the phone numbers were not the right ones. We ended up at a STD PCO and were perusing the yellow pages again, when the operator overheard us arguing about where the house could be. We had been searching for over an hour by that point. The man then asked “Endha layout saar venum?”. I looked at him as though a horse had kicked me backside. HE SPOKE TAMIL, AND OF COURSE THE LAYOUT NAME!! Bangalore city’s new developments were usually made by splitting the land into layouts. These layouts are fully-approved land plots which have approved water and electricity connections. This place, Lingarajapura, had these layouts also and the one my aunt lived in had a funky name too. So I asked “Ennenna layouts irukko konjam sollunga please” So he started reciting “Venkatappa layout. Krishna layout. Aravinda layout. Shamanna layout…”. I stopped him with “Shamanna layout. Engirukku saar?”. I knew we were close. Shamanna layout sounded terribly familiar. Now, all I had to do was remember their house number. This same man said that there are usually a 100 houses in each layout. So we had narrowed our search to 1 in 100. The good Samaritan that he was, he also pointed us toward this layout. I, a duffer that I am, in the excitement of everything forgot the directions. A few missteps later, we found the layout. Then, out of the blue, I heard the number 96 in my head. So I asked how to get to 96. We were counting upward to 96, when I saw them. Not the house, I actually spotted my uncle, and my cousins. Man were they grown up! Rashmi looked just as I had imagined she would. Bharat had grown tall, as tall as me. I got nervous at the last moment. I had not bothered to keep in touch for 10 years. What if they did the whole Visu movie stunts: “You never bothered to keep in touch in 10 years. Why do you bother now?” Spit, close door and walk off…

I told Kala that we need to get them something. We had gone there empty handed. She agreed and we were walking away. They had not noticed us. Why would they? I was balding, had longish hair and a beard. As far as they were concerned, I was just another misfit there. Kala stopped me after a few steps and said ”You know, the fact that you took time off to come see them, before seeing anyone else speaks volumes. Lets just go and see what they say”. I reluctantly agreed and we turned back.

We turned back and stood in front of the gate. My uncle noticed me now, and we stared at each other for a few minutes. Then I actually saw a gear click in his head and he recognized me. He gave a long “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!” And said “Baappaa bababababababababa”. I knew I was ok at that point. Rashmi and Bharath turned and looked at who this fellow was who got their dad so excited. I learnt later that they hardly get any visitors. They keep to themselves. The kids, needless to say, were terribly excited. Rashmi ran in to get her mom. The house had expanded. They now live in the top portion now. My aunt came from the kitchen just the last time I dropped in on them unannounced. I had not warned Kala how similar she and my mom look, and how different their behaviors are. I have not seen Kala take so very well to ANY of my relatives. She curled up on a sofa next to my aunt and started shooting the breeze. My aunt speaks good tamil. The kids were asking me questions. Information needed. It was as though I never left. Rashmi, now in architecture school, has her own room and a computer. Bharath wants to join the army, which the rest of the family won’t agree to. He somehow seemed convinced he would. The kids had saved every scrap of gift I had given them. I was so touched by their kindness. After all, what is love if you don’t reciprocate. These are not my relatives, they have become friends. Friends who never judged me (except noting out aloud that I had lost a lot of hair!) and who were always glad when we met. 3 hours later, when we barely had scratched the surface with sharing 10 years worth of information, it was time to leave. I could tell they were heartbroken just as I was. They loved Kala, and she loved them. It was evident from the way she spoke nonstop about them on the way back in the autorickshaw. I was glad I saw them finally, after years of wanting to but not having a way to since I kept going to Jabalpur. We exchanged numbers and emailids. I told them I won’t lose it this time, since Kala has them. I am sure we will keep in touch from now on. Gayatri aunty was teary-eyed, just like the last time I left them. Rashmi put up a stoic front just like before. Bharath was playful and the big man of the house, unlike the last time. My uncle was glad I had come to see them. In all, I got everything I needed to get from this trip to Bangalore. I didn’t care what happened thereafter.

We then went to Jayanagar to see my aunt and uncle. Nothing spectacular. Just evidence of the massive expansion Bangalore is undergoing these days. I could imagine the chomping of the steel and machinery as they ate up the countryside and the hillsides and the forestland and kept expanding. Its literally like what Agent Smith says in Matrix-I: Human beings are like a virus. They go to a place, pillage and plunder. Consume all the natural resources, kill everything around and then move on to greener pastures. Bangalore is like that now. No longer a sleepy hamlet or the “Green City” it once was. I heaved a heavy sigh, and boarded the train back to Trichy. Kala took a detour and visited her college mate from Bombay (Priya) who was married and is settled now in Bangalore. She then boarded a train to Madras that night. One really long day. Getting caught up with friends and family. Complaints of not having enough time. We had to do it partly so there are no complaints of “Americans now! Don’t have time for relatives”. Mostly to see the people we really cared about. I got to see what the relatives we don’t talk about were doing. Someday they will be able to come join us for family functions. Someday, everything will be okay. It is ridiculous how cruel humans can be and carry lifelong grudges. I think some of it comes from these stupid soap operas contaminating TV now. I don’t how to prove it, but I think these half-assed joke of a sitcoms are now defining human relations in middle class south India.

That’s that for now. Sigh…

Chennai Madness

Man, what a trip!! Kala and I are 3/4^th into our yearly pilgrimage we have come to enjoy the most. I liken the feeling to that of head-shaving. For the fortunate few who have accomplished it, they’d have come to understand what I mean when I write this. You don’t really look forward to it in the beginning. You make up your mind, promise the gods that you would (or just decide for the heck of it or be dared into it), make the arrangements for the shearing. The day comes closer, you start thinking what it would mean to you if the hair does not grow back. What if my head has the odd-looking bump on the top that would only stand out to passers-by? They’d probably yell out “Hey Jabba the Hut!” or “Elephant man is alive!” or just wonder out aloud “Is that a Unicorn I see? ”. If you are single, you’d probably wonder if this was the end of your lineage as you know it. In other words, you start second-guessing yourself. But the decision is made, the money and the emotional roller-coaster is all set to roll. There is no turning back. Then you do the deed and fly. After that, you see the light. It is nice. You wonder why you worried in the first place. Granted the hair front has receded to make you look like Chanakya. But on the upside, you won’t sweat anymore. Enjoy the wind better. In other words, it is fun.

Now where do I start? There was the 1^st week we spent here in Madras, running around like headless chickens. (You know for most people that would be just another saying: Running around like chickens with their heads cut off. But I have been unfortunate enough to see one. Even Anand, who was with me at that time, will not remember this. 1988, while waiting for a bus to take us home from Loganathan saar’s house where we were taking Biology tuitions (!!), we were standing next to a chicken shop where I chanced upon a chicken being prepped. Anand was looking out for the bus. It is exactly what the term supposes to describe. The chicken does run around pretty aimlessly.). Bharathi and I had organized a 60^th birthday/ wedding function for our parents. There were people coming from out of town. They needed to be picked up, pooja stuff to be bought, peoples nerves allayed and at the same time have fun. Save a few stray incidents, we managed to do all that with aplomb; thanks mostly to the woman with a thousand hands and a voice that can subdue a 150lb Boxer dog enough to weakly resemble a real ugly young one of a cow: My sister Bharathi. Almost 3 months pregnant, and yet she worked tirelessly cooking, cleaning, yelling, answering phone calls while being helped along by mere mortals like my aunts and me. We somehow got things done. She and I got a few minutes during the function, to stand back and watch my parents get married again. No matter how sentimental I could get now, it was a nice sight to behold. Surrounded by people who cared about them, my parents were reliving their vows (To have and to hold, in sickness and in death. And to make sure the other is miserable when you are too). The day went good, and best of all, Kala and I got through our jet-lag by the time the function got over, and did not even make an effort at it. But of course, I slept for a good 12 hours the next day to get back on IST, ready to start off our vacation.

A word on the dogs in Bharathi and Chandramohan’s house. There are 3 now. There is the poodle aka Pom “Mani”, there is the boxer “Veera”, and there is the mutt “Chitti”. They behave so much like humans. One gets jealous when the other gets attention. Inactivity (and probably depression) has caused them to grow despondent and fat. “Veera” in particular is morbidly obese. One might find it difficult to comprehend, but this obese and evidently intelligent canine KNOWS it has a weight issue. He was slim and fit and happy running around the old house they were in. It had a huge yard, and big gate. So he had to jump up to get a good view of the postman, the grocery delivery boy and any passers-by. That kept him active. This new house they are in, while it has immense living space for the humans, has limited space for the pets. Half the time the dogs are on the lookout for someone to walk them. Imagine this: Anytime a new guest (that would be me or me parents or Kala) comes to the house, these poor creatures are deliriously happy because there is the potential of them being walked. Walking is not very much, as the formal standards of walking go. Their street has 6 houses on each side. Beyond that, all the houses have dogs. So our expert instructions, if we were roped in by the dogs to walk them (that happens often too!), is to not go beyond the 6 houses in any direction. If we left the Lakshman-rekha of the 6 houses, the dogs in these houses would call them for a fight. I did it once, and I tell you now, keeping a raging boxer calm is not easy. I was being pulled around like a rag doll. Kala was in splits seeing me fight Veera.

After the function, all of us retired to recoup our strengths. Kala started our vacation by showing me around Chennai. We went to her Alma Mater, P.S. Senior secondary school. She was squealing with delight while she showed where she parked her bicycle, where her friends romanced, and where they held school meetings… Then we undertook the famed path of Kala’s from home to school. It was a nice experience. She said “Oh this is where Sujaatha and I used to park for ice-cream.”, “This is where boys used to yell “Indhamma Pedal la kathu illai” and so on. We then went to her dance teacher’s house (Kalaimamani Dr. Saraswathi Sundaresan, director of Balamuralikrishna Trust)

I wrote the last part for effect. As all of you know, I have not an inkling of an idea what performance arts are. The most experience I have had with this aspect of life is watching Ramanathan and his cohorts prepare for culturals when in college. Ramanathan would say “Saranathanula odhaikkudhu da!” I would think “Saranam? Where is that in the human body?” Going to this lady’s house was like setting foot into a museum of felicitations for her. There were plaques from different chief ministers of TamilNadu, cups, trophies, Thanjavur plates hanging of the living room, kitchen, pooja room, dining room walls. There were portraits of gods, there were photos of her, her daughters, her students in the fantastic dance regalia all decked up like goddesses. After we were ushered in, I was waiting for her while Kala was talking to her and her family members (all of whom seemed very fond of Kala) in a “waiting room” of sorts where a man was wolfing down poha upma, oblivious to my presence. He was smaller than I am, wearing the vibuthi like he wanted to ward off evil, and in starched white cotton shirt and a cotton veshti. I was a little petrified of disturbing him. So I spent an extra few minutes observing the room. As you may have surmised, there were more portraits and trophies. This woman in her long career seems to have accomplished everything there was and then some. Clearly she had run out of space in this fine big house for felicitations, as was evident from more of the same stuff stacked up in the loft above in GUNNY BAGS!! Then Kala came and got me. The man was still oblivious to my departure. I later learnt that he was a member in the traveling dance entourage that Saraswati madam had. He was the violinist. Then I met Kala’s dance teacher. I had met her 2 years ago during the wedding. She had just recovered after a near-death brush with tuberculosis of the spinal cord. She had made a speedy recovery in 6 months to walk to the wedding. Now at 60+ she was at full gale, entertaining people from out of town and country, and still training and traveling with her students. There was another couple there from Singapore, and now residing in Toronto, who were also visiting her before flying back. The wife had learnt the violin in Chennai and had known her a few years ago. The husband was an acupuncturist. In a brief span of 1 hour, I must have seen at least 10-15 people go in and out of the house. The house was a living breathing entity with people who worked for her coming in for counsel, be invited in for lunch and then leave politely declining. She was as jovial as always, Kala claimed. She treated Kala more like one of her daughters than as an old student of hers. The room we had our food in was where the dance tutoring took place. Just like in Sagara Sangamam (Salangai Oli, pasangala), there was a large Nataraja statue, large windows, and no other furniture. I could almost see Kamalahaasan dance to “Bala Kanakkamala Chela Paripala…” with Manju Bhargavi. Good it was. We took our leave soon thereafter. Maybe I should add that there was a girl from Salem who stayed with her, while learning for her MA in Dance!! Overall, I came away thinking this was one good start for me to learn something about me wife’s gurukulam.

Jan 1^st, we learnt K.J.Yesudoss was singing at Mylapore Music Academy. A few words on the music season here. Growing up in Ordnance Factory Trichy (OFT) had its advantages. Not knowing there was a 4^th kacheri season in a year with 3 seasons (Hot as hell, windy as hell, and rainy season were the 3) was not one of them. This city is like a city of possessed this time of the year. Mamis in silk sarees, powdered faces, wearing large diamond nose-studs and ear-rings and sporting bindis (pottu) as large as my thumb make a beeline for these music halls where the state’s big and small names in music perform. I got introduced to this facet of Chennai last year, when we went to a dance drama from Kala’s dance teacher. This time, we went to the carnatic music recital from Yesudoss. I knew my parents love him, so they also came, enroute to the railway station for their trip back to Trichy. Man what a performance! As I said before, I wouldn’t know anything except a few choice lines from Tyagaraja keerthanas, thanks to Ramanathan and Gowri. This was quite a revealing experience. I learnt I really don’t know anything. My mom knows music and she loved it. My dad was delirious for the exact same reason I was: CULTURE, finally!! I realized one thing. In this marriage of ours, its give and take as in all other collaborations in life. Kala’s family gives us a beautiful outlet for culture: Dance, music, drama, religion. My side gives her side the one ingredient one needs for a good wholesome life: Levity, comedy. This takes us to the next phase of our trip, Tiruchirapalli.

The farmers of Trichinapoly

We went to Trichy the next day. My parents came to pick us up at 5.30am at the Trichy Railway station. Anand, you would know this. This place has expanded beyond any reason for logical comprehension. In developments, I noticed that there is a big-ass locomotive parked in front of the railway station now. Otherwise things are the same. Except for the smattering of Aircel and Reliance simcard petty shops here and there amongst the innumerable tea-shops and PCOs (Public Call Offices), everything else is the same. There were houses springing up in areas where there were beautiful little lakes and ponds. Vinayaka Nagar, Chelvi Nagar (100 yards down the road), Ganesh Nagar, Ganapathi Nagar (right next to it), Selva Nagar, Murugan Nagar and so on and so forth. There were 1 or maybe 2 houses in these purported Nagars. A bumpy road off the highway (NH-210, I didn’t know the Pudhukottai-Trichy road was NH-210) led us to Anna Nagar-Police Colony where my parents now live. A word about this “Double Road” we took: A few electricity transmission lines line the road set 100 feet back from the road. The panchayat board has been waiting for clearance from the Electricity board to make the road. EB is worried that a bus would hit the lines and cause a major disruption. A year has passed by, and people make do with a dirt track with stones jutting out at dangerous angles. 20 minutes of trying not to let our head or knees get banged up and we were at our house. Beautiful. My parents had gone overboard in making it look like a farmhouse. Large coconut and teak trees line the property. My mom had brought 40 bags of soil (yes black volcanic soil) from Jabalpur when they moved. Why you ask? Because there was space in the lorry is the answer. This soil has served as the soul of her now burgeoning garden. Dad tells me she works 6-7 hours on it, digging, pruning, watering. His day begins and ends with 2 alphabets: TV. There need be no white noise in this house. If not rinky-dinky songs from movies of yesteryear, its comedy clips with Vadivelu, Goundamani and Vivek in them. All day long.

I have got to say one thing, and Kala is with me on this. Indian ads are just brilliant. Consider this one: An aunty is sitting in her house knitting a sweater. She stops and looks up suddenly. The sound track plays the sound of a mosquito flying somewhere close by. Soon a huge one comes toward her. The aunty stares at it and shakes her head. The mosquito shakes its head and still flies toward her. The aunty stares at it and gives it an ugly look and shakes her head again. This time, the mosquito puts its head down and flies away from her. Then a voice in the background says “Do you have such a power? If not, you need Tortoise Kosuvathi churul”. I have identified some that are as good, if not better. Rajni spoofs abound. There is one on Kitkats chocolates. The scene is set in a western cowboy-style saloon. A tough-looking man enters, sits down at the bar and takes a pack of kit-kats. The voice-over says “How would you like to have your kit-kats? In Hollywood style?” The man (he looks more European mind you) taps one side of the box and a kit-kat comes out and he stylishly places it on one end of his lips like it’s a cigarette…

Then the voice says “Or in Baaliwood style ?” And a man who looks like a fat and funky Rajni crashes through the door, sits down and takes out the KitKat box. He throws one up in the air, and says “Bishoom”. His cowboy hat flies off and his Kitkat bar lands in his mouth. Cracked me up right away.

Amitabh Bacchhan is in ads from AIDS & Polio awareness, to clothing, to Dabur products, to paints to pens. The only thing he is missing in is Viagra.

So, as I was saying, me dad religiously watches TV. Come 10pm, the soaps start. “Ghar Ghar ki Kahani” (Veettukku Veedu Vasappadi to put it in tamil) and “Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu thi” (Enendral Mamiyaarum eppavo Marumagalaga irundhaval dhaan!) are the toppers. Not to mention the tamil ones: Metti Oli, Sangamam, Annamalai the list is endless. The telugu ones are not far behind either: Padma Vyuham is one I remember. The one common factor in all these serials, irrespective of language, is tears. My goodness, the amount of crying the women in these serials do is mind-boggling! And it is not because they have dust in their eyes, mind you. One’s husband is cheating on her, another’s husband who was ill-treating her, suddenly is paralyzed after falling down in the bathroom from an electric shock from the hot-water geyzer, another’s just happy because her daughter is divorced from her abusive husband. The list is endless. Women with a strong character cry along with the ones with weaker characters. Sometimes, the same actresses act in 2 different serials in different characters, and I cannot tell the difference. For one thing, they all look gorgeous, they always dress like they going to weddings, wear exotic pottu’s (I might have mentioned this before. The bindi styles vary anywhere from snakes to rising sun to lotus. I am waiting for the pottu that looks like Anjanjeya carrying the Sanjeevani mountain or Thiruvalluvar) and wear jewellery that looks like it would have cost a bundle to buy. I sometimes cannot tell if one is the mother of the other or sister. The face looks young enough to star opposite Shah Rukh Khan, but there is a white streak of hair from the center of the head to the ear. Its bizarre I tell you. Another common thing in all the sitcoms listed above is the amount of time they have been running. Episodes numbering 500 and 900 are not uncommon! I asked my dad if he remembers all the twists and turns and I got a nod saying no. Yet, they are very popular. One popular hindi serial star stood in a MP election and lost (thank god!). She is now selling cookware on one of the many shopping channels. EVEN THAT PRODUCT IS A HIT!!!

I love the garden. There is shade everywhere. There is an upper portion that gets plenty of light. A word on this upper portion: Newly-built, my parents had worked hard on it, until the day before they left for Madras to meet us. Evidently they thought we needed privacy. We stayed with them in one of the bedrooms downstairs. One day, we thought we should give it a shot just for the heck of it. Come 10pm, Kala and I picked up a pillow and a blanket each and climbed upstairs. The bathroom upstairs is the only one in the house that is western in style. I hate the Indian western style johns. Why the hell do they put it that way if they don’t plan on using paper? I know one thing. Older people, who have rickety knees and have trouble bending, love these lavatories here. Yet, the calisthenics you need to do to get things done makes it rather a bad choice. Anyway, we settled in to go to bed. I was about to switch the lights off, when Kala yelped and said “What is that? Is that a spider?” I looked up at the loft where she was pointing. It was a humongous one all right. The legs were tantalizingly positioned as though it wanted us to know who the boss was. The legs quickly disappeared. We were left with visions from “Arachnophobia” (a bad thriller movie where spiders turn deadly and start killing people). I had convinced her that spiders tend to stay hidden and don’t venture out in the night, and she seemed convinced. All was well and I was going to switch the light off again, and I heard another yelp. I asked “Now what?!” and she was pointing toward a giant cockroach by the bed. She asked “Is that the flying kind?”. I did not know enough to say anything. So I said “Yes. Maybe. Don’t know”. Immediately, she started packing up. “I am NOT sleeping here.” I agreed and we went downstairs. My dad was waiting downstairs and asked me what the problem was. I said “She saw a cockroach and a spider.” Dad started laughing. We all had a good laugh and went to bed, downstairs. We elicited a promise from them that the big wooden boxes and the cardboard boxes upstairs would be thrown away.

One day we went to Thanjavur. I have already written about that trip and the one we made to Srirangam. Thanks Anand for posting that on the KVOFT website. I got 2 calls (1 house call also!) on it already. When I was writing this piece, I remembered a little incident that happened during this trip. My dad has the rich man’s disease, i.e. blood sugar problem. He also forgets things very easily. My childhood memories I tend to recall always contains at least one where we (i.e. me, Bharathi and my mom and sometimes the neighbor’s kids) search for his ID card or his pay slip or his bank checkbook etc. We had lots of fun. This time, he needed his sugar medication, the prescription for which he had misplaced at home. He remembered he needed a refill while we were in Trichy town. I had completely forgotten how easy it is to get any prescription drug in India. Everything is available for sale. Here is how the conversation went between my dad and the pharmacist at the medical shop.

Nanna: Saar! Oru sugar medicine venumei.(I need a sugar medicine)

Pharmacist: Irukkei. Edhu venum ? (Yes we have it. Which one do you need?)

Nanna: Adhaan theriyalai. Peru just slightly dhaan theriyum. (That’s what I don’t remember. I know the name just by the sound of it)

Pharmacist: Sollunga, irukkannu pakkaren (Tell me, I shall see if we stock it)

Nanna: Ebja nnu ninaikkaren (I think its Ebja)

Pharmacist: Ebaja va ?

Nanna: Illa saar “Eb-Ja”.

Pharmacist: Eboja va.

Nanna: Ayyo illa saar. “Eb-Ja”

Pharmacist: Eb-Ja va. Appadi edhuvum illa saar. Andha perla edhavadhu irundha vangaringala ?? (I don’t think we have it sar. But if we have something that sounds like it, would you like to buy it?)

Kala and I were watching too dumbstruck to speak. We are talking about a life-saving medicine here. We persuaded my dad that it is too important a decision to make without knowing the proper name and dosage needed. Ultimately, a day later, we bought the medicine: EBEZA, pronounced as “Eb-E-Za”.

We had gone to Trichy with the express purpose of convincing my dad of quitting his smoking habit. He used to smoke Capstan cigarettes when I was growing up. I don’t think there is a friend of mine who came to our house then who has not been sent on an errand of buying some cigarettes and beedis for him. Anand, Chandramohan, Murali, Sunthar, Satish, Ahuja, the list keeps going on and on. Most of you know Babu, a childhood buddy & family friend of ours who is now going to move to the west coast with a job with Deloitte Consulting. He is the youngest friend of mine. My dad treats him like his second son. This time around, he was also there in Chennai for the function. My dad convinced HIM to go get him some cigarettes. He was nice about it though. Gave him Rs.50 and asked him to buy a pack of Wills filter without telling me, Kala or Bharathi. Babu bought it, and then of course squealed on him. At least he was consistent. So Kala and I descended on him to give up smoking. Kala quoted medical facts: Emphysema, Lung Cancer etc. I took the sentimental angle: Has to see Tanya get married, play grandpa to our kids, what will happen to amma etc. I was biting my tongue about a couple of medical problems associated with smoking that Kala had left out owing to impropriety: Impotence and balding. Figured it might not work this late in life. Don’t know if he is still hanging onto it (the SMOKING i.e.). Time will tell. Sad thing is mom has given up on him too.

Visited Anand and Saru’s parents’ houses. When we went to Saru’s parents’ house, Saru’s father was outside on the swing looking at some papers. I stood at the gate while Kala was hiding behind me. He looked up and was going to ask “Yes, enna venum?” I preempted him and asked him “Yarunnu theriyudha uncle?” I was sure he did not recognize me. I urged him with “Bhaskar uncle!” He said “Oh!! Vappa va va va va… Sowkkiyama? Yaradhu unakku pinnale unnoda missussa ?” I said “Amam uncle, ennoda missuss dhaan. Please meet Chandrakala, my missus”. He ushered us in, and Saru’s mom rushed out of the kitchen. I must have met aunty at least a dozen times now, and she has always been in a rush coming out of whatever she was doing. I felt bad disturbing her. But she is so cute, and immediately started chiding us for not having called ahead etc. We said we were in the neighborhood, which is more an understatement. Saru’s appa and my father are at loggerheads over something neither of us can understand. Neither of our mothers can explain the problem! Neither of the men will talk about it either! It is so bizarre, we have stopped wondering about it. Why wonder when it can be a breeding ground for so many jokes? In this scenario, we settled down for some good coffee and biscuits. In the meantime, Saru’s nephew (Vignesh aka Vicky) and niece (Vaishnavi aka Nila kutty) were pushed into our presence. Vicky in particular was extremely reluctant to talk, until amma told us that he was taking abacus classes. Now Kala had also done something similar when she was his age. So there seemed like a kinship formed instantly between them. She expressed an earnest interest in his work and he responded in the like. It was nice to see. Saru, this kid is going to go places. For some reason, Kala and I both saw a lot of you in him. Believe it or not, he is trying to emulate you. I could see he strives to learn whatever he studies. I think he will go places. Nila kutty is a brat waiting to be discovered. She has naughtiness in her eyes da. She refused to talk until we offered her some chocolates. I think it was because of me, she was reticent. My beard and long hair have thrown most kids into despair, save my niece. I have successfully terrorized 3 kids (all girls too… hmmm) into a shell their parents never knew they had. ”Ada! She is never like this!” is a common rhetoric I got to hear. Same here. But both kids are studying extra hard, that’s for sure.

Next stop: Anand’s parents house. They knew we were coming. Anand, your grandmother told me to tell you (more than 5 times) that she misses you. That old lady knows about everything from Tsunami to 911 to Snowstorms in PA. A very enlightened soul, she seemed to us. It was just like old times da with your parents. Talking about our childhood. As always, they enquired about Kala. Your dad in particular engaged in a long chat with her about her Pharma choices and her line of research. One pharma to another. Your mom showed us around the house, and upstairs. Awesome house da. We were impressed with how much room there was for everything. Your upstairs portion was offered to Kala and I, in case we needed a room to stay. There was a nice zephyr (Sokka!?!) aka mild breeze blowing from the canal close by. We had Poori and Kilangu (Aalu) for dinner at your house. In the meantime, my dad called your house to see if we had reached there safely. We were supposed to call from Saru’s place, but never did. Your dad started joking around and said “No saar. Innum varaliyei!”. I knew my dad would have had a heart attack if your dad had not followed suit with “Ayyo illa saar. Joku dhaan. They are here. Please talk to them” and handed the phone over to me. Your dad has started expressing more levity da. Your mom, as always was smiling and very cordial. Then they took us on a road trip to Ordnance Factory Estate, the place we grew up. A stop at Kendriya Vidyalaya took me back to 1987, the last I remember of the place. Man that place has seen some changes. Infusion of new funds has given it some color. There were nicely maintained gardens and there was space for a lovebird cage even! I was running around like an excited kid, with Anand’s mom and Kala in tow, looking thoroughly amused. Anand’s dad was waiting in the car at the gate. The watchman (Yes, there is one now, Anand!) was amused enough to let me through. All this @ 9pm, mind you!! Having made a mental note of wanting to come back during the daytime, we left to look at some other spots. Our old house where we lived for over 25 years: That gargantuan mango tree still lives and bears fruit. Anand’s place by the hospital: There was more shrubbery alongside the pathway leading up to the gate. We learnt a little tidbit about Anand’s study habits there. There is this little building close to their house called “The Isolation ward” where all the patients with infectious diseases such as measles or Chicken Pox were kept while they recovered. He used to study by there at night. There was also a lone street lamp by the house. If you saw the house, you would mistake it to be in a jungle. There are so many trees and large shrubs everywhere. His dad told me that Anand preferred the outdoors to study under this street lamp when he was young. Then he went to IIT, found computers, eventually came to the US, found more computers and decided the indoors were more preferable. I would say that was the classic case of the formation of a software belly. We next went to the temple which the inmates of the estate (note I said inmates, and not residents) helped build to save cost and to build some points with the lord. The temple, which housed 3-5 gods when I left 6 years ago, now houses almost 16. A god-mall if you will. There are rooms now for visiting musicians, a kitchen, and a few store rooms. What started out as a literal stone cubicle for Lord Vinayaka 25 years ago (which was built overnight I was told: Another story for another day) is now a divine conglomerate. I was impressed. This rapid expansion was described by a man who stood there, who professed he knew my father, and then told me how his father was died when he was out of station. By the time he got wind of the tragedy and came home, everything was over. Why he told Kala and I this story, I am not sure about. Guess he needed a soul to tell it to. We were sad for him. The trip ended there, and we turned back home to Anna Nagar to call it a day. Anand’s parents dropped us off at home, and stopped in for a second to chat with me parents. After they left, my dad expressly asked me how it went at Saru’s parents’ house. Not at Anand’s parents’ house or at the Reddys’ (another friend of ours). I leave out what happened thereafter, because its really not worth writing about.

One day, I helped bring down some coconuts so we could have some nice cold coconut water. It was sweeter than heaven. The meat inside was so soft we could substitute it for butter.

The following weekend, we went to Bangalore for a day. I wrote about that too. More of the Bangalore episode will appear in the 3^rd chapter of this journal/blog/whatever. Kala went to Chennai from there, and I came back to Trichy. That same day, Amma fell sick. What started as a viral fever went to chest pains and ultimately got diagnosed as Jaundice (that too after a scare of Hepatitis B!). Everything, except the jaundice (a mild case too!) was misdiagnosed. Hospitals are kind of non-existent where they live. Medical help is usually provided by doctors who work off their evenings from their homes. One day, while I was waiting for amma and nanna to come out of the clinic (a hole in the wall with a dupatta for modesty behind which the doc (a bald sleazy-looking hack) sat behind a godrej desk), it just dawned on me that every single one of his patients (there were 12 overall with my mom included) were over 50, and definitely pushing close to 60. This on a good day, when there was no talk of a flu epidemic or malaria or anything like that. Most of them were just old people with age-related issues. They walked, drove or were driven in for treatment. The doctor charges Rs.20-50 for each visit, not to mention at least Rs.50-100 in medicines which can be bought at the attached pharmacy run by his wife. If the patients were new, there was the usual blood, urine and ECG tests to be performed at a facility located conveniently nearby. I am sure he gets a cut of that action too. This particular doctor has 4 facilities he runs in 4 locations here. 2 hours in the morning, and 2 in the evening, all week. He has the pharmacy-test lab links at each facility. A nice gig they got going here. I remember going to him for a viral fever (it was viral fever then) 12 years ago. He had a similar rinky-dinky facility and no pharmacy or lab that he owned or helped run. He had a head full of hair then. Looks he has found success, and lost some hair in a classic horse-shoe pattern. You know what they say, you win some and you lose some.

I left Trichy with a heavy heart. It is a nice village in the core; a nice village with coconut and banana groves and lush green paddy fields for acres and acres. Only this greenery exists outside, far far outside the city limits. Trichy as a village has ceased to exist. There are flyovers everywhere, landmarks have disappeared. Movie theaters are getting converted to polyclinics and shopping malls. Anand: Gaiety, Maris gone. Trichy is in effect Chennai-II. There is nothing wrong with losing crumbling buildings. However, there is a mad rush for real estate which is becoming all too familiar now. There are flats costing 12-15 lakhs with a river-view (of cauvery, when the govt of Karnataka sees it fit to share some). I was dumbstruck at this. Tatachary gardens are gone. I must sound like a hopeless romantic, or a rather old man. I did come away with a sadness which is also all too familiar. There are two old people in this village that I love, one of whom may or may not have impotence.

NB: We ran across the name “Trichinapoly” as a variant of Tiruchirapalli and Trichy on our first visit to the city/town this time around. While my parents, Kala and I were loitering the streets around the city center (near rockfort), we suddenly noticed this plaque which was dated 1700s announcing the existence of a garden near the fort. v was the example of the damn british insidiousness. The plaque was freshly painted and the garden had fallen into disrepute, typical of the city these days.