The Kaka Kronicles – episode #5

Where grand plans and strategies are made to leverage crow competencies.

Click on image for larger version

And I am not kidding on the elderly parent care outsourcing bit.

Today was a very interesting day. I played game #3 (Constaball) in the afternoon. This was the “Parking Violation” variation. Later, I was informed by my office that I had to produce 4 photos for a Swiss visa. Like Immediately. No problems. I walked across to Camera Citi (on Cathedral Road) and told them ’4 Swiss visa photos’. The man at the counter looked at a large reference card detailing the visa photo specifications of each country and then asked me to step into the studio. Which was when I realized that I was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt (Friday dressing and all), and visa photos usually require something vaguely resembling formal wear. No praablem saar, the cameraman assured me, and proceeded to reveal a grayish large blazer and a bright red tie. So I took a photo wearing a Black T-shirt, Gray blazer and bright red tie.

I hope the Swiss don’t mind.

Games Chennaiites play

Chennai is a very sport-loving city. It is a city that has given Wasim Akram and his band of talented criketers in the 90s a standing ovation when the rest of India was busy choosing which brand of mineral water bottle to hurl at fieldsmen stationed in the deep and inventing new, choicy synonyms for Solanum Tuberosum

It’s produced its fair (and brown) share of talented cricketers, some of whom were lucky enough to have donned national colours. Others like Sridharan Sharath, were victims of BCCI’s “Show-middle-finger-at-Domestic-Cricket” policy. And let’s not forget Viswanathan Anand and Narain Karthikeyan.

But this post is not about that kind of sport. This is about the “games” Chennaiites play everyday. All the time. With each other. We take great pride in our ability to concoct games out of day to day mundane activities. Such as,

Game #1 : Autopingpong

The formula is

Passenger: (destination)

Auto: (ridiculously high fare)

Passenger: (walks off)

Auto: Hello. How much will you give?

Passenger: (Ridiculously low fare)

Auto: (Argument #1 – Spiralling price of Petrol)

Passenger: So why has the government installed a meter?

Auto: (Argument #1.1 – Why meters are cruel symbols of the capitalistic bourgeosie out to squeeze every drop of blood from poor Auto drivers)

Passenger: (Ridiculously low fare + 10 Rs)

Auto: (Argument #2 – The “You are rich and you can afford Rs 20 more” plea)

Passenger: (walks off)

Auto: (Argument #3 – The horrible traffic situation) minus Rs 10 from his price

Passenger: (quotes final tolerable price, very close to x+y/2)

Auto: (One final attempt to squeeze Rs 5 more)

Passenger: (walks off)

Auto: Hello. Get in.

If we didn’t play this game, this would have been,

Passenger: Look, I am going to quote a ridiculously low price for the fare (x), and you are going to quote a fare that’s as high as Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds(y). So let’s just cut the lengthy discussion out and let’s agree to (x + y)/2

Auto Driver: Ok.

Game #2 : Ponpaarkatennis

This game is played in an arena involving sofas, paais (traditional mats), bajjis and other snacks, and a large number of relatives

The formula is,

Prospective Groom’s relative #1: Can the girl sing?

Girl’s parents: Oh. Yes. She is a double MA in advanced musicology. Sing Alaipayudhe no. She sings it exactly like Shalini in the Mani Ratnam movie.

Prospective Groom’s relative #2: Can the girl dance?

Girl’s parents: Oh. Yes. She is a student of Hema Malini herself. Ennamma, oru bit podu

Girl: (Dances and sings Krishna Nee Begane Baro)

Prospective Groom’s relative #3: Ponnu Enna Padicchirkaa? (Educational qualifications)

Girl’s parents: (rattle off long sequence of alphabets)

Prospective Groom’s relative #4: After marriage, will she leave her job and stay at home? We prefer housewives

Girl’s parents: She is a good, obedient, docile, house-trained girl. She will listen to whatever you say. If you wish her to work, she will do that. If you wish her to stay at home, she will do that. She can cook every cuisine from Mughlai to Thai. She can also solve complex problems in Integral Calculus.

Prospective Groom’s relative #5: We will look at her horoscope and get back to you.

(proceed to finish off all bajjis, pakodas)

If we didn’t play this game, this would have been,

Prospective Groom: Look, let me be very frank. I have an irrational craving for fair-skinned girls, and you are a tad too brown for my taste. I get a huge kick out of everybody I know commenting on how fair and lovely my wife is.

Prospective Bride: Ok. If you think skin colour matters, you dont deserve me in any case. And oh, the bill for the bajjis, pakodas and coffee will be Rs 570 + VAT

Game #3 : Constaball

This game is usually played out on the sides of important roads, preferably under shade, in Chennai.

The formula is

Cop: Hey. stop. Licence show

Person: (shows licence)

Cop: Insurance and papers show

Person: (shows)

Cop: Hmm. Headlight no black paint mark. Fine compulsory

Person: But my headlight is off. It’s daylight

Cop: But tonight coming no? Then you light oning no? Then paint mark needed. 100 rs fine

Person: Saar. just for paintmark?

Cop: No. Where is your helmet?

Person: But helmet not mandatory no?

Cop: Who said? It is, as of today

Person: What? I didnt even know

Cop: Helmet rule changes everytime goverment changes, everytime it rains, everytime the sun rises…

Person: Ok. so how much fine?

Cop: Where do you work?

Person: IT. Software

Cop: So you are well educated no? So how come you not following rules?

Person: Sorry saar.

Cop: See ahead. The sub inspector is there. If he sees you means, Rs 1000 fine.

Person: Oh. Saar. Help me sir

Cop: Sub-inspector very strict. Full Rs 1000 he will extract

Person: Ok. Ok. I got the hint. How much?

Cop: 200 Rs. Careful. Don’t reveal the cash.

If we didn’t play this game, this would have been,

Cop: Saar. I have not met my monthly target saar. If I don’t collect something from you, my boss will anyway take his cut out of my salary. I have 3 daughters saar. All to be married saar. Give whatever you can saar

Violator: (biker forks out Rs 50. Car forks out Rs 200.)

So fellow Chennaiites, Non-Chennaiites and Ex-Chennaiites, you aware of any other interesting games people play?

Furlongstones

Why do I blog? Because it calls. Beckons. How long do I spend daily? 30 minutes to an hour. I respond to comments from my mobile phone when I am on the road. Why do I never read through my posts again for spelling/grammatical mistakes? Correcting grammar mistakes and spelling is for school assignments. Not for sharing thoughts.

This blog is now 4 months old. For some strange inexplicable reasons, it continues to have readers. For even stranger reasons, it keeps getting occasionally desipunditted (4 times so far). My immediate blogging social network (blogrollers, commenters) have become good friends.

So I thought it might be a nice idea to do some Jalsa and Jilpa historical analytics.

The ancient past 

It all started when I lost my purse in Bangalore. Purse Matter. The first commenter on my blog was Mr WordPress, who so very politely reminded me,

Hi, this is a comment.
To delete a comment, just log in, and view the posts’ comments, there you will have the option to edit or delete them.

The first post that got any sort of attention was Rucking Fules . I managed to get hold of a scanned image of the ID card from one of the most notorious jails in Chennai. For some reason, they continue to call it an Engineering college.

The first post I really enjoyed writing was An Advertising Case study . I did not want to make open fun of the creative geniuses who design political ad posters in Chennai. I wanted to read their minds.

The first post that attracted a major comment debate was Who is a Hindu (anyway)? Frankly, it was a pompous and opinionated piece that was thoroughly unfunny. But then, I hadn’t entirely embraced the profound philosophy of the absurd fully yet. Not that I have now, but I’m improving.

My first movie review, Ettukkaal Peter

The first time a commenter said “hilarious”. Tulsi Tulcome Tulconquer Tuldie

The first time I thought I had really got creative, but the blogosphere didn’t think so. You’ve retro-got mail 

The first restaurant review. Soul Food

The first really popular post. Madrasi Machi . Seemed to touch a chord with all South Indians who have had to fend off incorrect generalizations thrown at them by certain uninformed North Indians.

The Desipunditted posts

Random Soap serial concepts.

Comic strip dedicated to his holy hawtness himesh.

An ambience based classification system for restaurants.

And the unexpectedly popular Priestly Matters

The really bad puns

In case one didn’t notice, quite a few post titles are highly contrived puns. English language enna paavam pun-niccho teriyala, it seems to have become a bad habit of mine. What, in your opinion is the worst title pun of all time? I’m too lazy to link to each post. So plis excuse. My 30 minute quota is coming to an end for today.

Comfortably Onam?

Inhi Logo ne?

Some Orkut some are bad.

Purse come purse served?

Saree state of affairs?

Clutch Clutch hotha hai?

Deccan, but they usually don’t?

Auto Paato Kondaato?

It was the best of times. It was the vaastu of times?

Sacred Threads

Every year, on this day (called Avani Avittam), Tam Brams gather together to discard their old sacred threads (Poonal) and replace them with fresh white new ones. The bachelors (Brahmacharis) wear a single thread, married men (Grihasthas) wear 2 and elderly men whose fathers have passed away wear 3. (Ive heard different versions of this too. This is just the most popular one I have heard)

Every year, my father gives me a call and asks me to attend this 30 minute ceremony at the local temple along with him.

Some history first. When I was 13, and my younger brother was 8, we had this big Upanayanam ceremony and some priests and my father whispered the Gayathri Mantra into my ears while a big silk dhoti was used as an anti-eavesdropping device. They also put a thread around us. My grandfather explained with gravitas that the primary use of this thread is to scratch inaccessable portions of one’s back. Since I am reasonably fit enough to reach any part of my back without using the thread as an accessory, I very rarely wear it nowadays. So the general custom is that my father hands me an “old” thread on Avani Avittam morning that I then proceed to discard in favour of a “new” one which subsequently gets “lost” due to various “activities” such as swimming.

My apparent lack of interest in this thread business did not come out of an unwillingness to learn about its significance. I have talked with several relatives (some are priests), all of whom espouse completely differing ideologies.

Yajur Fan Mama says,

The thread is your identity as a Brahmin. Just as Sikhs wear turbans, this defines you. The Gayathri mantra is supreme wisdom from an era when there was no evil in the world. The thread protects you from the vagaries of this world. The Upanayanam is the young man’s coming-of-age ritual. It signifies the start of manhood. And wearing it ties you to the community. It is also a symbol of belonging to the group.

Sigappu Marx Mama says,

Bull. The thread is an age-old symbol of caste superiority. In today’s world, it is a feeble attempt to reinforce the Varna (caste) divisions of yore. Ask Yajur Mama why our priests won’t conduct upanayanams for non-brahmins. It is a symbol of elitism that has also taken on ugly capitalist tones. Priests today have no clue of the original symbolism and relevance and simply conduct these ceremonies just to make a profit. In the past, the father would conduct this ceremony in austerity and only close family would attend. It has become an ugly show of wealth and class distinctions and a complete waste of time and resources. With so much poverty around, it is criminal I say.

Naastheeka Iyer Mama says,

This whole business is riddled with inconsistencies and hypocricies. Why don’t women wear sacred threads? Why are they expressly disallowed to learn or chant the Gayathri Mantra? The Yajur Veda is nothing more than a detailed, graphic and gory animal dissection manual. Just read the section on the Ashwamedha yagna. It is total hypocrisy I say. On the one hand, our people go to every length trying to defend vegetarianism and portray meat eaters as being impure, while the Vedas are pretty much recipe books for roasted bulls. And the caste system? The Vedas describe inhuman crueltytowards the Dasas and Dasyus, who are the Dalits of today.

Spiritual Balance Mama says,

Now that is mostly polemic. Nastheeka Iyer is simply taking things out of context. The Ashwamedha yagna is symbolic. It does not call for an actual horse to be sacrificed. That is sadly a result of wrong interpretations of the Vedas over the years. The Horse represents the inner ego that is to be sacrificed. The thread is a coming-of-age ritual, something that is present in most cultures in various forms. If one wishes to see caste connotations in it, go ahead, but for me, it’s a personal decision. Hindu dharma allows every follower to interpret rituals and mantras in ways that add value to them.

Social Pscychologist Mama says,

SB is painting a pretty picture, but social reality is somewhat different. If it’s a personal decision, why do we force our kids to wear the thread when they don’t possess the mental maturity to understand and adapt the symbolism in a contemporary way? In fact, most adults and even priests have no clue on how to derive contemporary meaning out of this tradition. To me, it sounds like every generation just wants to be seen as being the torchbearers of the old order. We encourage our children to not ask questions. We demand that they simply wear the thread, chant the mantras and simply believe that it’s all for some greater good. This is not sustainable.

Practical Mama says,

As far as I am concerned, I don’t understand any of those mantras. But it keeps the old people happy I say. Don’t waste your time on the ceremonies, but just wear the thread when old people are around. But I must say that if you wear the thread, engineering college admissions in TN are very dificult I say. So much quota. So think about, weigh your options and do a SWOT analysis (Strength, Weakness, Opportunities and Threads).

I say,

Several good arguments and several bogus ones. But the only reason I still continue to do this is this. My father watches soaps on TV. I watch documentaries on Youtube. He believs in astrology. I believe in astronomy. He consults horoscopes. I consult Google and Wikipedia. He believes in slow patient decisions. I believe in fast impulsive decisions. He is strongly theist and believes in karma. I am strongly atheist and believe in Navrathan Kurma. He is 63. I am 30.

Avani Avittam is one of those days I can sit next to him for 30 minutes and gloriously mispronounce sanskrit and change threads together. After that, we come back and drink Coconut Payasam. That’s a good reason, isn’t it?

ps: For a more detailed exposition on the back-scratching origins of the thread, read this

Comfortably Onam

As Rogeracchan Vellam once sang,

Yellow yellow yellow,

the chips are really in there

not if you can eat it..

Any more payasam

….

There is no space I am really filled

A distant meal is on the horizon

…

I….have..become..Comfortably Onam

Original photo here

Today is Thiruvonam. The day when calories don’t count. Human number systems are incapable to counting up to such large numbers. That’s why. Legend has it that the King Mahabali pays a visit to every Malayalee’s house on this day. I met him today.

KA: Wassup bro? Howz Paathaala?

MB: Chillin’. Dayumn, the weather’s oppressive here.

KA: You are Da King of the Underworld, and you are tellin’ me Chennai is hot?

MB: Uhun. You heard me bro

KA: So why did you get sent to the underworld anyway. This guy tells me you were a really good king and all. Golden age of Kerala and all. So why did they send a dwarf with Shaq-size feet to trick you out of your kingdom?

MB: It’s cuz I’m black. I’m Asura. Ain’t no white Devas gonna stand for a successful black man in this part of the woods.

Anyway, Mahabali left soon enough. He had to catch the 1.10 Deccan Airways flight to Kochi. It was now worship time. We worship Ganesh on Ganesh Chaturthi, Krishna on Janmashtami, and Food on Onam. Yes. Full, no-holds-barred Pet Puja (Stomach Worship). The Onam Sadhya (Feast) is designed to satisfy all possible tastes, simply because it uses every edible ingredient in the known universe.

For the full list of items served in a traditional Onam Sadhya, see here

There is an interesting story about one of the dishes, the simple sounding Puli Inji (Tamarind Ginger), a brown chutney like paste of Tamarind, Ginger, small onions, Fenugreek seeds and red chilly powder among other things. Legend has it that Vararuchi, a poet in the court of Vikramaditya was once asked by the king to quote the two most critically significant verses in the Ramayana. He had trouble choosing two from so many good verses that he retired to the jungle to meditate on the topic. Since it turns out that his great-great-great-(n times)-grandson was Dr Dolittle, he overheard 2 birds talk about the finer aspects of Valmiki’s epic. He found his answer in their conversation, and also overheard that Vararuchi was fated to marry a Pariah woman. This being 200 AD, these things apparently mattered. So he was worried about this. When he went back to the king and impressed him with his choice of two verses, he also asked the king for a boon. All girl babies born on the day the birds predicted his future wife was going to be born were to be killed by royal edict. The king acquiesced and the order was carried out. Of course, one baby was spared by a merciful soldier who could not find the heart to kill it. This baby, in true Bollywood style, grows up to be an incredibly talented woman who is bought up by a poor priest who finds her floating in river. One day, Vararuchi happens to visit this priest and orders him to serve a meal of 101 dishes. Deeply worried, the poor priest asks his daughter what can be done. His daughter tells him not to worry and proceeds to make the world’s first Inji Puli, a dish that contains the taste of 101 dishes.

Ahem. Since the traditional Onam Sadhya is usually followed by an Onam Siesta, I take leave.

An introduction to Besant Nagar

Besant Nagar has been my home since 1999. Well, it’s not that I’ve actually stayed there all this while, but it is what I use to fill any form that asks me for a “Permanent Address”. At the present, how ever, I am a resident of both Besant and Anna Nagar, something that came out of a pre-nuptial agreement. No. Not the formal American style legal document thingie. This was just a desire to change this whole “Bahu leaves her house behind” tradition. We started out by first eliminating the “Gotra Change/Transfer” step (read about it here) in the wedding. After the wedding, we decided to spend time in both my parents’ as well as her parents’ homes, till we move into one of our own. So, it’s weekdays at Anna Nagar, and weekends at Besant Nagar.

So why a post about this seaside suburb, one might ask. My youngest brother, the one studying to be a journalist has been given this assignment to do a photo essay on Besant Nagar. Since I am his official chauffeur over the weekends, I thought it might be fair to utilize some of his material to come up with a Jalsa Guide to Besant Nagar.

General Hawa

Generally, there is a lot of hawa (wind. breeze) in Besant Nagar thanks to the Bay of Bengal, which has, over the years deposited what is known today as Elliots Beach. This is the beach where thousands of Tam-bram Maamas (wearing shorts and sneakers) and Maamis (wearing sarees and sneakers) take morning walks. The choice of sneakers reveals an important fact. Parents of software-in-the-USA-L1-H1 types wear Nike/Reebok. This is because those are usually available in refurbished/discount sale factory outlets. Parents of MS/PHD/IIT types, on the other hand, wear New Balance. Pricier and snootier, although the same sweatshops in SE Asia make all the three.

Morning Breakfast and Evening Tiffin

There are broadly four categories of eating joints in Besant Nagar.

Full, pure, Tam-Bram approved Vegetarian.

If these restaurants were people, they would be wearing sacred threads. Eden, Vishranti Hot Point, Murugan Idli store.

Tam-Bram partially approved, (garlic) Poondu-using North Indian places

Tam Brams will heartily tuck into Pnjaabi food that is loaded with garlic. But Chettinaadu Kaara Kuzhambu is a no-no. Dhabba Express, Clay Oven. Khaana Khazana. Cozee da Dhaba

Hardcore, Tam-Bram unapproved Non-Vegetarian.

Kaaraikudi. Daawat (Halal only), Prime Roaster (The Subway right next to it is losing some serious Tam Bram business because of the slowly rotating rotisserie chicken that is on display here)

“Squeezing money out of the poor unsuspecting software bachelors” multi-cuisine

The kind of restaurants that serve Sizzlers, Szechwan Hakka Noodles and Paneer Shashlik. Cascade, Giorgio and Pupil Burgers

Geography

Besant Nagar is greener than most suburbs, simply because almost half of it is inside the Theosophical Society, which, as a policy, tends to disallow the general public and local government from mindlessly chopping trees inside their campus.

The main artery of this suburb, the tree-lined Besant Avenue, serves as a testing ground for Bajaj Pulsar, Yamaha and Hero Honda bikes’ acceleration capabilities.

The four boundaries of this suburb are:

Elliamman Koil

In case you are wondering why the popular Ashtalakshmi temple does not feature here, it is because geographically and pincodically, that temple is located in the nearby suburb of Thiruvanmiyur, a shady locality (It is full of trees) that is nowadays entirely populated by IT bachelors working at Tidel Park.

Velankanni Church

The Bay of Bengal

What you see above is the famous Karl Schmidt memorial, built in memory of a Dutch sailor who lost his life while attempting to rescue a drowning swimmer. Another interesting thing about Elliot’s beach. The crabs. Or the lack of them. 15 years back, when the entire population of Chennai was not trying to squeeze themselves into the beach on Saturday evenings, Elliot’s beach used to teem with small crabs. Not the kind that bite. The kind that tickle as they run over your feet and into their small holes in the beach sand. But they are gone now. One has to visit the secluded beaches (at least so far) on the East Coast road to see them nowadays.

The Adyar River estuary

Besant Nagar is a study in contrasts. A melting pot of the Old Madras and the New Chennai. Maamas and Maamis. Teenagers on fast bikes. Boyfriends and girlfriends sipping lime mint cooler (one glass, two straws) in the Fruit Shop. Right across at the Vinayakar temple, a “Horoscope Exchange Meet” conducted by the Besant Nagar Brahmin association.

Mall contents from Madras

I notice that a lot of blogs have a post category called rant that is used as a proverbial bucket to catch all the overflowing and dripping sarcasm in those posts from metaphorically wetting the author’s pc/mac/linux/others keyboard. Further investigation reveals that music, movies, restaurants and politics seem like the most likely targets of these rants.

But I find it difficult to rant because sustaining a continuous tone of derision gives me headaches. And I don’t like headaches because liking them would be a rather odd thing to do.

Writing a story, on the other hand, is easier, and requires a lot less adherence to the tyranny of “the point”. Stories do not have to have ( can I add one more “to have” and get away with it? In a story, yes.) “a point”. To cut a long story short, no wait a minute, I haven’t even started yet.

Long long ago, once upon a time in a land far far away, there lived some people who have nothing to do with our story. So we shall ignore them and focus instead on 3 people in Besant Nagar. These 3 (who shall hereinafter be referred to as KA, VS and KR), having consumed unhealthy doses of pirated DVDs, desired strongly to take the health trip of watching a movie on the big screen.

Some geography and global crude oil price considerations later, the three set out to the centre of the city. They found nothing there. It turned out that the literal geographical centre of the city and the “Chennai Citi centre” were completely different things. Thus peeved at this appalling lack of logic, the three braved unholy traffic through single lane roads accommodating 4 lanes of traffic to reach the striking white/cream building one sees in the picture above.

The first thing that struck them was the architecture. Neo-classical post-modern Mylaporean Greek. The second thing that struck them was the devious labyrinthine mechanism called “Mall parking”. Several uniformed men with radio receivers worked in perfect co-ordination to deprive cars of parking space in the basement. Not ones to be deterred, the 3 soon discovered an hitherto undiscovered secret – Free Valet parking.

The mall was vibrant. Joyous. Shimmering. And fourletterwording crowded. The thoughtful mall owners had also invited the ghost of MC Escher to design their escalators.

note: No. I did not draw that. Some smart guy at MIT did. Here

The escalators at the CCC were designed to challenge any mind that failed a class in advanced non-euclidean geometry at MIT. Needless to say, KA, VS and KR had trouble even figuring out which went up and which went down. But soon enough, they reached INOX and hastily enquired if they could watch a movie. They man behind the counter said – No. You have to pay first. Oh Ok. KA forked over the money and then the man said – No. We are mostly sold out. But you can watch a South Korean movie (The Host) dubbed in English if you are interested. KR, being a complete cinema fanatic, refused the offer. It is his considered opinion that Hollywood constantly conducts the cinematic dubbing equivalent of Dr Mengele’s experiments on live humans, on non-English movies. He prefers the originals with subtitles.

So the group headed to the third floor, to the Food Court. A massively complex game of musical chairs was in progress. They managed to steal 3 chairs and a table and proceed to order food (in turns, so that one person can hold the fort). It turns out that somebody forgot to mention to the mall owners that water is a free resource that every human has the right to. So the group had to give up water, fork over 15 rupees and drink a strange liquid called Aquafina instead.

They drove back to Besant Nagar and watched Chini Kum on DVD.

Moral of the Story: The group vowed to never again visit any mall that

1. Provides no free drinking water

2. Has a parking space to crowd ratio of 1:1000

3. is named “Chennai Citi Centre”

Saroja Saamaan Nikaalo – The thesis

This post is very Chennai centric. Apologies to those readers who might feel a little left out.

Jillumadrasi asks me,

will someone please explain this “saroja samaan nikalo” funda to me. I am completely out of it, I know ..

(For the completely and hopelessly uninitiated, that is an expression uttered before a popular song from the cult movie about street cricket, Chennai 600028)

I turned to good old Google, and it turns out she doesn’t have much of a clue either. Not one to give up wasting time so easily, I even tried the new Google Tamil on-screen keyboard widget:

No luck with that either.

But, after some devious and cunning use of Google (I bribed it with 2 Marina beach Chilli bajjis), Balaji did lead me to this excellent trivia blog on Kollywood which informed me,

According to SP Charan, this line is inspired from a piece of dialogue from Mudhalvan, when the one-day CM, Arjun, asks a Saettu (colloquial reference to a north Indian businessman) to vacate the flat which was originally allocated for a slum-dweller. The Seth tells his wife, “Sushma, saara saamaan nikaalo…“

As a concerned citizen of the blogosphere wondering why some responsible blogger has not expounded far more on the origins and symbolism of this sophisticated piece of Chennai verbiage, I took it upon myself to put this matter to motion (In the blogosphere, no matter is put at rest, everything is renegotiable)

The origins of “Saroja Saamaan Nikaalo” – The unanswered questions

We know Sushma is the wife of the Saettu (Tanglish reference to opulent North Indian (usually Marwari) living in TN) but why did she metamorphose to Saroja?

The Saettu in Mudhalvan clearly instructs Sushma to nikaalo (remove) saara (all) saamaan (stuff). But PremG Amaren very clearly skips the “saara”. A rudimentary knowledge of advanced calculus tells me that the difference between “saara” and no “saara” is “some mysteriously missing stuff”. What is that? Where is it hidden? What hidden message is being conveyed by the deliberate deletion of that word?

The context of “Saroja Saamaan Nikaalo” – The unexplored obtuse angles

To begin to answer the questions above, one needs to understand the broader socio-political context in which the two movies were set. Mudhalvan was a 1999 Shankar potboiler set in an era when it was fashionable for a Tamil hero to show the big bully North Indian who the boss was. “Saara Saamaan Nikaalo” was a rallying call. It was an outcry of suppressed Tamil chauvinism. It was, in true Tanglish style, a polite reminder to those pesky Northies to take their saamaan and move out.

Ofcourse, in 2007, things have changed. The pointless anti-Hindi aggression of the 90s has been replaced with the Jalsa-laced sarcasm of the new Chennai millennium. Nobody wants to be heard mouthing jingoistic phrases such as “Saara Saamaan Nikaalo” any more. The cult heroes of Chennai 600028 aren’t the crass types who shout their voices hoarse at Anti-Hindi protest marches. They simply want the “Saamaan” (items) to come out (Nikaalo) and do jalsa. And the item girls do come. And note, our heroes don’t want “all” (Saara) of them. Just the ones who are game enough to dance to a gaana-song.
As they say, North South bhai bhai. South baays North gaals oh-boy oh-boy.

Which leaves us with why Sushma turned into Saroja? Simple. Proper speakers of Tanglish will unfortunately pronounce Sushma as “Susuma”, which, as we all can agree, sounds ridiculous. Thus the change to an earthy item-girlesque name – Saroja.

Motor Dal, Loptop registers and Kooeen Bheektoria

I had Motor Dal for lunch today. No, it did not involve ingredients normally used to make automobile engines run better. No, it did not contain neurons of a certain kind mixed with yellow pulses. It was rather vegetarian. Green peas, I was told. The only metropolis where Motor (Peas) Dal is available – Kolkata.

Earlier in the day, I was asked by a security guard to declare a certain portable computing device in a register titled “Loptop Register” before I entered my office. The only metropolis where portable computing devices are called Loptops – Kolkata.

Amvigubous pronunication apart, this city has a charm.

Is it the ubiquitous mega large yellow ambassador taxis? Perhaps.

The Raj era ambience of Victoria Memorial, it’s manicured gardens, tree lined avenues and “Mallick and Company” fancy wagons pulled by animals that zoologists would have trouble identifying as horses? Perhaps.

Being a leftist state in a rightist country, preferring football over cricket, Saurav over rest of the team and Wills Navy cut over Gold flake. Perhaps.

But at this point, I must draw a line perpendicular to the radius of circle I am drawing. A few years back, I was sitting in a boat with 3 Americans and a boatman moving serenely in a picturesque backwater south of Kochi. It was one of those Kerala Tourism Development Corporation tours where they take you through the backwaters and show you how coir rope is made. The Yanks seemed very intrigued by the coconut trees. The boatman, who in true Kerala tradition, was a Class XII pass, gave them an extended introduction to the various varieties of the tree that gives his state it’s very name. It was then that we came upon a coconut tree with no branches, just the stem ending abruptly. Our boatman, marxist/socialist/leninist/red/scarlet to the core of his soul, just let sarcasm drip like the coconut oil in his head and said – “See that tree. It is like Iraq. No head. No leader. Dead. No soul”. The Americans had no clue how to handle sarcasm from a bony, shirtless boatman from God’s own country.

Now, why that tangent, one might ask. What is the connection between America, Iraq, Kerala and Bengal? It turns out, there are very many. They are practically first cousins twice removed.

Kerala and Bengal are leftist. They both play football. Keralites and Bengalis smoke. Keralites dring Visky. Bongs drink Ouisky. Leftists don’t like America. Keralites don’t like Coke. Coke is American. Americans launch shuttles. Shuttle Coke is what Keralites use in conjunction with a badminton racquet. Iraqi (and other) Arabs migrated to Kerala in the past and came to be called the Moplah muslims. America invaded Iraq and killed the local people. Collateral Damage. Moplahs invaded Kerala and married the local women. Dowry damage. Bengalis smoke. Iraq is smoking.

ps: One earth shattering difference does exist. Bongs prefer fresh water fish. Mallus eat everything that swims.

yet another ps: Per Priya’s instructions, for the readers of this blog:

Please enjoy. Take one each and don’t fight. I believe in peace. Bengalis like peace too. But they prefer it fried with spices.

Coal Cutter, Ouaste Ben Gall – The prelude

Deeyear blogreedurs,

Bhee bhill bee in Amaar Shonaar Bangla for the next 2 days.

We hope to find out:

1. What brand of bottled water bottle is particularly preferred by the cricket loving fans of Eden Gardens? Is it mass or projectile aerodynamics that they consider to the more important factor?

2. What will happen if we get a Hilsa from the Padma river, and a Hilsa from the Meghna river and put them in a single tank and name them “Mohun Bagan” and “East Bengal”. And blow a whistle.

3. What is the considered the optimum number of times to shake the old Statesman newspaper containing Jhalmuri, for achieving that perfect “Shaken but not Stirred” taste?

4. What will happen if we walk into a Socialist/Leftist/Marxist adda and scream “You red losers. Ha ha ha. Capitalism rulez Ha ha ha”. I plan to use my work colleague as a scape goat to try this out.

5. What everybody there is thinking, so that I will know, a full one day in advance, what the rest of the country will be thinking.

See you from Kolkata.