On Celebrity Break-Ups

Celebrity marriages are celebrity marriages. But this is special: Eddie Murphy & Tracey Edmonds who tied the knot on a island just two weeks back are busy untying it. Two weeks is by any standards a honeymoon phase. You can't even have gotten over your sexual appetite before you say 'enough' (Well, its Murphy's fifth, so I guess he's seen enough). What I find amusing about these break-ups are the sugar sprinkled words they use: 'irreconcilable differences', 'decided to remain friends', 'with admiration for one another'. To suppress bitterness & to ooze magnanimity, you need PR guys.

On Jallikattu

Jallikattu, a festival that coincides with Tamil new year (today), which involves taming a bull that runs wild through the narrow streets of villages filled with men who've satiated themselves with cheap liquor has been temporarily suspended by the supreme court citing safety (and other pragmatic reasons) and the state government with all its intentions of being the vanguard of a supreme culture (and in the banner of continuing the tradition) has filed a petition to review the situation.

There was a time, when the young woman of the house didn't have much say as to her choice of partner, and the father would deem a young man capable of taming a wild bull fit for his daughter. This is not a far fetched idea as there weren't many other means of evaluating the life-earning skills of a man. It wasn't just brute force (to discipline the animal), but the process also involved timing (when to get hold of the bull, when to let go of it), positioning (attack from a vantage point), sense of safety (how well/less bruised he is once done), reflex (avoid those sharp horns & U-turns) and maturity (an crude analysis of the bull's thought process and how best it can be contained in the running field). So, if someone is successful at getting the animal to its knees, by a very rough estimate, he is considered capable of wading his family through tough times - a mark of physical & mental strength.

But what does all of this have to do today? In an age of tractors, fertilizers and electric pumps and in a time when grooms are chosen based on their bank balances, why bother running after an intoxicated bull whose tail has been adorned with fire crackers? Oh yes! Its called 'our mighty culture & tradition'. I saw this guy on TV who has shaved his head as a mark of protest for not allowing him to display his valour. He said that if the supreme court doesn't give a favorable response, he'll shave his head again. Now, in all probability, he'll remain a healthy bachelor!

Dreaming of a Painless Future

V.S.Ramachandran in his lucid and accessible book 'Phantoms in the Brain' writes:

As with most nature/nurture debates, asking which is the more important variable is meaningless - despite extravagant claims to the contrary in the IQ literature. (Indeed, the question is no more meaningful than asking whether the wetness of water results mainly from the hydrogen molecules or from the oxygen molecules that constitute H2O!). But the good news is that by doing the right kinds of experiments, you can begin to tease them apart, investigate how they interact and eventually help develop new treatments for phantom pain. It seems extraordinary even to contemplate the possibility that you could use a visual illusion to eliminate pain, but bear in mind that pain itself is an illusion - constructed entirely in your brain like any other sensory experience. Using one illusion to erase another doesn't seem very surprising after all.

Phantom limbs, for those who don't know what it is, are imaginary limbs that continue to exist in the mind in spite of a specific limb being amputated. Strangely, some of those who have phantom limbs feel extra-ordinary physical pain in those limbs. Sounds crazy from a common sense perspective to realize that someone who doesn't have an arm is boggled down by unimaginable pain in that arm. As neuroscience has put the spotlight on, the pain is very real and V.S.Ramachandran, a leading neuroscientist has developed a gimmick of a solution which involves a mirror through which the patient can see his/her phantom limb to get rid of it and eventually the pain born out of it.

I didn't know until I read this book that physical pain is an illusion constructed in the brain. I've read before that there are no pain receptors in the brain (which is why those who contemplate suicide try to shoot themselves in their brains). But this fact makes sense from an evolutionary vantage point - pain is the brain's way of instructing the animal: guard your body & keep it safe so that you remain fit enough to pass on your genes. Just for a crazy split-second, I thought: if the wiring in your brain is screwed up where you don't feel pain anymore, wouldn't that be cool?

The author mentions that in some cultures women don't experience any pain during labour. With these women as inspiration, you rewire your circuit such that the pain receptors are out of the brain's normal functioning (I don't think the medical technology is yet there, but let me just hypothesize). You're a cop operating on a risky route; you bust gang and in the process you get shot on your shoulders. You don't feel any pain but you can see blood gushing out of you. With a cool head, you wrap a piece of cloth or get whatever first-aid possible. Call an ambulance, explain your situation and give them your location. Of course, there's a lot of exaggeration involved in that scenario, but I hope the point is clear.

And then I got back from my reverie. My knowledge of physiology, brain's response to a biological crisis & human immunity is just damn flimsy. But wishful thinking never hurt anyone.

You, I & Bad Journalism

From a fine piece by a Samanth Subramanian for The New Republic

The truth, of course, is that in India, and in every other large nation in the world, there can be found many shades of gray between the black of one statement and the white of its exact opposite. The grays aren't hard to find, but spotting them might involve the terrific discomfort of occasionally taking off those designer sunglasses and squinting, for a while, into the sun.

Every day a reporter talks rapidly on a very pressing issue as if it might change the economic/political/social landscape of the country immediately. Once the fake storm dies, there is no follow-up. As the writer points out, there are pieces daily that flood our news papers and magazines that fail to offer a shred of insight. But blaming the media doesn't take us anywhere. They are just treading a time-tested model: like the movies, give them something hot for now. When the news cools down, jump on to the next hot thing. Journalism in India, like in most other places has become a act of throwing bone to the dog. Is the dog really hungry? Is it selective in its intake? Does it avoid junk food?

Fair & Hard

1) One of the letters to the 'The Hindu' states that Bucknor should have been awarded the man of the match as he played better than players from both the teams. Funny & sad. But isn't it already late when it comes to reaping the fruits of technology to ensure fairness in a game? How long does the ICC plan to burden the shoulders of umpires? Occasional errors are acceptable; but match-swinging series of decisions result in frustration & loss of morale for a team.

2) No doubt that the Australian team is better than the second best team by miles. By the end of the fifth day of the second test match, they lost something invaluable which the West Indies team of the late 70s still enjoy - respect. It's understandable when a batsman holds his ground in case of a negligible deflection. Michael Clarke CUT the ball towards slips and he stood there for the umpire's decision. Again, Clarke would have been 100% damn confident when he took that half-volley catch to dismiss Ganguly. To put the spotlight on a player like Michael Clarke, you need some one like Steve Waugh. Instead by defending him, Ponting has sunk low.

3) Walking. I believe that a batsman is not morally compelled to walk towards pavilion if he knows that he's out. Because there are a number of times when an umpire wrongfully adjudges and the batsman anyway has to walk out and I perceive this as a sort of 'moral compensation'. When Symonds decided to stay, his team was in doldrums and it was in good spirit that he hanged on to bail out his team. Obviously, this can't be a gentleman's game anymore and though we were colonized by the English people, the only thing that's English about today's cricket is 'Tea Break' at the end of second session.

4) Racism is a subjective issue. How does calling one a monkey inferior and hurting that abusing him or his family with as many unprintable four-letter words? Symonds being an aboriginal of Australia with his thick lips and wheatish complexion can take the remarks to be accusatory of his race. But was it Harbhajan's intention? Did Harbhajan actually try to insult Symond's race or was he trying to rebut remarks from another Australian player? Was it a planned verbal assualt or a mere spur-of-the-moment retaliation? Of course, in a different world, the word 'monkey' may have emotionally destabilized Symonds and make him perform lesser than his abilities.

5) I very strongly feel that batsmen should be allowed to express their disapproval when they're wrongfully given out. They're human beings and when umpires are allowed to make incorrect decisions, the human being on the other side should be allowed to vent his disappointment. Umpires are not gods and the ICC is still wallowing in a 19th century reverence imparted on these guys. With the increasing applications of technology, we can have one umpire to call no-balls and the rest can be taken care by the third umpire. And the next generation will replace him with a robot.

6) In a world crying for more 20-20, this test match proves how wonderful it is to watch a finely carved test century. If we're to lose this format, the oncoming generations will never know the taste of gourmet only fast-food.

Filler Post, Apologies

I promised (to myself) that I will update this site at least once per week. A little more than a week has passed and I've managed to break my promise by not even managing to have the first post on date. That's very much like me, but the good thing is that I started working on a piece and have left it midway - due to lack of time and content/research involved. But I hope to have it by next Monday. I think it's always better to have a complete piece than a half-baked one.

Just to fill my byte quota: I'm currently reading a couple of books 1) Rise and Fall of the Third Chimpanzee by the American scholar Jared Diamond. Brilliantly written - entertaining, informative and fascinating all at the same time. 2) How to Read Better and Faster by Norman Lewis, results are already showing up and my tortoise paced reading has been kicked in the butt. The next one sitting in line is The Moor's Last Sigh by Salman Rushdie. I read about 50 pages and I'm under the impression that this could be an Indian One Hundred Years of Solitude. Rushdie has already expressed his admiration for titans like Marquez and Grass and his exposition of surrealism is just fabulous.

I've seen two wonderful movies and haven't written reviews yet, because I want to do justice to them by writing full length reviews. They're Spike Jonze's Adaptation and Inarritu's Amorres Perros. Adaptation is just brilliant screenwriting which are further emphasized by some top notch acting by Nicolas Cage, Meryl Streep and Chris Cooper. Inarritu's debut work is impressive but not terrific. He resorts to some traditional/cliched directorial techniques here, but his spark is undeniable.

I dragged my wife with me to the viewings of those two movies. She has seen movies at the rate of 1/year before we were married feels like her life is on a movie-spree and wonders how I can still be sane and have a normal social life. She wasn't quite impressed by Adaptation (may be it's a woman thing to not appreciate cine-creativity *^!#) but she has taken a liking for Inarittu. Having seen Babel, she has expressed her interest in viewing 21 Grams, his middle piece.

I'm also wondering if I should post a lot of Twitter like blogs on ScreenAct.... blogs that just run for a few lines and whenever time, inclination and writing energy meet, I can go for a big one. We'll see how this space evolves. If you're going to keep a tab on this blog, please hold on to your patience. This may take a while, but when I settle into a pattern, I should keep the current.

Perils of Time

Some of my earlier posts are so embarrassing that I wouldn't regret if I trashed my blog now. But to keep the experiment going, to check if the posts I make these days are worth reading, say after 18 months, I leave them untouched.

A Room With a View

"One-third of the real estate on your face is allotted to your nose" she said. He looked at her with a blank expression. He has done that on many occasions, when she had made a very biting remark or took a mild-mannered dig at him. And then he slowly stretched his lips as if he thought she would be pleased at some form of acknowledgement for her statement. She asked "is anybody out there with a camera? wipe that smirk off your face.... I want something interesting to eat." It was as though she was keeping the length of her teeth in check by constant chewing and biting; she ate something for every three breath in-takes. (Okay, that was an exaggeration. She just likes to try new cuisines often and resents a routine course at the food table).

She has an avid interest in reading and finished books at the pace of currency counter. He reads at the pace of a tortoise, wouldn't go into deep analysis of anything he reads and would fall asleep if he read three consecutive pages without any images. Her social graces were refined - knows what to wear, how to say and when to leave. His social blunders were, at best, pardonable. He dresses as if he has a deep distaste for harmonizing colours. Though he is mature enough to know that honesty is not the best policy, he sometimes utters discomforting truths in the middle of a party. Her fine sense of humour complements his twisted sense of ... well, let's call it something close to humour.

But when they were alone in their small little home their differences dissolved. They discuss a movie. Go shopping. (Look at the price tags and return empty-handed). Experiment in the kitchen and dissect in the dining table. Fought fights that only brought them closer. And thus they lived happily ever after.

Wimbledon Thoughts

It's difficult to figure out, for tennis naivetes like me, which aspect of Federer's game elevates him over his opponents. Gasquet, who was pure brilliance in sending Roddick off the tournament in the quarter-finals seemed to be pretty pedestrian in his performace against the No.1 in the semi-finals. This is where Nadal helps me; for without a player of his caliber, I wonder if Federer would ever put his full potential on display. Yesterday, the centre court at Wimbledon hosted a visual feast, which was served relentlessly by the top two players in the world where even after gorging in for more than three hours, everybody asked for a little more.

Though Roger & Rafael are now becoming a predictable pair at the big finals, the joy of watching them in action hasn't abated. The growth of Nadal on grass is particularly impressive - he's proving to be the only person who can make Federer sweat for his title (speaking figuratively, of course - he rarely perspires). Federer usually keeps delivering the ball to the opponent's backhand before he goes for the winner, so that in the rare event of a match entering the fifth set, the other guy's shoulders start drooping. Nadal, whose shoulder power is well known (I'm not saying he flaunts his flesh) didn't easily succumb, though I have a faint feeling that when he started grunting to answer Federer's returns, his precision was beginning to erode.

After three magnificent sets of top-class competitive tennis, Federer found himself in a situation one would rarely believe - down by four games to zero on a grass court. His frustration increased when most of Nadal's challenges to official calls resulted in Nadal's favour. He took longer strides to take the hard ones; and after smashing or slicing the tough one, he would send the ball directly into the nets or out of the court. Though he lost the set 6-2, I wouldn't call it tame. Federer must have decided to save his energy for a fresh set rather than continue to battle without any competitive edge. Nadal wasn't bad in the final set; it's just that Federer came back roaring. There was the precision of a Rolex gear (oh, the Swiss!) in dispatching the ball to the unreachable corners of the court.

Some might call Federer's resort to his service strength as un-gentlemanly. I don't listen to them. Whenever he was lagging, he punched the ball which would just swish past Nadal like a Ferrari. At the end of the match, he had 20+ aces to Nadal's one - which is another testimony to Federer's skill to position himself to reach for a service. Both players played some spectacular passing shots, cross-courts, slices and drop-shots (Federer's trademark topspinner was missing). Most of the time the younger player was a bit more aggressive in trying to reach every ball he thought was reachable, the senior, when he saw that a ball was out of his reach, judiciously didn't spend a franction of a calorie trying to get near that ball.

Both Nadal & Federer started the match chasing one of Bjorn Borg's records - it was the Lord & Master who equaled Borg's record of five successive victories at the Wimbledon. Federer said that Nadal deserved to win the match as much as himself and joked that he was able to conquer the Spanish bull when he's still young and before Federer's too old. The French title still eludes the man; observing Nadal's maturity as a player, it's going to be more difficult, not only for Federer, but for any player to beat Nadal on clay. There are some places where Nadal can't be tamed; for everywhere else, there's Federer.

*

The women's singles championship match turned out to be a damp squib. Marion Bartoli's gritty victory over Justine Henin's gracious tennis in the semi-finals promised an interesting clash with Venus Williams. The young French girl was probably too nervous to let the big event sink into her; there was a big competency gap in the way Venus and Marion played. So many unforced errors and their inability to convert ample chances into winners makes one brood for some consistent players at the top level in the womens professional tennis. There are so many from Serbia, Russia and other eastern European countries but their glory seems to be short-lived. With the exception of Henin, most of the women play a very erratic game (that includes the No.2 Sharapova).

Thank You

Today, I'm feeling grateful. What a journey it has been!! From a cynic, to a cautious pessimist to a guarded optimist and the road hasn't been exactly rosy. I'm grateful for the thorns. Grateful, for what I am, what I have, what I haven't, what I've been, what I've been through, what I've lost, what I've gained, my friends, parents, acquaintances and colleagues. What? No, I'm not from Betelguese. I'm not an out-of-work actor. I am not Ford Prefect. Still, the humanity seems to be mostly harmless to me.

I'm grateful just because whenever I feel grateful, with nothing in particular to attribute that gratefulness to, I feel peaceful and I'm grateful for that peace, which in turn... well, you get the benign circle.

-- Originally written on November 2, 2004 for LJ.

Beauty

"He continues to teach because it provides him with a livelihood; also because it teaches him humility, brings it home to him who he is in the world. The irony does not escape him: that the one who comes to teach learns the keenest of lessons, while those who come to learn learn nothing." -Disgrace, J.M.Coetzee 1999.

Stop

Stop. Don't speak. Stay calm. Approach emotionally. Don't be anxious. Remain stable. Endure. Be patient. Pause. Pause. Pause. Listen. Listen. Love.

-- Originally written on October 30, 2005 for LJ.

Nostalgia

Drops of tears ran down my cheek. The chill wind rubbed and tried to freeze those drops. I opened my eyes, and connected the stars and patterned a child's face. No. Let them be free. I let the face sink into thousands of other unborn faces. I closed my eyes again. I remember. Thank you.

-- Originally written for LJ on 11-12-2004

Forgiveness

A snowy evening. The shade of darkness was changing slowly. It was a small cottage in the woods, lit by lanterns with all the wilderness observing it. There was a water falls nearby and one had to walk at least ten minutes from the cottage to get to the bottom of the falls and the water ran deep into the forest. An owl glanced at the moon which was partially visible beyond the dark clouds. Silence engulfed the sound of falling water and croaking frogs.

He watched a fox pass through the creek. She was preparing a salad with the nameless leaves they had gathered that afternoon. They had spoken very less since they got to the cottage. Words seemed ineffective and futile when there is complete acceptance. Opening the mouth and producing a sound is an extravaganza. She came over and sat next to him. He wiped her tears and kissed her gently, very gently.

-- Originally written for LJ on 25-12-2004

The Blog

Let us just say, in the course of an amicable discussion, you know, like friends talking it out openly, nobody trying to offend anybody, though it takes a lot to offend somebody like you because of your thick skin and maturity and coolness... well, we're talking about our blogs and suddenly it all seems like an empty exhibition of our mundane ponderings, which I know you're going to thoroughly refute as the whole point of the existence of a blog, but still, since I know that your mental clarity is still (still, as in pond water, not the "I'm still not reading your blog") enough to see that the entries don't go anywhere and deep down you've been avoiding the question your conscience has been trying to sneak into the foreground of your thoughts - which is, "are you really going to write something worthwhile?" and you already know that nobody's interested in reviews, trivia, cross-questions, interrogations, introspections, examinations, life, love, neighbour, linux, weekends - and still (not the pond water stillness, but "I'm still reading your blog" kind) you insist on coming up with meaningless ramblings about the pointlessness of blogs in a thoroughly boring single sentence which actually seems quite meaningful in an existential sense, which is really the point, though there isn't actually any.

Dead Silence

Kameshwaram is a village south of Velankanni, the house of famous Shrine Basilica. The residents were two-fold: farmers and fishermen. The fishing hamlet comprised of 200 families before the tsunami and now, it has close to 100 or a number near that. It has atleast a hundred coconut trees and each one survived. A bulldozer was clearing the top of a hut when I arrived with other volunteers. The face masks, I don't know to what extent they were helpful in preventing air-borne germs from entering my nostrils, but they certainly didn't help with the foul smell of rotting flesh. A young girl's body was dug out, 7 days after her death. She was carried in a bedspread and buried a little far from the hamlet. Someone said "It's Moorthy's daughter".

We had some material resources, but more importantly were asked to provide emotional support(?), offer them hope and promise a better future. In a manner of speaking, I'm quite efficient in using my words with strangers. I started with a middle-aged man. He's short and a little stout and maybe around 50. His arms were like wooden logs. I enquired about food and other basic amenities. "It's been 7 days since I had food. There are many people like you who come here and offer help. We're grateful. But, I can't eat" he said. He said his stomach is petrified and the sight of food doesn't provoke anything. He was at sea on the fateful day with his sons. He could feel the unusual strength of waves, but didn't even imagine the scale of disaster.

Every fishing family had atleast 5 different fishing nets (for various seasons and fishes) and the entire cost of the nets ran upto Rs.50,000. All the nets were tangled unimaginably and were rendered useless. The hamlet in the shape of a rectangle of 1 X 0.5 km, packed with huts and a few brick houses, is devastated. Only a couple of brick houses withstood the waves with little damage. Boats were toppled, and many were in two pieces. The entire hamlet was strewn with fishing nets. We had to walk with care so as to avoid getting struck in the nets and falling down.

As I walked around, this woman who was staring at the group clamoring for buckets and mugs started talking to me without looking at me: "I lost my husband and two kids." She then turned toward a ruined hut, which I assume to be her residence. When I started to mumble "We're all here to help you. God will..." she said "I lost six goats." She hadn't listened to me. I don't even know if she acknowledged my presence. Another woman was weeping: "I want to see my daughter's face. That's all I want". I decided it was better not to waste my words of hope and future. Because no one's listening.

Women are emotionally fragile. They're inconsolable. But the men are emotionally strong. I was amazed at their courage. Jayapal has lost six members from his family. He is Moorthy's brother and it was his brother's daughter who was found that morning. The corpse was washed atleast fifty metres from their home and gotten struck in another hut. Jayapal who was on the shore that morning started running as soon as he saw the tsunami. Water receded in five minutes, he said. When he ran back, his house (brick) was flattened. He found his mother dead near his house. His brother and sister-in-law were washed far away. His father was hurt and he took him to the nearest hospital and battling death for 6 days, his father relented. While he had taken his father to the hospital, the farmers, who were deep in the village had come and looted Rs.50,000 and gold laces from their iron shelf, which had remained intact.

Jayapal, who is shattered at the loss of his family is least worried about the material loss. He showed the cardboard case of a new LG engine which he had bought for his boat at Rs.40,000. He said the engine could be lying beneath the debris. I asked him: "Would you go back to the sea". He thought for a while and said: "We've had bad days at sea. But nothing like this. I now fear the sea. But I don't have many alternatives. I could open a shop here, or go to the city and find a job..... I've been a fisherman all my life. I guess I'll go to the sea again."

I moved. Volunteers were talking to this guy, and I didn't get his name. "I started climbing the tree (coconut) as fast as I can. I could hear my neighbors crying for help. But, I was helpless." Tsunami which was high enough to drench the 40 metre trees left him without his shirt and lungi. "I could see bodies all over the place from the tree top." There are many survival stories and many death stories. They all sounded the same and somehow, each one is different, as if every single death and every single survival had it's personal tsunami.

The government officials!! How could I not write about them. These are people following orders. An order issued by the local chief officer, who was instructed by the district collector, who received an order from the state chief minister. On the night of new year's eve, we were transporting clothing materials from Nagapattinam to Velankanni, when this police officer (who is celebrating the new year) who should have drunk to his neck started harassing the truck driver with bullshit questions. The driver, who should've seen many such police officers in his career, deftly handled him. Even in Kameshwaram, a couple of police constables who were supposed to route the relief supply vehicles to the fishing hamlet segment of the village, simply rerouted the government supplies to the local farmers. Later, we were told that the police have a connection with the farmers who bribe them for a variety of reasons (illegal arrack, etc) and the police were only expressing their gratitude.

What we volunteers did, you ask!! Thanks for asking. The answer is bare minimal. We distributed water packets, cleaned houses that seemed usable, went door to door educating people about epidemics and requesting them to get inoculated, transport clothes and rice sacks and a few more trivial acts. For most of the time, we were listening to them speak. And that was the most difficult thing.

Still with me? Great! I appreciate your patience. Have a wonderful 2005!!

--Originally written for LJ on 04-01-2005

Quake Hits Me

My city, Chennai (Madras) in South India is one of the worst hit parts by the tsunamis triggered by the quake. Marina beach, which I frequent a lot is throwing up dead bodies since yesterday morning. Water has come into the city. The beautiful beach road is partially submerged. Hundreds of fishermen are missing, the media says, and we know what became of them. The official toll, so far is 2500 in TN, my state. Since the chief minister has announced Rs.1,00,000 for every family that has lost a member, the official toll would in no way near the real figure.

My uncle residing near the beach said that he woke upto a rude but brief jolt and found everything okay after a while. Then, the tsunamis, the giant killer waves, slowly showed their presence. Nagapattinam, home of around 5000 fishermen is very badly hit. Many were at sea and their families lived close to the shore. The hospitals are ill-equipped to handle such big-scale emergencies. The top bureaucrats would see this as an opportunity to swindle from the emergency relief fund. Thanks to the public that are providing fantastic humanitarian assistance. They need to be educated about the potential outbreak of epidemics (open drainage mixing with water and flowing around the streets) and the means to prevent them.

Whenever I saw a bunch of corpses that belonged to Palestine or Sudan, I would go 'Oh my god! It's terrible' and continue my routine. Today morning, brushing my teeth, I didn't find the usual boring face in the mirror. I was unusually very aware and conscious of my morning routine activities that 'routine' seems an inappropriate word to describe my yoga and shitting and bathing and eating. Yes, I'm alive.

--Originally written on 27-12-2004 for LJ.

Walk

The sand is white, dirty white, as far as I can see, where it merges with the clouds in the offing giving the impression that I am walking on a flat world, a world of absolute homogeneity where the dirt dissolves into cleanliness and the vastness of the landscape imposing, while I walk, and walk and keep walking.

-- Originally written of September 21, 2005 for LJ.

Hanumantha Days

My grandfather passed away on the night of the 11th of August. He was survived by two sons, two daughters and eight grandchildren. He was 75.

He was born into a financially healthy, traditional, south Indian, brahmin family in a village near Arani. His childhood was marked by extraordinary insistence on Hindu rituals and shastras that he lacked any understanding of the society and the way it worked. In his teens, when his father left the family for good with a seer, he was abysmal in managing the abundant arable land and scores of cows. In a few years most of his wealth was gone, thanks to the shrewd villagers, and he started wondering what he was destined to do with his life. It is that thought which led him towards astrology, palmistry, numerology, and other occult sciences. Later he strengthened his knowledge on the Vedas, Upanishads and other sacred Hindu texts. He earned his living by actively practicing horoscope analysis and purohitam. True to his name, he was a very active persona - he had visitors even a week before his death and he had commitments for the coming weeks.

He made the whole village his home. When his wife passed away in 1980 and the rest of the family decided to move to Madras for reasons of progress, he insisted on staying in his home (but for the last two years of his life). He led an ascetic life since then, living alone in the village, in his village, where his popularity as an astrologer grew to greater heights that people even from top political circles came to get his opinion. Needless to say, he was the first one to be consulted in any good or bad event in all the surrounding villages. Later he groomed a few purohits and delegated his responsibilities citing his schedule. When we all requested him to come join us in Madras and explained him the amount of money involved, he simply refused to budge. Talking of money, since he grew up in a village and most of his customers are villagers, he never demanded money for his services. He would humbly accept whatever was given to him.

Because of his hard-core values, in his initial days, he didn't allow the cleaning lady into the kitchen or the helpers into the house. But with time, his values eroded/upgraded and the cleaning lady had a free hand when it came to the pooja room and the kitchen, and his helpers sat next to him and ate the food he cooked. When we informed about his death to the village head, the news quickly spread, and about 25 of them took a bus at 1:00 a.m and after a few transits, made it to our home by 5:00 a.m. When his children showed tremendous courage and checked their tears, these people were beyond themselves and did cry hard.

I was his first and favourite grandchild. In the bigger tree of our family, everyone knew that he had a soft corner for me. I've had numerous discussions, dialogues and arguments with him over our rituals, cultural heritage and the advent of modern values and we never came to a conclusion. In the last two years, when we finally managed to pull him out of his home, I simply refrained from opposing his ideas. Whatever he said I'd agree on his face, even if I were dead against the thought. There were times when he would wait for my return to home to accompany him to the local health clinic for regular check-ups, refusing help from other family members.

He was an excellent cook. His rasam is worth a patent. He would simply walk to the backyard, pluck a few leaves and add it to the boiling ingredients and that would give a supreme flavour to his rasam. He was an excellent story-teller too!! He had the knack of elaborating one line jokes into stories with an excellent narrative. (His horoscope interpretation techniques were so thorough that I would sometimes joke that he told a good story to his visitor). He had a marvelous command over Tamil literature. He went to school only for a few years, but he read most of the literature out of interest and whenever someone gave a wrong interpretation for a line in Thiruvasagam or Silappadhigaram on the TV, he'd laugh and tell us the right meaning. But his most striking aspect was his simplicity. Not just his outlook, but his requirements and his home and his ideas and the way he carried himself around. Simplicity has never added so much to one's charisma.

-- Originally written on the 13 August, 2005 for LJ, in memory of my grandfather.

Engleesh Eatouts

Now, this one's embarassing:

The last few years have seen a lot of coffee shops, food chains and speciality restaurants cropping up that cater to the upper-middle class which finds itself with a lot of money than ever before. These places are typical hangouts - well maintained, clean, have some low-volume music in the background, the bearers are courteous, parking hassles are minimal, etc. But more than anything, your privacy is ensured - unlike Saravana Bhavan where somebody can sit next to you or your girl friend, these new eat-outs respect the need for private conversations with our family and friends.

Good. So far. In an effort to make the educated, ready-to-spend circle respected and feel welcome, they speak English. I guess they assume that it would be an insult to converse in Tamil (or the regional language) with the clientele. Bad. Their English is not only 'not good' but very artificial. It's okay if they speak English to a customer who is not familiar with Tamil, but when I respond to a couple of questions in Tamil and when they insist on carrying on in English, that leaves a bad taste - an artifical flavour of the language that does a bad imitation of American accent. Instead of 'would you like' we get ' you wanna'. Utter 'cool' which sounds totally uncool. Explain a dish/drink in rapid strides that demands you to ask for a slower, clearer explanation.

It's very clear that these people are trying to create a conducive atmosphere for couples on a date or replicate a scene that is seen in English movies. These acquired mannerisms are what they are - 'acquired'. Sometimes I feel that I don't belong there. I feel welcome where the hotel management does what naturally comes to them. Waiters using vernacular with a smile on their face speaking understandable words is million-fold better than 'youwannamochaoralatte'.

-- Originally posted on CP on 20th September, 2006.