The neighbour.

“Do you know Kalaignar’s house?” I asked impatiently on the phone to my largely clueless Uber driver, who clearly was not from the city. He of course did. I use this direction detail sparsely because invariably I will have to clarify, “not Gopalapuram. The CIT colony house”. We shared a compound wall with the other family. But it was unnecessary. He was the quietest neighbour in our colony. A small but tastefully built house with tall trees and a beautiful balcony. You could throw a garland or a grenade with equal ease. On numerous mornings, I have sat next to my window and wondered how behind those unassuming walls, walked the entire political and social history of a state. Of a people.

If you saw more than one car parked outside, you knew he was home. If you saw a steady stream of ordinary people walking into his house, you knew he was home. If all the houses in the street received baskets of sweets and savouries, you knew he was home and it probably was a farmer’s festival. You will run into Kanimozhi on the pavement, when you are out to get vegetables. Your maid will show up with gifts from their house. That is how they are. Regular people.

It is difficult to separate the history of the state, from the man. Because he has always been there. Always. He has made poll alliances with people I read about in school textbooks and also rooted for CSK this season. He has always been there. Which is why today it feels like a family doctor died, taking away with him critical pages on why we are what we are. How did Tamil Nadu become the first state to recognise Transgender rights, decades back? How did atheism become critical for social justice? How do you build an organization and a movement that outlives you? How do you become the country’s first screen writing super star? Why is linguistic plurality important for the fabric of this country? Why is it important to be ‘regular people’ in public life?

(Pic credit: Anna Arivalayam)

Unlike MGR or Jayalalitha, he was no accidental politician. He did not get attracted to it mid way. He was not pushed into it. He wanted this. He planned for it with a primal focus, right from when he was 14. When he laid down on the railway tracks of Kallakudi as a 29 year old, protesting Hindi imposition, he was already mid-career. To put this in perspective, both Jayalalitha and Modi were 9 year old children who in all probability, were playing marbles in their backyards on that hot Wednesday afternoon. Kalignar’s impact on Tamil Nadu is not just political. He has affected the cultural fabric of a region, in a stunningly unique way.

The human body is poor hardware for what the mind can accomplish. But Muthuvel Karunanidhi pushed it as much as he can – for 94 years, through healthy eating and yoga, before these things became cool. I dont think he will complain. If the young man of Kallakudi fame were to meet himself today, he would agree that it was a life well lived. Not just at the work front but at home as well. In innumerable interviews, his children have mentioned how he has always been around, for everything. Regular people.

His career is checkered with extraordinary contradictions. The man who fought for social equality all his life did not have a single woman leader in his party ever – until his daughter, of course. The man who moulded friends like Prof. Anbazhagan into great leaders and stood for civility above all else, also presided over a generation of party workers who were essentially thugs. The man who stood for Tamil rights all his life, presided over the Last War in Sri Lanka, which had ‘war crimes’ written all over it. The man who pioneered social revolutions like Samathuvapurams (equality villages) and Uzhavar Sandhai (farmers’ markets) never really focused on infrastructure issues like water and electricity.

But beyond all this, why is there so much love? why does a politician feel like family? How did he build the Dravidian brand so successfully that even millions of people like me who were born in brahmin households, swear by it? How did he draw an equal audience to his ‘Kaviyarangams’ (poetry slam) as much as he did to his political rallies? The answer probably lies in an innocuous word called ‘Inclusion’. His entire political discourse was based on ‘include them also’ and never ‘take it away from them’. It is not an ideal position to take. Not even the right one at all times. However, it endeared him to generations. We were sure that things will never go really bad with him around. After all, how can this sitting CM uncle, who once embarrassed Jackie Chan by praising him for 40 mts in a language that he didnt even understand, be bad for anyone?

(Pic credit: Murasoli)

A few years back, it was his birthday and he was in the ‘other’ house. Dad joined hundreds of other people who casually walked into his house to wish him. From a distance, dad recalled to him how his uncle Sethurama Iyer taught him in Class VIII in Thiruvaroor and made him the class leader. The Chief Minister remembered his teacher and even though he was too weak for it, got up from his chair and folded his hands in reverence. Dad was thrilled. He now had a Kalaignar story to tell. Everybody has a Kalaignar story to tell…

The Kaapi after Kaala

It was a Thursday morning at 8:30 AM and we found ourselves in Matunga. The right thing to do under those circumstances was to immediately head to Cafe Madras or Cafe Mysore for some Idli, vada and coffee. We chose Mysore because you know, Underdogs. Which was ironic given we were walking down from Aurora Cinema, after catching the FDFS of Kaala at a conveniently timed 5:30 AM show. Clearly, overdog behaviour. But that wasn’t the oddest thing about that morning. Here were three men, who would bleed cinema if you cut them, but ten minutes and a few polite enquiries about Dalit symbolism in the film later, we were talking about weather, traffic and such, over the breakfast. Bordering almost on ‘no dog’ behaviour.

Which could have been partly because I did not have a dog in this fight. I did not grow up a Superstar fan. We were in the ‘other’ camp. The one that lost to Rajini’s films every Deepavali in box office collections, like Zimbabwe touring Australia. It is not about whether you will win, but by how much will you lose. So you can understand the fact that I was doing a FDFS Rajini film after more than a decade.

The festivities before the gates opened at Aurora set the tone beautifully. You gotta give it to the ‘Aussies’. They know a good time! As we entered the gates finally, dawn was breaking and rain was receding. We walked through a door that was dwarfed by a giant cut out of Kaala outside, which was so tall that one could only see his feet. The experience was more religious than cinematic.

The film begins with a riveting opening sequence – bull dozers Vs slum. But the drama isn’t coming from either. The scene is entirely fueled by the fire in Anjali Patil’s eyes. A fire that will see the film through at multiple points later. As the Hero is being called for to save the day, the fans break loose. This is Why they are here. The Entry. But Kaala is introduced as an aged uncle playing cricket with kids and losing his middle stump to a child’s delivery. I couldnt believe it and the fans obviously couldnt either. So decibels die down gradually. As a matter of fact, it will be another half hour or so before it will even resurface.

It is clear that Pa. Ranjith wants us to get used to ‘this’ Rajini. The one who doesn’t mind his son saving his life. One who doesnt mind being beaten up in a police station. The one who has grand children. The one who is lost in love. He wants us to get used to ‘this’ guy. But I wonder if it is too much to ask from the fans who just emptied a pot of milk on a wooden cut out at 5:00 AM. But Ranjith doesn’t stop there. He wants more. He wants us to feel the romance in Santosh Narayanan’s ‘Kannamma’, set on two people (Rajini & Huma) who we were introduced to us just five minutes back. He wants us to just imagine their entire backstory. He doesn’t even stop there.

If ten years back…scratch that. If last week, you had told me that there will be a Rajini film in which the villain kills his wife, sons, son’s girlfriend and best friend, beats him to pulp in a police station, not budge one bit to anything he wants, burns down his house and still be standing at the end of the film, or that Ranjith would make a Rajini film where Tamil seems force fitted, I would have asked you, “kya re! jokingaa?”. But this happens and Ranjith wants you to be OK with it. In fact, after all this, when Rajini walks into the villain’s den and delivers a punch dialogue that ‘you cannot kill me!!’, he wants the theatre to erupt with adrenaline and not laugh. Very pavlovian. Very ‘all are dog’ behaviour.

But then, Rajini looks like a million bucks! And is so much at home in his chair surrounded by grand children, romancing his wife, as he is on a bridge, killing the bad guys with one umbrella and much swag. He is at home in the backdrop of Santosh’s extraordinary hip hop meets metal OST. You do agree with Ranjith that he should do more of this. The most electrifying duo on screen is not Rajini and the villain, but the protagonist and his wife, essayed beautifully by Easwari Rao. Their romance is quite the soul of this film. And you do agree with Ranjith that there should be more of this.

The film is not replete with only Dalit symbolism. It doffs it’s hat equally to the Superstar as well. Rajini’s house for example is a strong character in the film, much like Annamalai or Dharmadurai or Yejaman. At a time when his nativity is being questioned politically, to have a character named Shivaji Rao Gaekwad, makes the film that much more personal to the star. And the drunk humour in the police station is reminiscent of the nineties, when it used to be a regular fixture. There is so much swag and chutzpah in this Kaala that he doesnt have to light a single cigarette. We can get used to this Shivaji Rao, Ranjith.

As we exited Aurora cinema and stepped on to Bhimrao Ambedkar Road, there was only one question in my mind. Kaala is a film that you will watch for a few hours and discuss for many days. The film is about left ideology and Dalit human rights. It is not veiled that Rajini is just a vehicle. Everything else is just a vehicle. For many days to come, you will hear endlessly about these ‘easter eggs’ in the film – the number plate of his Mahindra Thar (BR 1956, which denotes the year B.R. Ambedkar converted to Buddhism), the fact that Nana Patekar’s character, dressed in white, does not drink the water offered to him in Rajini’s house, but the latter does it when the situation reverses, the Buddha viharam and the ‘Jai bheem’ flags in the set, the delectable way in which ‘Swachch Bharat’ has been satirized, the blue shirts inside his black suits, the ‘Raavana Kaaviyam’ book on Kaala’s desk, the fact that the villain refers to Kaala as the ‘Raavan’ and the instrument used to kill his family looks uncannily like a mace. And people will write books on that extraordinary climax. Some of these, you will notice while watching the film. Many, you will miss and would want to watch the film again, to appreciate and earn the goose bumps.

But as I gulped down the King size filter coffee at Cafe Mysore that morning, I couldn’t help thinking, why should such an important social commentary be so subtle? What is the crying need that prevents it from being more accessible? Is the Auteur’s style more important than the message itself? or does Ranjith feel the World is not yet ready for it. I am not even sure if they are ready for this Rajini. May be they arent. And may be, that is not important.

Jallikattu – An entire week when Tamil Nadu had a solution looking for a problem

It was a pleasant January morning, close to the Marina beach. More than 30,000 people – of all ages, gender and from different parts of the state have been gathering there, every morning for 5 days in a row, to witness the fate of the country pan out.

No, I am not talking about Jallikattu.

The year was 1999. On Sunday, Jan 31^st, India was chasing 298 to win the first test against Pakistan and at 50 for 2, things were looking ominous.  As Ravi would say, Wasim bhai was ‘making the ball talk’. Dravid had just survived a close LBW shout to a ball that straightened. The next one held its course. This was followed by arguably one of the most extraordinary deliveries in Test cricket ever, where the ball pitched in line with the leg stump and swung about 3 inches – the geometrically perfect deviation to miss Dravid’s outside edge and still kiss the top of the off stump. The crowd instinctively let out a collective wow, before reality sunk in and plunged them into a sea of silence. They would later give the Pakistan team a standing ovation as they took a victory lap for the only time in a foreign land (no, Dubai is not foreign). It was probably the game that earned them the tag ‘knowledgeable Chennai crowd’ – an acknowledgement that this audience could transcend beyond the naivety of patriotism and embrace the nuance of Sport.

There was nothing nuanced about the Jallikattu protests though, 18 years on. What was a purposeful, focused resistance on a local issue that started in Alanganallur the previous week, was the perfect, lighted matchstick to the dried haystack that was TN. The protest was an epic, public clash of two schools of thought, that were both enormously flawed. Or as Nolan might put it, it was “an unreasonable force colliding with an illogical object”.

The ban on Jallikattu itself was absurd and it needed to be protested. It was fairly evident that the people who wanted to ban the sport spent precious little time understanding it. For example, both the courts and the media often referred to the sport as bull taming – something that the sport doesn’t involve at all. The whole concept of ‘cruelty’ is also extremely subjective in a country where the meat industry is supported by more than two thirds of its population.

But the argument on the street was equally absurd. PeTA was made out to be this monster lobbyist who had bottomless funding and allies in governments across the globe to carry out their desires at will. That’s a bit like saying AK Hangal was the leading man in Sholay. Most people on the beach pronounced the words ‘vaadi vaasal’ for the first time (and most likely the last). And their overall understanding of the economics of the milk industry was poor. The scale of Jallikattu was too small to either create or destroy a milk consumption pattern and the indigenous breeds in question were anyway low yielding ones with no impact on production. It was basically a protest fuelled entirely by WhatsApp forwards. Only, it was no Tahrir square.

(Image credit:NDTV)

This was certainly not the famed ‘knowledgeable Chennai crowd’. But something else was going on of historical significance.

For the first time ever, the people of TN did something out of character. They decided to give a fuck about governance. For people who are not familiar with the state, this is as rare an occurrence as Salman pursuing a quest for cinematic excellence or Mohanlal doing justice to a poetry reading of Gulzar. You see, TN has always looked at politics through the same lens as cinema. You need a hero, a villain and a large serving of drama. And oh, it is always someone else’s production. And the public’s job in both cases is to step into a box counter, pledge their allegiance and sit back for the entertainment.

Don’t get me wrong. TN has always taken care of itself, with or without a government – be it the Tsunami or the Chennai floods. But we have seldom taken on the Empire’s Dark Star. We never made it personal until January 2017.

And the new found rage was Beautiful. For an entire week, a state remained angry. Angry at a political class that had failed them. Angry at a republic that never respected its culture. Or its language. Angry that they had no more heroes left to trust. Angry that every institution around them (even auto rickshaws) had been compromised by the ruling class. Angry that the river that ‘ran’ through their capital city was actually a metaphor for the decay of the state itself. SO angry that they could not articulate any of these. And ‘Don’t ban Jallikattu’ seemed like a sufficient SOS for everything else.

No wonder we burnt ourselves out in a week. We ran out of articulations and the anger wore us down. The sense of occasion overwhelmed us and much like Nayan Mongia in the said test, the protestors holed out to square leg on the last day of the test.

It has been six months since the Jallikattu protests, but things have only gotten from worse to tragic, for this state. Nieces, nephews, friends and nephews of friends of the departed have announced themselves as the heir to the throne. Not because they want to, but because they can. An actor who has been so scared of failure for two decades continues to be delusional and insult the intelligence of an entire state. The national parties hover over the state like hawks waiting for its injured prey to breath its last. A legislative cabinet whose collective IQ can be challenged by a kindergarten class is settling down to ‘cash in’ on the two remaining years of elected office.

(image credit: Hindustan Times)

The worst part? None of this is even veiled. This is the most unprecedented, unequivocal ridicule of a citizenry in recent memory. And until now, the said citizenry is still in the theatre, waiting for a climax. Not realizing that the film is about them.

Tamil Nadu can really use a really good revolution now. One that is not naïve but honest. One that is not indifferent but selfish. Or like the ‘Big Boss’ often says, one where we don’t feel leaders are from Mars, but our own streets and colonies.

A revolution that is all rage. And no bull.

In Kaatru Veliyidai, the auteur’s worst and best work ever!

There is a scene in Kaatru Veliyidai when Dr. Illyas (RJ Balaji’s character) is speaking to Nidhi (Rukmini Vijayakumar) and he asks her how Leela (Aditi Rao) is able to forgive someone as flawed as VC (Karthi) over and over again and manage to have limitless love for him. By the time that scene played out, I had already been squirming in my seat for over half an hour and was truly disconnected from the plot. So the question seemed like something I could stand up and ask the other 249 people in the hall that night. Only, it will not be about Leela but Mani himself. Why is it that we, his audience, continue to look forward and patronise his work, even when it has been many years since we last related to his narrative? I am sure it is not a simple answer.

Kaatru Veliyidai is an overwhelming sensory experience. Ravi Varman (true to his name) brings to us the most visually stunning piece of cinema made in this country in more than a decade, by some distance. But that is not new. Mani has always, almost compulsorily had that extraordinarily beautiful handwriting – cinematography, music or sound design. Except, it comes together in KV, better than ever. There is a scene where the two protagonists are standing next to a jeep on top of a hill, in momentary silence and I would be lying if I told you I did not feel the gush of a cold mountain breeze and shiver a little inside the Chennai theatre. Aditi (aided beautifully by Krithika Nelson’s exquisite dubbing), shines through in a surprisingly impactful performance by a female protagonist. Surprising as they together pull off the ‘looking lost in love’ and ‘sounding lost in love’, with extraordinary authenticity. The scene in which she is humming while making tea for her grandfather and then stepping out at the sound of a fighter jet whizzing past is sublime.

The one who seems completely out of touch though is the writer himself. The mind that penned films that eventually became pop culture for an entire civilisation, seems to struggle to connect anymore. Not with a different generation, but the one that knows him intimately as a creator. He has always erred on the side of brevity when it comes to dialogues and his characters have mostly been comfortable switching between their native slang and poetic Tamil. This streak in them has mostly been for the effect, for a great one liner that heightens a scene, rather than something that is organic and native to the character itself. And we have always enjoyed that. The prospect of an auteur presenting world class cinema to us, rooted so much in our sensibilities has always been exhilarating and we have lapped it up instantly. And proudly.

However, Tamil cinema has moved on. We are bang in the middle of a unique revolution, one where we have willingly traded aesthetics for the rough edges and compromised poetry for authenticity. It is the age of Kumararaja and Vijay Sethupathi. One where the school of Mahendran has already married that of Mani Ratnam and Balachander has already stepped out onto the fields with Bharathiraja. So no, we cannot relate to a Hero who yells ‘kaatru veliyidai kannamma’ from a mountain top or calls his girlfriend “chella kili” or a character referring to her friend’s love by saying ‘avalukku avar mela oru kannu’. It breaks the spell and if you try, you can hear people shifting in their chairs. It is probably blasphemy, but I have often wondered this week if KV would have resonated better as a film with someone else’s lines.

But it is also among the writer’s best.

In between the unreal lines is a real, significant departure. There is an extraordinary scene in the film when Leela and VC fight over a snow storm – a fight between rationale and romance. This one scene is the film in itself. It is also screen writing at its best.

While Mani is not new to a flawed male protagonist, he has very rarely dived this deep. While Velu Nayakkar or Lallan or Mouna Raagam’s Divya are all flawed, we rooted for them. Much like Brando’s legendary ‘Stanley’ from ‘A Street Car Named Desire’ – a film that is an obvious influence in many of Mani’s leading men. But not this man. Mani’s VC is a case study and I would pay to buy a book on him. And so is his Leela. Flawed in her naivety.  While flawed protagonists by themselves are not ground breaking, what is new is that the love itself is mis-shaped. It is the real Kargil in the script – one fraught with landmines and one that shouldn’t exist.  In a land of stories where Love is above all else, this is a beautiful departure. And for a writer / director who has always been comfortable on the surface of any issue, this is significant. One just wishes that we could have cared about these two people more in the couple of hours we spent with them.

Which brings me to the craft.

While it is evident that Mani Ratnam’s audience don’t connect with his stories any more, the reason for this ironically seems to be the director actually trying to better himself as a story teller. Exhibit A: In Baradwaj Rangan’s recent book, Mani talks at length about his thought process during the making of Guru: “…you have to, without being hurried and you also have to move in chunks. You cannot have a lot of moments and rush through each of them. Ten years back, may be…..it is better to choose the right ones and linger on them….If we can get it in one simple emotional moment, then it seems enough instead of dwelling…”. There is enough evidence in his last three films to suggest that he is moving towards more “efficiency” in story telling. In this effort to create tighter narratives, I wonder if somehow the soul has been subconsciously traded.

I left the theatre after watching KV, with a sense of longing. Like being unable to relate to your childhood friend anymore. With each passing film, the director and writer that I grew up with, whose work I used to long for, seems to matter less and less. But like with all relationships, I guess we will continue to look forward. Clearly, nothing else explaing the packed theatres on a weekday night in a Chennai suburb. By the time the next release happens, I am sure the Leela in me would have forgiven my VC – my man from Venus Colony!

Mondays with Vardah

I have always been a coastal kid. Which means, my mind processes the words ‘cyclone’ or ‘hurricane’, just like it does ‘heavy rain’ or ‘hot summer’ or ‘world peace’ – sub consciously. The howling of the wind through the shut windows and doors that others find ominous, is something a coastal mind (or a Mumbai high rise mind, if you please) adapts to over time and I am a seasoned campaigner. The Madras cyclones of the 90s and the ones I experienced later off the Galveston coast, have made me more realistic in my worries. I remember a time at the peak of Hurricane Katrina, when a friend sitting in my third floor Houston apartment was worried our windows were going to fly in. I was terrified too. We did not have enough chips to last the night.

But that Monday was different.

There is something extremely spiritual about storms. Amidst all the disaster and general chaos, there seems to be the biggest evidence of ‘a plan’. An order. And for a non-believer like me, that can be overwhelming. Which is why, like all great spiritual experiences, I choose to enjoy storms with a dash of music. Over the years and after many iterations, I had found my ideal OST – Bocelli’s Romanza. In the calmness of his opening, in the crescendo and in the mystique of the composition itself, Bocelli intends to explore the deepest corners of love in one’s heart. But strangely (or perhaps predictably), I have always found only a cyclone in it.

Every time a fierce depression sets in on the Madras coast, every time people avoid the Marina, I have found myself taking my Santro to the beach road, just to experience this song with the storm. Or may be to experience the storm with this song.

But the Santro remained parked that Monday.

10:36 AM:

It all started with the cane blinds. Dad usually ties the ones in the long balcony to the iron grills behind them during heavy winds, so they don’t fly wildly and break the window glass panes. Dad is not just good at this. He is extra-ordinary. Once he is done, they stay in place and no rain or wind can seep through them. None had, in over a decade. But on Monday, the wind scored early and it was evident even at 11 AM, who was gonna win this game. One by one, the blinds were unchained and their unharmonious, unsynchronized patter against the walls were beginning to sound ominous.

The thing about coconut trees:

Trees lie often. Almost always, actually. Peak summer is often misrepresented as being bearable, thanks to the Mylapore roadside giants. The obscenely green parks in South Delhi (almost) give you the impression that something is terribly wrong with the scales by which pollution is measured. Almost all kinds of oaks lie about wind speed. You could be in the middle of an umbrella breaking gust, but these guys will be unmoved, like Deve Gowda at a trance party. But coconut trees are always honest. I grew up with five of them in my backyard and they always let me know if there was a party up there. Even a mild storm will result in a thud on the soil – a few fruits here, a branch there and some times the whole damn tree. So that morning, I looked to them first from my terrace and they were telling me a wild tale. With a tragic ending.

The radio games:

A lot has changed in Chennai over three decades. But one technology has transcended time. All India Radio continues to be the only source of news during natural disasters. When I was a child, cyclones meant the family sitting around a kerosene lamp, playing a never ending card game, with food magically reappearing on plates and listening to the radio – not for entertainment, but to hear a specific combination of words ‘cyclone – land fall – Vishakapattnam’. Vizag has long been our trusted friend when it comes to taking the ‘fall’ – both literally and figuratively. We have diverted more cyclones there than SBI has funds in failing airlines.

But that day, it was only a land fall. No Vizag.

It is 2:30 now and the voice on the radio is asking people to not venture outside. It is warning against mistaking brief lulls for the passing of the storm. I can hear a baleful thud against our three storey apartment building. Is that the mighty rain tree near our gate? I cant be sure. I am not venturing out to take any more pictures. Not so much out of fear as it is out of a sense of foreboding. Dad and mom seem to sense something as well. The cards are not out and neither are the snacks. Laptops and phones are breathing their last until further infusion of life. This cyclone is different. It sounds and feels different.

Death toll:

Sometimes we sense bad news before it is broken to us. It is like you are going to the hospital to visit an ailing relative and you know even on your way that it will not end well. Thats precisely how I felt when I was walking down the dark stairs an hour later. There had now been more than half an hour of silence and it was deafening. I could smell death as I emerged outside and true enough, the mighty one at the gate was dead, in what seemed a bloody killing.

I made my way on to the street. It was one of those moments that I probably will remember even a few decades from now. I could not see a road. There were things all over it. My brain was telling me that those were trees, but I was in denial. I could smell a forest. Or was it the stench of death? Death of the original inhabitants of the land I was standing on. A tribe that had been around eons before I set foot there. There were human beings emerging from the wooden rubble. It was like a brief respite from relentless bombing. Everyone was trying to make sense of the present.

I could see buildings I had never seen before, even though I have lived in these streets for many years. The entire street had been stripped naked and I could not watch it. I could not process it. The former chief minister’s daughter, who we knew as a polite neighbour was out. She was not talking much. Her eyes seemed in denial as well. Now that the Neem in their front yard had fallen, I noticed for the first time that their house had a balcony. I trekked further. Most roads were un-passable, even for pedestrians.

Destruction makes for great conversation starters. I realized one of the guys next door was a jazz drummer. There were talks about worse destruction elsewhere in the city. There was also a fear looming. Vardah had two eyes (or depressions). Only one had passed. The other will make landfall in a couple of hours. It was a break. The enemy was merely refuelling. I went back upstairs. The night passed. Nobody spoke much. I looked outside in the middle of the night. The moon looked more like a watch tower flashlight. I remember a NASA press release a couple of days back saying tonight the moon was gonna be 30% brighter. I wondered if anybody in Chennai would notice it.

Tuesday morning.

I couldn’t tell if more trees had fallen overnight. We were still naked. The 70 year old who delivers milk packets in our colony was about her business. I asked her why. “the truck had delivered all these packets. Imagine how much milk will be wasted if I don’t deliver!”. I didn’t have a come back. I walked past her.

Probably the only one who stood his ground against a hostile 145 KMPH and batted through the night was the banyan. I made a mental note to refer to him as Sachin, in the years to come.

People are up and about in the city and even electricity came back a day later. It will take a week for the streets to be cleared and even after 3 weeks we wouldn’t have any wifi. But on my way to the airport the next morning, I felt a sense of gloom. 13000 trees had fallen that Monday and every park in the town had been decimated. A large part of why home was beautiful had been erased. It will be another two decades for us to grow them back like they used to be. May be I will live to see it. As I glanced at the picture of my street in my phone, I couldn’t believe this was clicked just a few weeks back. I couldn’t understand why we were getting on with life like nothing happened.

A life long disagreement. A lump. A void

I cant remember the last time I had a lump in my throat when a politician died. I do today. I surprise myself because I have never voted for the person, hated her brand of leadership and rarely agreed with her for the most part of her career. But her career also panned my entire adult life and I realize today that the battles we fought together and against – me as a citizen and she as my representative, have defined a large part of my life. A part that ended today. So it is difficult to differentiate the personal from the political, when it comes to emotions on this day.

The Misfit

I felt for her as a ten year old boy watching the live telecast of MGR’s funeral, when she was man-handled out of the gun carriage carrying his body. Amidst hardened coterie men, she was an odd one out in that picture. I couldn’t help thinking that she somehow just did not fit in. If you had told me that day that the same cadre will fall on her feet willingly and worship her only a decade later, I would have been very happy with the World’s justice mechanism.

I had to take 25 C to my school and every time it crossed church park, there will invariably be someone whispering “that is Jayalalitha’s school”. I was proud of her. There is no country man outside my state who had / has a Chief Minister who topped the state in the Matriculation exams. She just seemed to never fit in! Years later, I would Love to show off her interview with Simi Garewal (1999) to my friends from elsewhere. I even bought a collection of short stories by Somerset Maugham, because she mentioned it as her favourite book in that interview.

I did not root for her in the first election that ensued. It was also the first that I actively followed in my life – a time when the term “Amma” referred to someone else in TN politics. An election that fascinated me as a boy because at barber shops and family functions – my biggest source of political discourse at the time, it was pitched as the battle of the wife Vs the lover. And marriages have always won in this part of the World. As she would point out in an interview many years later, almost all of the female leaders in Asia have been related by blood or marriage to a male leader. Though on this occasion, both lost.

The walking tragedy

What happened in the TN assembly in 1989 shocked me even as a boy. Probably the first of many incidents that would disillusion dravidian politics as a concept for me.

When I read about her in those years, her loneliness drew me to her. The child who lived away from family, the girl who was forced into an acting career she did not like, the man who took her entire youth as hostage, a lover and a political successor who was just left to fend for herself…her melancholy was not just sad. It was mythical, somehow. And magnetic.

The Hatred

I protested against her and got lathi charged during the 1996 elections. That campaign involved morphing of her images onto photos of goddesses and religious icons. It had outraged all of Loyola College at the time for some strange reason and we walked down Sterling road in protest. In that phase of my life, my political views were being shaped more by anger than by inspiration. And those were not her finest years. That made it easier.

My Mom spent her entire career in the state government and when their union strike in the late 90s was met with an unprecedented iron fist, my anger against her found a new high. I was still too young to fathom the concept of decisive governance. But that notwithstanding, she was at that point more a despot more than a democratic leader.

I hated her for the hours I spent at traffic signals on my bike, under a scorching sun, so that her never ending entourage could cross. They usually stopped traffic about 30 mts before it crossed a spot.

It was around this time that the corruption allegations surfaced as well. But the TN polity has always been comfortably numb with the concept of corruption. The hero worship which is the base of politics in this state, almost justifies it to a certain extent. But nothing justified THAT wedding!   The obscenity of wealth on showcase during that week was probably what alienated her forever in the minds of families like mine.

The resurrection. Of sorts.

In 2001 when she won, I was heartbroken. But something had changed. There was a pronounced objectivity in her actions and even a cynic like me started to believe in her intent. It was as though she suddenly realized that time was short. Most importantly, she started fitting in. Or may be we just reconciled to her norm. Either way, my views also matured from the personal to the objective. It was becoming less about the entourage and more about the economy. We profited from the real estate boom around the IT highway, but I could also see a vision of some sort taking shape. What happened from an industrial perspective in that term was unprecedented for the state. It is also the reason why I later found humour in the so called Gujarat story, which was a much lesser product (on most indices) compared to Jaya’s, except it was marketed better.

I admired her when she banned religious conversions in the state in 2002. I cannot think of a more decisive and rational move at the confluence of religion and politics, made by an Indian leader.

I admired her for being the ONLY politician in the south to have a consistent view on Sri Lanka throughout (pro Eelam but anti LTTE). This, while I disagreed with her vehemently on the subject.

I always felt secure with her representing my state’s interests with the central government. Whether it was Kaveri or GST – no one could mess with her. No one did, until the end.

I am not a fan of welfare politics but I could see that behind the megalomania of self branding across the canteen, pharmacy, salt and water, there was an agenda. I don’t buy into that agenda but I respected the plan. I have eaten at Amma canteen and the food was great! It is an administrative gold standard that she was able to maintain the food and the premises at such high levels of quality, even after many years. In a country of ‘great ideas’ and ‘bad executions’, she was miles ahead as an administrator.

In many ways, that is the real void she has left behind. We have so few of such managers left.

Her legacy. My lump.

I hate her brand of leadership. I loathe her for creating a party and a government with no second line. Not even a spine. I find it insulting to the intelligence of the entire state. But that is also the tragedy of Jayalalitha. This is evidently not her chosen career. But one she stuck on because of her bullheadedness – one that she handcrafted for survival. In many ironical ways, hers is the antithesis of a tamil cinema script – A leading lady, a hero who is also her villain and an ending where she has her revenge but somehow still manages to eke out a tragedy.

I hated how she treated my city’s icons. She converted a 450 Cr structure meant for the legislative assembly into a hospital and was threatening to shut down my favourite city library as well. Why? because she could. Because they were created by her rival. I hate her for making my city’s street corners into filthy wine shops.

I hated her party men for what they did during the Chennai floods when hundreds of relief volunteers were forced to stamp her stickers on supplies. I hate her for never speaking about it.

I am scared by the leadership void she has created in my state. I fear for the future of my city. But as I see her last procession to the burial ground, it is a strange love that rises up to my throat. Because I know that person. I know her story. We were in this together. I know her mistakes but I also know her injuries. I know what she had to endure. All I want to do is to hug that 15 year old girl from church park, before she was pushed into the tumultuous world of fame that will eventually consume her and tell her that it will be all be OK. We will all be OK.

The thing about Sundays…

Elections are over. IPL has become predictable. It is too hot for a brunch. And all your worries about the Indian economy have been magically wiped out on May 16^th. Now, what will you do with your Sundays? Aren’t you worried? You should be.

How about throwing in a haircut? What’s that? I struck a chord there? Of course. You can thank me later.

The thing about Sundays is that it can be the best and the worst day of the week for a hair cut. Best because you appreciate the rhythm of the scissors more on a Sunday. Your mind is open to it. On any other day, it almost sounds like channel music on an elevator – you hear it, but are really not listening to it (think Kenny G).

Why is it bad? Well, because it invariably ends with a mild head massage – one, which can vary from a prolonged, pleasurable event (if the barber in question believes you are a big tipper) to a mild dusting of the hair (if he is not sold), which is more like a faked orgasm or non-alcoholic beer. Now, if you got the former, you are gonna feel reasonably sleepy and if you live in a city of ‘chronically sensitive’ drivers like Delhi, you do not really want to venture walking by a road on a Sunday morning (*cough*hangovermornings*cough*).

But really, none of these are as important to the Sunday haircut ritual as your regular barber itself. Think of it like going to your most frequented watering hole in the city:

“Welcome sir” says the beaming bartender. He then vacates your ‘favourite’ table and pauses expectantly.

“The usual” you say in the most indifferent manner possible.

“Of course” says the bartender as he turns his attention to your date, who is by now expectedly impressed (significantly increasing the prospects of the evening).

Cut to the Hair Salon.

“Welcome” says the owner of the shop and calls out “Asif, Karthik Sir aaye huey hain”.

“Hello Sir” says a beaming Asif, as he walks you inside, completely indifferent to the 3 other people who have been waiting before you.

As you settle down on the chair and as Asif is done placing the ‘reverse super hero cape’ on you, he politely enquires “regular same sir ji?”.

Your most minimalistic smile is usually enough, so you can sit back, relax and enjoy the music.

So you can imagine my shock the other day, when I entered the place and the owner welcomed me and yelled “Naushad!”. He might have as well pulled out a Walther PPK .8 mm and pointed it at towards my left ventricle. My reaction would have been largely similar. Reading my mind, he said ‘Asif is on leave, sir’. The revolver was still pointed at me. So he added: ‘Naushad is excellent sir. Very good’.

When it comes to choosing between the opportunity to cut a queue and the prospect of an unknown barber, the human mind (of the Delhi variety) usually decides in favour of the former. You may think it is not a wise choice. But when you have spent multiple Sunday mornings of your growing up years waiting for ‘Uncles’ of varying sizes to bleach their skin, dye exactly 5 strands of hair, mow nasal lawns or clear dense ear tunnels, I am sure you will catch my drift.

So here I am, on the guillotine seat and Naushad has just caped me down, with something that has a L’oreal sign where there should have been a bat. And he is waiting expectantly for my orders. I mumble something about how it should be short overall and even shorter around the sides and the back of the head.

“Machine? Number 3?” he asked. And all my worst fears came true. Which self-respecting barber uses a machine? That is like Rembrandt using a stencil.

For years, I have scoured through hundreds of election manifestos of different political parties, looking for a specific combination of words – “We will standardize machine blade measurements across barber shops in this country”. No, along with Dalit rights, and sustainable energy, this issue continues to be largely ignored by the political class. Let me explain why this matters – if you got a #3 cut in ‘Ambuli Saloon’ in Chennai and if you got the same in “Hair we ‘R’” (real name) in Malviya Nagar, Delhi, the length of your hair vary between Malinga’s and Abhishek Manu Singhvi’s. In other words, I have no fucking idea what Naushad really means when he says ‘number 3’.

“Scissor se?” I say, with the same look that Rahul Gandhi had when Arnab asked him about the 1984 riots. And so it began. The symphony of metallic clicks suddenly felt like tremors of a 7.6 on the richter scale – with every sound, I had to check if there was a structural damage. After 7 minutes (which in earth quake time is about 47.2 years), Naushad moved away briefly and I surveyed the epicenter: for a moment, the whole head ‘seemed’ a bit….out of shape. It seemed like the backside of a Maruti Ritz or the façade of Antilla or the home page of IRCTC – you get the drift.

That sinking feeling that I will never look the same again crept it (I hear you say “dei, it is only 4 weeks max”, but rationale was not exactly in the top 5 priorities at that moment). I was framing an angry sentence in Hindi in my mind (a process that usually takes a minute when emotions are running high), when suddenly, an alternative thought revealed itself – “Dude. On fourth thoughts, it doesn’t look that bad. Wait…you might even like this, actually”. And then it happened. Like the Indian market embracing Hyundai Santro, like an average Rahman song growing on you, like how our senses learn to survive an Arnab News Hour, like how we started appreciating Nargis Fakhri for things besides acting, I found contentment in my new look.

Meanwhile, Naushad was back with his knife. Apparently he wasn’t done yet…

the unbearable cruelness of radio…

Wine was born in the middle east, exactly in the same countries where it is banned today. There was a time when people mixed wine to purify sea water and make it potable…

The rebel group in Syria asks:”why this outrage over chemical weapons? we have been dying for years and the ‘method’ they use to kill us is what really bothers the outside world now?”

Steven Soderbergh never did a screen test of Michael Douglas and Matt Damon for ‘Behind the Candelabra’. It could also be his last film ever, as he wants to take a sabbatical to ‘tear down everything he knows about film making’ and start as a ‘primitive’ again.

Jim Morrison did not write ‘light my fire’. Robby Krieger did and he composed its first version as well. But it is the tweaked Ray Manzarek version that eventually made it to our ears. Among his many inspirations for that piano riff was Johann Strauss.

Joseph Kennedy – the patriarch of the Kennedy family outlived nine of his children and also went through the mental illness of his daughter Rosemary, whose lobotomy he ordered when she was 23.

Pandit Ravi Shankar hated the Woodstock. He calls it an experience that he had to endure. He felt that the people in the audience were like ‘water buffaloes’.

Sarah Polley, who won multiple awards for her film ‘Stories we tell’, found out during the filming of this documentary that her father was not her biological father. The film was about the life of her mother, in the words of her family and friends who knew her.

For more than half a decade now, I have started a majority of my week days listening to anecdotes like these, in first person, thanks to a certain Terry Gross – the legendary host and executive producer of ‘Fresh air’, on NPR.

It is a radio experience like no other: the art of conversation so evolved that the audience becomes the third person at the table – whether they are driving on a San Francisco Interstate (where I first heard Terry on air) or passing the Sultanpur metro station. If you are one who likes the pursuit of information and experiences, then you will love the Terry experience – like how an entire generation before us did!

The art of interviewing is a delicate craft. Far beyond the worlds of Arnab Goswami or Charlie Rose or Simi Garewal or Tim Sebastian or even David Frost, there exists a realm where the interviewer has no ego. No temptation to judge. There is openness and wit, admiration and panache. Indulgence and Honesty, even. That is Terry’s realm. And you should take a trip there. It is a delightful place and I go there every morning, almost. And over the years, it sort of feels like the right thing to do while driving.

And then there are days when I forget to update the podcast or the phone runs out of juice. Well there is always the local Delhi FM, I assure myself. And with great indulgence and patience, I drift on from 91.1 to 105.7, patiently and intently waiting for that one sound. One sound that will hook me and make me take my finger off the scanner…..dinkachaka, realty ad, Ranbir’s last film’s song, prank call by RJ, realty ad, dinkachaka, ranbir’s new film’s song, prank call by ‘guest’ RJ….wait….what is this? wow….94.3 has changed programming to entirely English music? That is refreshing….at least a change from about 10 other stations playing the same genre….lets listen in….’Good morning! This is Kris, your host and coming up, Bryan Adams with Summer of 69…are you excited???’…..

On those days me and my car decide in favour of silence. Just us and the road. You should try it some time…

Spellbound

The thing I love most about living in Delhi is that you can set out to drive / walk in any direction and discover something new and interesting in the first 20 minutes. The other day, I had carried trash to the dumpster in our neighbourhood which is next to a Mosque and accidentally read an ASI sign that claimed it was roughly 600 years old. Another time, a walk after lunch in Hauz Khas introduced us to the weekly drumming ritual that happens at the Deer park. So last week, when we decided to take a detour from the ring road into what looked like a bustling neighbourhood opposite the IIT, I was half expecting to see a lost treasure or Jurassic Park or some such. Instead, we drove into a cute little market, complete with a bakery selling warm rolls, the customary florist (Yes, every market in the city has to have one. Ironical, for a city known more for its anger!), a friendly looking liquor store (more on that in a bit) and a quaint little book store!

Besides the name and the fact that they home-deliver books and kathi rolls (I am trying my best to not crack the cliched ‘food for thought’ type joke here. Please acknowledge!), why Spell & Bound grabs your attention is how they have chosen to display their books. The ground floor floors you with their selection of ‘must reads’ (which I am happy to announce, does not have any Chetan Bhagat. So it is safe to bring your kids), which have been carefully picked to appeal to the curious, more than the commercial. Of course my love for the place grew exponentially when I saw a shelf dedicated just for Indian cricket. Again, no cliched Hayden or Akhtar autobiographies, but the more timeless stuff. The basement completes the wow, with a stunning shelf just for hard bound leather classics and a train shelf that is likely to make children fall in love with reading, more than any hot English teacher ever could.  The customary anti-war cookie tin was also spotted.

The best part of the store though, was yet to come. After packing off my loot, which should see me through a month or so, the attendant gave me the best and the worst possible news. The ‘best’ was their loyalty card, which was just that – a card. Just the name of the store printed and no fancy number embossed on it. Show it the next time you drop in and get a 10% off. Nothing complicated (take that Lifestyle!!) and precisely how a loyalty card should be. The ‘worst’ was, half way during the chat he revealed that the store was owned by a relative of Robert Vadera. I had half a mind to flee, or to burn the place down (more of the latter), but then sensing my discomfort through by contorted eyebrows, he quickly added ‘very very distant relative, sir’.

Giving the family the benefit of doubt, we left the place and walked back into the market, spotted the liquor store and walked towards it, half expecting an ASI sign saying it was 1200 years old. But it turned out to be even better -they had ‘Leffe’ and ‘VB’ in stock! Yeh Dilli hai mere yaar 😉

15th Aug, Music Academy and a Neuro Ophthalmalogist

What connects a yellow tennis ball, a black and white football and a foxtrax hockey puck?

while you mull over this, let me tell you about my first visit to the Music academy in Chennai. The year was 1994 and strangely, my visit was neither musical nor academically inclined. It was a holiday (like all 15ths of August) and I had seen an ad in The Hindu about some ‘Landmark quiz’. When you are an introvertish 17, with a fetish for trivia and have just gotten the attention of a few girls in class, thanks to a good run in the school quiz last month, these things on the newspaper grab your attention. Of course there was one other thing.

By the way, The yellow of the tennis ball, the black pentagon of the football and the glow of the foxtrax puck were all enhancements made to the respective sport, for ease of viewing on television.That wasnt testy, no? Talking of which, do you know which product has to pass the chicken gun test to be able to make it to the market?

While you mull this over, let me tell you about this ‘other thing’. During the time I was in school, they opened this small book store in Nungambakkam called ‘Landmark’. It was almost invisible, tucked away in the basement of a busy business centre and they had this strange logo, which I will always remember as a bunch of weird children sitting atop each other and reading comics. But I digress. When I first set foot inside the store, I remember getting a sense of ‘homecoming’. That Landmark store had everything you wanted as a kid – books, comics, crazy stationery, audio tapes, funny cards, hell even ‘Hot wheels’. You could spend an entire day or your pocket money, whichever ended first. So you can imagine my excitement when the two things I have come to love, presented themselves together on that morning paper.

By the way, the chicken shot test is for windshields of aeroplanes to check if they will withstand a bird hit. Yeah, they throw dead chicken at them at super speeds. Its so messy it should be banned, dont you think? That reminds me of this one time (read 1609) when ownership of weapons was banned in this Japanese island. Do you know what hand-based art form, this gave birth to?

So I took the bus, pulled together two friends and gave our team a name (apparently there was a prize for the quirkiest one!) and headed to Music Academy. Little did I know that it would become a ritual I would repeat every year for the next 16 years. Over time, I grew wiser and started bringing along smarter people as my team; Our names started getting crazy – like ‘Two large Romanaovs and a Fresh Lime’. But there were always crazier ones out there like ‘Pundit Queens’ (three lady professors, in the year of ‘Bandit Queen’) and ‘Haseena ki Paseena’ (Shashi Tharoor & family, sweat equity, you get the drift).

The Japanese island is Okinawa and the art is Karate, which literally means ’empty hand’. Talking of ’empty’, during the British Raj, a Lord Pembroke signed an act that transferred the ownership of empty lands that did not belong to anyone, automatically to the government. How does this act live on today in Tamil Nadu?

A quiz is never about right or wrong answers to a question. That is always a worthless detail. The real high is when you hear a question that you know nothing about and then sometimes in a nano second,  a possibility presents itself and the awesomeness of the trivia hits you. LQ is about these magical moments.

What makes those magical moments possible in LQ are a bunch of things, which have now become tradition in Chennai – The irreplaceable quiz master Dr. Navin Jayakumar, who besides being a well known ophthalmologist in the city, is also the soul of LQ and has remained so for most of it. The two times that Derek O Brien stood in for him was like watching Australia play a test match without Warney. I know, right? There is also the participants. The tribe. As the largest open quiz in this part of the World, LQ traditionally has had about 600+ teams in Chennai. Thats about 2000 people – from fifth graders, to IITians to ‘Ambi mamas’.

Lord Pembroke lives on in Tamil as the slang ‘Porambokku’, which to this day refers to land that has no papers. Oh that brings me to this little paper sketch that a NY school kid did in 1967. He named this after his best friend in class, a certain Lucy O’Donnell. What was inspired by this and eventually made it to your life and mine? 

LQ has become much bigger now and happens in five cities. And L itself has become a TATA company. That fun quiz down TTK road is now called the ‘National Finals’. The prices are huge and the lights, huger. But what has not changed is the awesomeness of the trivia. Like the ones in this post (which are all LQ questions). That kid in class? It was Julian Lennon and he showed it to John that day who came to pick him up and said “Dad, I am gonna call this Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds!”. And like all regular fathers, that reminded John of LSD. But thats for another day…