Chennai Chronicles Part III

The only time I think I have too many clothes is when I pack them.

After an entire morning of telling myself that I would cook for myself, I gave up at the first hint of trouble - when I couldn't get the gas lit.

I now think Wake Up Sid had zero insight on urban living by single people trying to make a career. Friends on the other hand, is fantastic. Especially the bit about traipsing about naked in an empty house.

The main problem about having your own place is the existential crisis that strikes you when you realise you like shopping for bedspreads in vibrant patterns.

There is also the issue of spending half of your time doing the dishes. But then that might be a case of my personal incompetence.

I went to a concert by a fairly popular Bangla band. It was supposed to begin at 6:30 but the Bengali cultural association that was organising the programme wanted to first have a prize distribution programme followed by its office bearers  guilting the people attending about the lack of audience. And how even a national award winner could not ensure a houseful.

A bunch of aunties opened for the band, with a lovely ditty about how we are all Chennai bashi but how are hearts beat for Bangla. Yeah, I snorted through that.

The main band performance was great though. Anupam Roy (said National award winner) sang all the favourites. He also talked about the time he spent working in Bangalore, and sang something he had written when he was missing Kolkata at the time. What struck me was the kind of love and longing that city can evoke. I have lived all my life in Delhi and while I miss home and miss friends and familiar faces, I can hardly profess to missing the city. At least not enough to write songs about it. (Or to turn up for performances by Delhi bands or just network with people from there).

A man in the audience wanted to know if Anupam had sang the Kolkata song in front of Didi. If she listened and ensured enough jobs, no one from Kolkata would have to migrate to Chennai.

I love that Bengalis as a class, maintain a healthy lack of faith in their political leaders.
Yeah OK, I know Swapan Dasgupta is Bengali.

It's a sample size of 2, but corner cigarette shops here tend to have a mixer that they use to churn out very nice nimbu pani. It's also rather clever. I will never be using my arms to stir the sugar in now.
(Before you ask, no, I haven't started smoking).

The watchman in my building is Hindi speaking. But my Delhi Person Paranoia (DPP henceforth) stops me from chatting with him. And even though he helped me carry my luggage to the flat, my general social awkwardness stopped me from tipping him. Now I'm hoping my parents will do the needful when they visit.

PS: the blog completed 5 years recently. 

PPS: Vibrant patterns as below: