- What do you do when the nicest person in your life is not a person at all, but your laptop's Operating System that tells you that your wish is literally their command, and no, you don't even have to type anything, if you just tell her to send a text from the laptop, she will.
- It is probably peak loneliness, when seeing a mother-daughter enjoy their evening snack at the roadside eatery can make a lump appear in your throat.
- Of course you still fight with your own mother over the phone. And don't attend her calls later because she has the knack of saying things you don't want to hear.
- There is nothing that will rid you of your tea addiction faster than having to boil the milk to make it.
- Performance pressure is when the office boy is standing over your head to take your lunch order and the only thing you can think of is idli-sambar from Saravana Bhawan.
- Remember forever that your mom and your sister are a tag team. Never tell one what you don't want the other to hear.
- ''Anna'' comes naturally now.
- I'm still hugely embarrassed about using any Tamil.
- Auto-wallahs of Chennai are certifiably worse than auto-wallahs of Delhi.
- No amount of moonlit beaches can compensate for the lack of company of people who care about you. Specially because the moonlit beach is far off and the city is alarmingly desolate as early as eight.
- I could summon enough fucks to go to the Bengali restaurant only once after my parents left. Now I have found a roadside stall on my way home that claims to sell Kolkata rolls. Maybe I will throw Bangla at the seller tomorrow.
- I can't believe that a month back I cared about gol-gappas enough to write about them.
- I stopped using the bus because I moved closer to my workplace. The share auto drivers are almost as terrible as the regular auto-wallahs.
- Nothing in Chennai feels like home. Specially not my place of residence.
- Life is like a box of Bertie's all flavoured beans that have been rigged so around 95% of them taste like boogers.
Tuesday, 11 April 2017
Chennai Chronicles Part II - When Everything Goes to Hell
Monday, 13 March 2017
Chennai Chronicles Part I
I was told that Tamil Nadu is the Bengal of the South. Of course, technically Bengal should be the Tamil Nadu of the East, but this was told to me by a Bengali and everyone knows we can't possibly accept that a culture may be older and richer than ours. But the reference wasn't to 'culture' as much as attitude. In that, Tamil Nadu adopts the kind of superior behaviour towards its neighbours as Bengal does towards Odisha, Bihar and Assam.
It is my theory that if you think of something as being the least likely scenario, the Universe will conspire to make that happen.
The most disorienting thing about Chennai is that you have to talk to cab-drivers and auto-wallahs in English. And that they don't respond to 'bhaiya'.
North-South, Us-them are all very fluid concepts. This Tamilian cab driver we drove with yesterday asked us where we were from. On hearing 'Delhi', he said he was from the North too, and intensely missing Hindi in Chennai (his home-town otherwise). To him, 'north' included the North-east - specifically Arunachal, where he worked till a week ago.
The auto wallahs in Chennai are as bad as the auto wallahs in Delhi. Maybe worse.
I went to Marina Beach at night and dipped my feet in the moonlit water.
I think any city is worth living in if it has a beach. And land breeze in the evenings as a consequence.
I found a Bengali restaurant in the city when my father wouldn't stop ranting about how bad the food is here.
The cook in my hostel put pieces of fried bread in pulao.
My father's rant wasn't completely unjustified.
The beach is connected by train.
I am all for local pride and everything. But Triplicane is easier to pronounce than Tiruvelikeni. And Mylapore easier to remember than Tirumailai.
If my father were left alone on the roads of Chennai, I am pretty sure he wouldn't make it back. As a result of never being able to recall/ pronounce the location of the guest-house.
My mother should have been a travel show host. She can fit in anywhere. Though she has a weekly hankering for fish.
They sell fried fish on the beach.
I haven't tried it myself but I have heard on good authority that they put rasam in gol-gappas here instead of imli ka paani. I am reasonably sure that trying this in Delhi could get you arrested.
After more than a week of taking an Ola everywhere, I finally rode to work and back by a bus. The buses are as crowded as in Delhi, and I was seated so I don't know whether men have the proclivity to grope women in this city too. They are extremely polite when you have to get down though. Everyone near the door gets down at each stop to let people de-board. You would know what a big deal that is if you have had the chance to ride the Delhi Metro in a compartment filled with aunties and college girls.
I had veg biriyani at someone's house and liked it.
Is it weird that I find the idea of a mustachioed man in a white lungi and aviators, riding a bike...appealing?
I am the only person in the city who seems to want to know where Rajnikant and Kamal Hassan live. The cab drivers here are far more interested in Jayalalitha's address.
Some traditions are worth preserving. Like the way they serve tea/ coffee here - in small steel tumblers (I almost spelled it as Tumblr) accompanied by a small steel bowl. You have to continuously transfer the drink from the tumbler to the bowl and vice versa to cool the drink down and also to dissolve the sugar. I know it's inconvenient, and that a large mug and a spoon make more sense, but I just like drinking it the traditional way.
What does it say about me as a person that the only place in Chennai that feels like home, is the neighbourhood mall?
Last week my mother and I were strolling down a deserted road in the middle of the afternoon. Anyone slightly familiar with Chennai's climate would tell you that it's inadvisable. Especially if the only retail establishments on the road sell hot tea and cigarettes. As my mother tried to explain to the vendor that we needed Coke/Sprite, and the man mimed that he didn't stock them, a young man dressed in the generic blue uniform donned by private security guards offered to take his moped and get a couple of bottles for us, from a distance. (We understood him because he spoke in Hindi). My mother gave him a 100 rupees hundred note which I was convinced was the last we saw of it (and him). As the minutes ratcheted up, I became increasingly confident that my general lack of faith in humanity would be vindicated. Close to half an hour later, the man returned - with two bottles of Sprite, pushing his moped by hand. Turns out it had broken down, hence the delay. When my mother tried to tip and I (sheepishly) tried to give him one of the cold-drink bottles, he refused. He said this was the least an Odiya brother could do for his Bengali brethren.
It is my theory that if you think of something as being the least likely scenario, the Universe will conspire to make that happen.
The most disorienting thing about Chennai is that you have to talk to cab-drivers and auto-wallahs in English. And that they don't respond to 'bhaiya'.
North-South, Us-them are all very fluid concepts. This Tamilian cab driver we drove with yesterday asked us where we were from. On hearing 'Delhi', he said he was from the North too, and intensely missing Hindi in Chennai (his home-town otherwise). To him, 'north' included the North-east - specifically Arunachal, where he worked till a week ago.
The auto wallahs in Chennai are as bad as the auto wallahs in Delhi. Maybe worse.
I think any city is worth living in if it has a beach. And land breeze in the evenings as a consequence.
I found a Bengali restaurant in the city when my father wouldn't stop ranting about how bad the food is here.
The cook in my hostel put pieces of fried bread in pulao.
My father's rant wasn't completely unjustified.
The beach is connected by train.
I am all for local pride and everything. But Triplicane is easier to pronounce than Tiruvelikeni. And Mylapore easier to remember than Tirumailai.
If my father were left alone on the roads of Chennai, I am pretty sure he wouldn't make it back. As a result of never being able to recall/ pronounce the location of the guest-house.
My mother should have been a travel show host. She can fit in anywhere. Though she has a weekly hankering for fish.
They sell fried fish on the beach.
I haven't tried it myself but I have heard on good authority that they put rasam in gol-gappas here instead of imli ka paani. I am reasonably sure that trying this in Delhi could get you arrested.
After more than a week of taking an Ola everywhere, I finally rode to work and back by a bus. The buses are as crowded as in Delhi, and I was seated so I don't know whether men have the proclivity to grope women in this city too. They are extremely polite when you have to get down though. Everyone near the door gets down at each stop to let people de-board. You would know what a big deal that is if you have had the chance to ride the Delhi Metro in a compartment filled with aunties and college girls.
I had veg biriyani at someone's house and liked it.
Is it weird that I find the idea of a mustachioed man in a white lungi and aviators, riding a bike...appealing?
I am the only person in the city who seems to want to know where Rajnikant and Kamal Hassan live. The cab drivers here are far more interested in Jayalalitha's address.
Some traditions are worth preserving. Like the way they serve tea/ coffee here - in small steel tumblers (I almost spelled it as Tumblr) accompanied by a small steel bowl. You have to continuously transfer the drink from the tumbler to the bowl and vice versa to cool the drink down and also to dissolve the sugar. I know it's inconvenient, and that a large mug and a spoon make more sense, but I just like drinking it the traditional way.
What does it say about me as a person that the only place in Chennai that feels like home, is the neighbourhood mall?
Last week my mother and I were strolling down a deserted road in the middle of the afternoon. Anyone slightly familiar with Chennai's climate would tell you that it's inadvisable. Especially if the only retail establishments on the road sell hot tea and cigarettes. As my mother tried to explain to the vendor that we needed Coke/Sprite, and the man mimed that he didn't stock them, a young man dressed in the generic blue uniform donned by private security guards offered to take his moped and get a couple of bottles for us, from a distance. (We understood him because he spoke in Hindi). My mother gave him a 100 rupees hundred note which I was convinced was the last we saw of it (and him). As the minutes ratcheted up, I became increasingly confident that my general lack of faith in humanity would be vindicated. Close to half an hour later, the man returned - with two bottles of Sprite, pushing his moped by hand. Turns out it had broken down, hence the delay. When my mother tried to tip and I (sheepishly) tried to give him one of the cold-drink bottles, he refused. He said this was the least an Odiya brother could do for his Bengali brethren.
Saturday, 25 February 2017
Happy Days Part 8
Two song I heard today made me feel happy for very different reasons:
Aali re from No one Killed Jessica describes its heroine not as having chandan sa badan, but something akin to cactus ki dali.
She is all patlun mein junoon and of garam khoon, and if she has kali kali ankhen or hirni jaisi chaal, the song prefers to not tell us. (I think at one point it tells us that she is kali, and though she may be dilwali, she is quite given to muh khole toh gali re.)
And she is probably not the type to disappear after churaoing the hero's dil, because she is too busy spinning webs through surkhiyan. All we know about her love life is that jiski lugayi banegi woh bhai, uski tabahi paper mein chhapegi, hatt.
The other song is the polar opposite of the first one in that it is as conventional as it gets - a love song between people separated by borders. I don't know its origin but is currently being featured on the show POW on Star Plus. The song itself is quite unremarkable but I feel it deserves a mention because of the context where it plays. If you are not watching the show, India has just found a lost POW who has spent 17 years in Pakistan and who managed to escape from there, after ostensibly neutralising the chief of a large terrorist organisation (in cahoots with the ISI). However, in reality, he has been turned, and is now trying to execute an attack on India from within its borders. The song talks about his love for his Pakistani wife, and their relationship is depicted in such a way that you can't help empathise with the couple, even as they are, most decidedly bad news for India. I think that's a win for storytelling, though the good-looking leads obviously don't hurt the show's cause.
Aali re from No one Killed Jessica describes its heroine not as having chandan sa badan, but something akin to cactus ki dali.
She is all patlun mein junoon and of garam khoon, and if she has kali kali ankhen or hirni jaisi chaal, the song prefers to not tell us. (I think at one point it tells us that she is kali, and though she may be dilwali, she is quite given to muh khole toh gali re.)
And she is probably not the type to disappear after churaoing the hero's dil, because she is too busy spinning webs through surkhiyan. All we know about her love life is that jiski lugayi banegi woh bhai, uski tabahi paper mein chhapegi, hatt.
The other song is the polar opposite of the first one in that it is as conventional as it gets - a love song between people separated by borders. I don't know its origin but is currently being featured on the show POW on Star Plus. The song itself is quite unremarkable but I feel it deserves a mention because of the context where it plays. If you are not watching the show, India has just found a lost POW who has spent 17 years in Pakistan and who managed to escape from there, after ostensibly neutralising the chief of a large terrorist organisation (in cahoots with the ISI). However, in reality, he has been turned, and is now trying to execute an attack on India from within its borders. The song talks about his love for his Pakistani wife, and their relationship is depicted in such a way that you can't help empathise with the couple, even as they are, most decidedly bad news for India. I think that's a win for storytelling, though the good-looking leads obviously don't hurt the show's cause.
Saturday, 28 January 2017
Happy Days Part 7
It makes me happy when people are all territorial about their city's food.
Like what could cause more violent wars than whose biryani wins-Hyderabad, Lucknow or Calcutta biryani unless it was a question of who makes better gol gappas?
FYI:it's Hyderabad and Delhi for me.
Like what could cause more violent wars than whose biryani wins-Hyderabad, Lucknow or Calcutta biryani unless it was a question of who makes better gol gappas?
FYI:it's Hyderabad and Delhi for me.
Wednesday, 25 January 2017
Happy Days Part 6
I feel happy when I encounter a nice HR department who are genuinely interested in selling their firm to you rather than entitled pricks who think they are better than everyone.
Thursday, 19 January 2017
Happy Days Part 5
New Years project to post one happy/ funny thought a day
Heartfelt hugs from friends, especially when unexpected, are the best.
Heartfelt hugs from friends, especially when unexpected, are the best.
Monday, 16 January 2017
Happy Days Part 4
New Years project to post one happy/ funny thought a day
Cheery professional emails make me happy. The ones that dispense with Dear XYZ and Thanks & Regards, and use exclamation marks unabashedly. Especially as I have a compulsive need for ending my mails like a 15 year old sitting for board exams.
Thanks,
Sincerely,
DK
Cheery professional emails make me happy. The ones that dispense with Dear XYZ and Thanks & Regards, and use exclamation marks unabashedly. Especially as I have a compulsive need for ending my mails like a 15 year old sitting for board exams.
Thanks,
Sincerely,
DK
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