2 Things....

It’s been a long time, or short depending on who counts the days. A lot has happened in the interim period. Major news: I’m married now.

But, this post is not about that. As 2017 drew to a close, I thought I’d do set myself two goals in 2018. And, I decided I’d put it down here, if not as a reminder, at least as a mirror to guilt trip me the next time I look at it. These are vague goals that I want to achieve over the next year, to help me be sane and happy.

1.       Reduce online presence*:

Yes, this is a blogpost. I have addressed the irony first up. Let me build it up some more.

I made a decision last ‘novemberish’ to quit twitter. I just decided one fine day, that I will not log in. I deleted the app on my phone and logged off my desktop browser. I just needed to stay put for 3 months to ensure my profile was removed. That was ‘novemberish’ and strangely I haven’t tried logging back yet. I have no idea if my profile exists, now.

Facebook, another demon that I conquered long time back (I’m not sure if you can ever kill these demons off) exists as a mere address book for me these days. I’m extremely proud of this.

Why?

I’m a fickle person with so many likes and wants. I like to live a certain way, adopt a certain lifestyle and follow certain rules. Social media (facebook and the likes) has a way of throwing up “better” things that are amazing at that instant but fizzle away in importance in a matter of days. All that remains is the empty ‘I don’t have it’ ness about a lot of things, that neither have definition nor meaning. I found the Facebook decision remove a lot of mental distress from my life.

With twitter, the reasons are different. I found twitter to be a great companion, sending in PJ’s, random factoids and one liners on current affairs during my bachelor days (one month and I have started using “bachelor days”). Today’s twitter is strident, like a pig being branded, painful, loud and irritating all at the same time. You can’t do anything to help the pig, you can’t help but hear its cries, and you carry on with your life after the cries die down. I’ve decided to relocate from the pig sty. I learnt a lot, I learnt ‘liberal’ without being explained or taught and it was fun while it lasted.

Twitter, Snapchat, Instagram, etc. (whatsapp too these days) are built for instant gratification and immediate response (thoughts/ feelings). I don’t want to decide on things so quickly, I want to take my time. I don’t want to express things because I can. I want to blog. Put things in longer form, ruminate.

*conditions apply (now you know why : D)

2.       Improve physical stamina:

This is again born of personal experiences and suffering. I managed to get out of the grips of bean counting and buy a bicycle a few months back. It was the stupidest decision I made in some time. I also spent 2.5k shipping it back home over and above the purchase price. During the 3 months it was with me in Gurgaon (temporary posting), the weather was extremely cold, the air was polluted and there was near 0 visibility because of Fog/smog. But the few times I rode it (on the occasional clear nights or mornings), I loved it. Hoping to start again here and make cycling a regular activity.

Why?

The good doctors are getting old or dying away. The new ones charge a bomb which blasts squarely on our sad faces. I was diagnosed with typhoid recently because I vomited thrice. I shelled out 4k for this diagnosis. I went to a familiar GP for a second opinion and he promptly rubbished the said diagnosis. The strange thing about the whole ordeal is that this GP was located 30 Km away from the ‘developed’ part of the city. Apparently in developed parts, healthcare is very costly, in villages, healthcare is not accessible and in medium sized towns you really don’t know if you are being treated or tricked. Ayurveda and naturopathy today are probably only as effective as the last random leaf you ate. The only source of proof of efficacy being the friendly assurances of holy sages who did other magical things 20000 years ago. And, the less said about homeopathy, the better.

I realized that the least I could do about this is, build some stamina and reduce the frequency of falling sick.

Doable? I’ll have to wait and see… I still have “contentment” and “living life on my own terms” waiting on the sidelines.

cash-less

Listen, did you know that my thatha(thatha - grandpa; patti - grandma) was a free spirited young man in the good old days? He had his way with the women folk in town, who adored him. In fact, by the time I was born, he was done with two marriages and was back in the market for ‘love’. After a sustained period of bachelorhood, he managed to find the love of his life, forever, again (third time). He married her very quickly and very quietly in the presence of well-wishers.

The man and wife were decades apart in taste and age. The lady’s preferences were very different from thatha’s. Her daily spending drove him mad. “I’ll end up without a penny in my name” he thought (neither his name nor her’s was penny and he was sitting on a considerable fortune).  

Anyway, a few years back, when I was just a bumbling young lad, I decided to up my 'coolness' by getting myself a pair of sunglasses. I needed monetary support, immediately. Amma said no. Papa ignored me.

Not to be deterred easily, I walked up to thatha and pitched my case.

“Thatha I want a pair of sunglasses! You are cool. I want to be cool. Please give me money”

Thatha nodded, “take this card kutti(kiddo), Buy yourself a good pair”.

I skipped and jogged and cavorted right into the shop. “Bro, 1 Aviator parcel" (‘parcel’ is how we ask for take-away-food in Tamil Nadu).

Shop Bro: “Kasu?” (money?)

Me: “cardu” (card)

Shop Bro: “Kudu” (give)

      *Swipe*

      *scratches head*

      *swipes again*

      *scratches head again*

Shop bro: “your card is blocked bro….”

Me (also bro): "Is it?.. lemme check."

I felt cheated. I ran back to my thatha’ s place as fast as I could. “thatha thathaaaaaa.. card blocked”.

Thatha looked startled and closed his laptop abruptly. Stroking his beard back into place (neatly shaped goatee with a connoisseur mustache), he took the card from my outstretched hand.

“Oh! did I give you this one? This is my wife’s card. She was spending a lot on frivolous things da, so I blocked all Third patti transactions”

The dandi march

The year was 1930. Sarojini Naidu lay lounging on her divan. She was contemplating different openings for a song - a hook that would carry the rest of the song.  As usual, the perfect verse was proving to be illusive. “Should I try this in Hindi?” she wondered... "should I try Bengali for more traction?"

Her thoughts were in a muddle.  She stretched out and picked up her phone. This “Gandhi sux” WhatsApp group was always buzzing with boring conversations and she wanted to mute it for eternity, if only she could. She couldn’t. Scrolling through the texts she understood that people were planning another march. It was almost end of February and a march was long overdue.

Scribbling and scratching on her scrap book was tiring her. She had learnt English, she had learnt Hindi, she already knew Bengali and she had read verses and verses of poetry but she couldn’t muster up a worthy line. The phone buzzed and buzzed with +1s and "thumbs up"s while she waited for a song to materialise.

It didn't!. Frustrated with herself, she picked up the phone and dialed MKG:

Bro Gandhi...,

yo, Naidu?

ABCD padhli bohot

Thandi aahein bhar li bohot

Acchi baatein kar li bohot

Ab karunga tere saath

Dandi march

Dandi Dandi Dandi Dandi Dandi march

whattey wow babe!!

tumult

It has been ages. The fingers are rusty, the body is restless and the mind dazed. But, I made a promise to myself last year, that I will come back here. So here I am.

The time is nearly nine as I type. My thoughts are in a muddle and there is an all pervading sense of melancholy. Where am I? Where am I heading?... I'm Jack sparrow's compass. But in the muddled water that is my mind, I am reminded of people more desperate, sadder and much more in pain than I, who manage to put up a cheerful front.

Ruminations have become more philosophical. The prolonged battles with my pursuits, the family’s wishes and my desire for a better life – an idea that keeps getting more and more ideal and incredulous as days go by, have taken away a lot of my innocent happiness. These moments are now few and far between and mostly restricted to gastronomic satisfaction.

But, not everything has been blue. I did manage to change jobs. I took a decision that many considered unwise and unsafe, and managed to make it right. I learnt new things. I was exposed to interesting perspectives. I was taught to think. Think structurally, think logically. At the end of it, while, The world erupted in joy and indulged in permitted/controlled orgy, I wore the satisfied smile of Bhuvaneshwar Kumar after a 5-for.

Somehow I find the cliched metaphor of life as a "long drive" fascinating. A drive where you are guessing and second guessing the final destination A journey, sometimes off the beaten path, in other times taking wrong turns, all the while taking in the weather, the scenery and the music in the air. The last couple of years though, have not been about these wrong turns or rough weather. I have felt many a time, my hands slipping on the steering wheel or flailing about to find the right gears, like a puppeteer who has lost one too many of his strings.

Uncertainty has never scared me much. I have always found an inner resolve to stay on my feet to stay focused. This thing though, has been scary. I can’t find “me” to find the resolve within myself.  Things that were steady are now slippery. There’s the road, there is the car and then there’s me. It’s all a mess and I have no idea where to start to fix things. 

some thoughts on meals on wheels

This has been a post in the making for a long time. I never found enough will to sit down and put them into words. Somehow, I find myself mulling on this topic now, and am jotting down as it comes.

The following is based on some of my journeys over the past 5 years. A lot of changes have caught my fancy over these years. I may not be informed enough to cover it all chronologically or in depth but, I shall touch upon some that I have found interesting. To name a few : The introduction of Duranto as an addition to the then already existing rajdhani and shatabdi, the AC SF trains introduced much later catering the ‘posh’er crowd with great benefit to railways, the creative addition of mud cups for tea in one of the budgets (which sadly never took off) the improved signalling systems, excellent improvement in passenger facilities at stations (within the realms of possibility)....
Recently, day trains were converted to cater to 'en route' traffic rather than point to point traffic (of the top of my head, brindhavan exp, janmabhoomi, chamundi, exam special from sc to hwh). The replacement of reserved coaches in super-fast trains with unreserved coaches in a brilliant initiative. There is also the emergence of online portals, real time information,etc. which, though not robust enough for praise, are still commendable.

A lot of changes have also piqued me. Trip planning, route scheduling & introducing new trains are almost a regular part of improving the railways. They add more assets. But, I have a bone to pick with the maintenance of the rolling stock and passenger amenities inside coaches. The new inclination towards privatization makes me a bit uncomfortable.The perception that govt. and govt aided organisations that handle transactions are slow is a given. The quality of the work may or may not meet standards. True. I believe even if there are instances of malpractice, there is an argument for controlling the impending privatization.

Maintenance in Indian Railway was famously privatised a few years back. The catering and the cleaning were out sourced. The main issue that promoted this was probably the sub-standard to pedestrian quality of maintenance in certain sectors. Having traveled in the MAS HWH stretch when I was a kid, I can assure you that the food was hardly edible on those journeys. The coaches were rarely clean and with the old sodium vapour lamps, there was a general mood of Sickness and waste. Not all of them, mind you. I would take a train to trichy or Coimbatore after reaching Chennai and these day trains would offer delicious treats throughout the journey.

Almost 15 years hence, when I have started travelling again, this time because my job demands it, I’m sometimes taken back to those times and it is not a pleasant experience.I am going to base all the objections I have solely on my experiences and it may not be a trend in other sectors that I have not traveled.

The MAS HWH stretch that I now regularly take is served by a set of people who hound for tips, they over-charge and under-serve. There is just one option, A biryani for dinner. You can take a pick from egg, veg or chicken and if you are a vegetarian you are doomed. This biriyani, served by ‘meals on wheels’ is an abomination. The breakfast options consist of bread or upma,every morning and on every journey, everyday. I was shocked to find that the "prestigious and famous" TN exp had nothing better to offer either. The quantities are little and the quality is even worse. Aren’t we entitled to healthy meal? I remember , when they were introduced on these routes, the prices went up on the promise of food of better quality. So why are we being cheated?

A few years ago, I would have jumped on to the privatization bandwagon at the blink of an eye. Now, after a job change, after enlightenment( baptism probably), I have come to realize that there are no more chances for malpractice with private contractors than there are with the govt. sector. why? Simple, Profits.

During the four years of hostel, we got to eat both in govt. run messes as well as private messes. It was a period of transition and by the final year, all messes were let out to private caterers through 'open' tenders. In the third year of college, The food seemed tasty for the first few months. Thinking back, I realize it was more due to the change of hands rather than actual improvement in the taste or cooking. By the end of that semester the food had riveted to the old quality in addition to this: in the name of reducing wastage, a few people who came late did not get to eat after the mess hours. When enquired about the quality, the contractor explained “It is true that we cater to SASTRA as well, we charge them almost two times what we charge your college. Your tender is awarded to the lowest bidder and sometimes, we have to account for kickbacks too, so at the cost at which we are serving you, we are barely making profits”. He might have had a few more drinks than normal. But he was succinct in all his replies that day.

Government agencies are slow, ineffective and lethargic. But they are not driven by profit; in reality they are hardly driven. In some cases though, I find lethargy and predictability more comfortable than the disappointment in the promise of better service. Recently, I chanced to travel by the MAS SBC double decker. The prices were lower than the HWH MAS mail, that had dropped off at MAS in the morning. I asked him why I had to pay 10 for the same tea on board HWH MAS mail, and he remarked “I don’t know sir, we charge rates only based on what is set by the railways”. Now, does the prices vary from zone to zone? dunno....

Ironically though, I liked the cheaper one better.

dear dad...

Some families express their love effusively, through hugs, kisses and tears. In some, the expression is more sober. You are conscious of the fierce affection, but it stops with that. The expression comes out through the words, the way certain things are handled when you are around and the small smile every now and then that is reserved only for you.

We are the second kind, and you are my first teacher. I would always be your son even if you disown me. My decisions would always be slow, circumspect and calm. My tastes will always be a bit sedate. My tone will always be polite. Not because I can’t change it but because these are traits that idols instill insidiously. Your traits.

There are other things I aspire to be. To be responsible, to be regular and to take decisions confidently & face problems with conviction. I aspire to reach your high standards. There have been times in the past when I have felt that I have been dropped off at the deep end of the pool. But it did foster independence of thought and action, an independence that was always laced with a few shots of responsibility. I have sometimes cursed you under my breath for not taking my decisions when I faced a tough dilemma. But those were low points and I halve also cursed the cupboard in the hall and the lizard on the wall at other times.
Whether it is hero worship or genetics (or a bit of both), I have come to resemble you in a lot of ways. It gives me great joy when I realise accidentally that some of actions are very similar to yours. Though, the grip and the general writing style resembles that of mom’s, the ‘S’ on note I had scribbled the other day had an uncanny resemblance to my your ‘S’. That made my day. I had this small lingering smile for the next ten min. 

Trust grows over time. And with trust comes confidence. Once I had your trust and knew you that you were happy with my actions, I was confident I was making sensible decisions. I also knew that my thought process didn’t cross the imaginary lines of moral propriety. Unfortunately, independence of thought breeds opinions. As I grew up, I had my own take on the things around me, either backed by logic or by gut. I also knew that the core values carved in me through years of parental tutelage, would still guide me on my decisions subconsciously. It still does stand me in good stead when in doubt. But, when a decision is questioned - A decision that seems so easy on the surface, a decision so organic with the ethics that I have imbibed - it threatens to unhinge me. I lose my identity.

I have been brought up to be polite. I have been brought up to respect people. I have been taught not to discriminate. I have been taught to love; to be compassionate. I have been taught not to cry and throw a tantrum when rebutted but stand up and argue with my head than my heart. Are these worthless? Aren’t they absolute? Are they valid only conditionally? If yes, I didn’t know about this then. Aren’t we supposed to be consistent with who we are? Isn’t integrity a good thing? I don’t know.

The heart did take over this time. Once the heart takes over there is no control over your actions. You express it earnestly. Emotions are in its purest form(whatever that means) when it is straight from the heart.  I remember this story mom narrates about how you got me a folding cot because I wanted one. She also continued with some scorn, at the speed with which it was bought home because I had asked for it, without heeding her advice. That is love. That is all heart. That is me, now. I am just older and I happen to love someone else as much as I love the both of you. But, I let myself go only when the mind was ok with it. I knew then, as now, that I wasn’t crossing any lines of impropriety with my decision.

I am not fighting you now, I am not your enemy, I am just you, in a different time and at a different age. I am someone who has grown up with access to better things. It is a flip of a coin they say, this privilege. I am always thankful to you for that and always been proud of what you have managed to provide for me. But this is not a market. I don’t owe you anything. My love for you doesn’t have a cost. It exists, like yours for me. That doesn’t give you the right to my life. This is not arrogance. This is just me being assertive, something you taught me to be, and something that makes me who I am. By denying me this happiness, you are shaking the foundation of what you have built. Please, I beg of you, please, let me go. I will be ok, I know I will, you know I will be too.

Maybe I’m wrong. But let me learn for myself; find the world out for myself, like you always have. I am confident now and am better armed. I will be ok.

Love you,

son.   

the bus

With a smile playing at the corners of his lips, the boy runs behind the bus and in one fluid leap, hops into it. Being the last bus, the seats are in great demand. He finds a spot beside an old man. As he nears him, the man assaults his nostrils. The man reeks of alcohol. The boy is repulsed, “these alcoholics… stinky breath… so dirty…”.He quickly scans the bus again and spots another seat empty; this one beside an avuncular gentleman who seems to be amused at the boy’s repulsion. The man motions him to join him.

*************

A lot of people have pushed their way inside before the bus lurches ahead, starting from a stop en route . The mad rush bordering on stampede is typical of certain stops which scares even seasoned drivers into stopping the bus a few paces after the bus stand. The boy is squeezed, on the left by a head of teeming legs and on the right by the man seated beside him who refuses to give quarter.

The bus brakes violently; the driver swears loudly; the boy curses severely. A motorist passes by, oblivious to all this, absolving himself of any guilt. “I’m sorry, please forgive me”, the man sitting next to the boy apologises. He blabbers a few more apologies incoherently. The boy is amused. “It is ok,  busses brake and people fall… why is this uncle apologising so profusely?” The ‘uncle' comically gropes for a handle as the bus lurches ahead again’.

The boy is still cramped for room, his posture starting to tire him. He squirms a little and adjusts his posture a little to fit into the now constricted space. As he settles down into reasonable comfort, he is conscious of the man’s hand resting on his knee. He feels strangely reassured. “Only three more stops to go… then dinner”

**************

With just one stop to go, the boy‘s wandering thoughts come back to the road. He checks his bearings once, mentally composing himself for the ordeal of wading to exit. He lets out a deep breath and as he readies himself to get up, he's aware of the man’s hand. It has inched upward from where it was earlier. "what?". He looks at the man quizzically.

There is a gleam in the man’s eye “don’t resist, you will feel good, be calm, let me keep my hands here...” The boy is shocked. He doesn’t 'feel good' at all. In fact the whole thing feels weird. He knows whatever is happening is not right. It can’t be right. Sensing the boy’s panic, the man inches his hand higher up the boy’s leg, rubbing slowly. “Calm down son, I won’t harm you; I’m like a father to you…”

The bus comes to a stop at that precise moment and the boy, with great relief jumps out of the bus. The bus waits for the signal to turn green while the boy stands beside it, disoriented. He doesn’t mind the fact that he'd jumped out at a signal. He doesn't mind the walk to his home either. He shivers a little, he doesn’t know why. He still feels the man’s hands on his legs, he still feels it rubbing against his legs. He feels extremely filthy. “Why did he have to do that? Bastard. Maybe I should have taken the seat next to that drunkard.”

another day... another morning...

You just woke up, and the room is dark, dank and devoid of life. You don’t see a point in waking up, just yet.  
You wake up amidst a ruckus, the Radio plays a morning prayer, your mother calls from the kitchen for some intelligible favour, there is also this familiar smell of rasam wafting in.  You sneak a peep at the watch just behind the looming figure of your father; hardly 7:00 AM. NO!! you snuggle back inside the cover… No point waking up, just yet. 

You had left the office early yesterday, the work was getting to you and you had walked out in disgust. You don’t want to face another day, not so soon. 
"Appa!! go away!!. 5 mins. It is just 7 o’clock. School is at 8 30, it takes me just 15 minutes to get ready. Stop nagging me. Go read your paper" and with a naughty grin, appa goes : "No, I'm going to poke you until you get up". 
You skim through the newspaper; you don’t get time to read it in detail. You have no idea how your day is not able to accommodate something as mundane as reading a newspaper.

You are still groggy; you find your bearings slowly. You get ready, mechanically. No not really,  not mechanically. 'Mechanical' could indicate a certain degree of efficient execution. You forget your watch, go back and get it, misplace your keys, spend time sifting through the pile of laundry, checking the pockets for them. 
“Amma… I forgot to buy ‘India political’ map yesterday… shops won’t open till nine no? surea she will scold me.”  “Check whether the shop opposite has it”. “Ma!! That’s a general store, why would they have a map of India political”? ”Go check and come… what if they have?”. You don’t think so... you think your mom’s fool.
You are such a fool. You forgot your wallet on the way down. You trudge back upstairs to get it, all the while cursing yourself through every step on the flight of stairs... “What the hell man... seriously, can’t you remember your wallet? Do you forget to brush?” ya you do sometimes and realise it only when you shower… 
you take the flight of stairs, two at a time, “Amma you are a genius… they have it… not a ttk map… but something is better than nothing…”.“Seri Seri… time is already 8:15… hurry... eat up… why do you keep forgetting all your school stuff? Do you forget to watch cartoons daily?”

It is 09:15 you feel heavier now, you don’t want to leave the room yet again… should I really go? I will call in sick… I am not the only employee… the company won’t sink if I fail to punch in today. There are other people who are practically useless and we still manage to make profits.  
“Dei 8:30 hurry…”. “Ma it is 8:20… the watch is 10 mins fast” “it will be 8:30 by the time you are done with your breakfast”. “Where is Appa? Will he drop me?” “Yes he will, but you will still be late…”. “Ok ok... I’m done...” “dei don’t waste your food… eat everything…””karuvapala (curry leaves) sux”. “No, eat it”. “No”…. “Seri poi thola (get lost)”.”Appa go start it… I’m coming down”.

You start your bike… it is 9:30 am already, you are going to be late… you don’t care anymore. The wind blows through your hair and everything around you seems to slows down. You find yourself lost in the sea of humanity; lost to yourself and to your soul.
“Dei Appa is going very fast, he is touching 45… see?” you peek over your brother’s shoulder... “Appa super!!!” a bike overtakes you… you don’t care… this TVS champ just broke its previous land speed record”. “But, it’s late da…” “Ya... today we have common assembly, we will have to stand outside the gate”… “Cha sama bore...”

“Hey the boss called you…”. “Ok thanks”. you don’t think, you should go in, as yet… he’s doesn’t really deserve someone like you. You sit down; push a few files around on the desk, and there is a sense of Déjà vu, another morning, another day, another report to file by the End of day (without fail).  
“Dei, today’s Friday no?  PT period… yay!!”

The year that was...

31.12.2014

2014 for me was a year with specs of happiness dotting a generally dull canvas. Though the tone of the written word depends on the state of mind when written, this all-pervading despondence is really not the result of a lone bad day. There is a poignant metaphor “talking about drowning to a parched tongue”, and I would understand if this metaphor is the only thing that comes across as the essence of it  after reading. My problems might be small,But I’m still drowning and drowning kills.

Mid last year, Frustrated and almost disoriented with the low paying job I had, I quit and joined another that promised me a good pay. The trade-off was a drop in job satisfaction but with a lot of time in hand to gather my bearings and find out what I wanted to do with my life. A breathing space if you may. The buoyancy of successfully pulling off this change lasted well into the start of this year. There was a palpable optimism and I couldn’t care less about the world around me.

Some convictions over time have a way of morphing into seeds that eventually grow into these nagging doubts affecting the same convictions. As the year dragged on, I started feeling the uneasy “what have I gotten myself into” in my gut. Being used to a culture of breakneck efficiency and thankless returns, the shift of jobs, instead of giving me a chance to breathe and contemplate about my future, ironically cast severe doubts on where I was heading with my life. This new life: the job that i had gleefully gotten into was slow and the standards of efficiency, ancient. Over time, an abject stolidity settled over me which turned pretty stubborn, when I tried to wear it down; my bleak efforts proving futile.

The end of 2013 ended on such a high. I was happy with how my plans at the start of the year, had panned out. Some of them, wild, even inside the framework of dream space, came true. I practically cavorted into 14 from 13. But, in contrast, I don’t feel like facing 15. There is a vacuum which I want to fill, to make 2014 more meaningful. One year of my life has just gone by, and I have nothing, absolutely nothing to show for it. All my resolve breaks when I think about this.

The thing about time is it makes a lot of our decisions irreversible; the result of which is that the mind, when faced with setbacks, paints a silver lining around positively depressing days while simultaneously drawing out a depressing picture of our lives as we live it now. “Maybe I should have stayed back”, “maybe I should have waited for a few more months”, “is this what you really want?”, “you can’t go back now even if you wanted”, “what about 30 years from now?”, “was your decision really worth it?”.  After all this, when your self-doubt has finished assaulting you, you are bashed up by figments of conversations from memory. “You can still shift back”, “It is ok, come back”, “I know how this would turn out, that is why I didn’t take it up”.

Nothing hurts me more than “I know this would happen”, because deep down, I knew too. Sometime back in the early 2013, I just wanted to let go, I realised I had enough of "caution and pragmatism" in life. Even with all the emotions running high, I believed, I had taken a sustainable decision. A decision that would still land me running, were I to fall short in my ‘leap of faith’. Unfortunately, as it turned out in 2014, I never took the 'leap'. I ended up finding myself standing still, watching the others fly by me instead.

I realized that the expectations, the pressure of performance and the pressure of conformity can be easily piled onto oneself just by thinking about it. In reality, these need not exist at all. But, once the idea is planted, it festers in your head, it just refuses to leave. A wall blocks out even the most benign, sane or gentlest of suggestions. You are easily outraged and find that everyone is out to get you.  The world becomes sad and lonely. You are unable to let people in, taking offence and suspecting every opinion of trying to tamper with your ‘ideals’ that are etched in stone. As more and more opinions are thrown at you, your objectivity is lost and the mind finds solace in reclusiveness, misinterpreting and bending even innocuous facts into a potential weapon of proselytization.

Sitting in my office the right now, typing this, I realise, I have lost a lot of things. First and foremost, the meaning of what I considered my duty to the country (big words, but true). A sense of giving back and a feeling of being part of a bigger scheme of things - the two emotions that drove me through the first three years of work, taken away in the first three months here. Slowly, in the next few months, all that was left was abject cynicism and a general apathy towards all things living. A mask functioned, earned my livelihood while the face, slept and started fading away. The more I think about it, the enormity of all this, the more I stop functioning coherently.

Money, position, power as my colleagues like to call it drives people who are already primed for it. I have nothing against them. Not having really been tested in terms of money, till now, I find it inconsequential as long as there is enough to sail the boat. What is ‘enough’? I hope I trust my instinct on ‘enough’ and let it go at that. Power? It should have come naturally or at least should have been thrust upon me at some point in my life for me to experience the drug. Unfortunately this has eluded me, partly due to my hesitation and partly due to happenstance. So, I’m left with preaching happiness as an end to anything we do. The whole idea of ‘happiness’, resting on flimsy grounds of subjective interpretation.

One of the things I resolved to do a few years back was to attribute anything and everything that happened to me, to my actions and my actions alone. I endeavoured to remove the supernatural from my equations, at least for the time being. This led to a lot of agony, when the hard truth hit, but also gave me great happiness and contentment when things did go well. This also gave me moments of great hope in times of despair when I knew that my fate rested with me and I always had control, if I chose to wield it. It just so happens that right now, the ‘will’ to soldier on has faltered a bit and the control has slipped off, just a little.

Come Thursday, a New Year starts, bringing with it so much hope for the hopefuls. 2015 will start slowly for me. But, enough of ze maudlin me. I am making a pact with myself, as I write, to leave no stones unturned to fill up 2015 with something, I don’t know what it is now, but something. Stuff and nonsense. Even if it means more of nonsense than stuff. Take stock, giddiyup and end 15 in a canter.I will take strength from the fact that, however bleak 2014 was, I still managed to retain all my friends, well almost all, I still have people who love me; I’m still cared for. I managed to get really comfortable in the kitchen. Tried and failed, but tried nevertheless to learn music; something I will look forward to continue in 2015. Furthermore I’m optimistic about my travel plans for the coming year too. To just pack up and get away, get lost in another unexplored city, in a sea of humanity that is alien to me, blissful. I still haven’t lost my passion for music and am looking forward to some fresh sounds in the coming year. This whole ‘Music’ thing in the middle of this narrative might seem very much unrelated to the larger scheme of this ramble, but happiness is my goal, isn’t it? The fact remains that the two cans I purchased at the start of this year have brought me the maximum satisfaction. I shall also look forward to some good times with another ‘asset’ I acquired, my camera. Here goes a small wish for better portraits this year. One of my achievements, if I may use the word has been this blog. The posts have been regular and it has never been idle for more than a month. Readers? Subscribers? Well, it is a process, I will get there, someday. I just need to soldier on. No pain, No gain. I have also become ‘Zen’ about all those things, anyway (not).

As for a plan, I have none. It might be a blessing in disguise. But at the stroke of midnight today, I shall take a deep breath and accept things as they are. Most of us are not satisfied with something or the other in our lives. So what if my work is boring, it has its perks and positives.

I will take another deep breath and trust my gut, the way I have done in the past. My life is not a derelict shack yet, that I have to reconsider rebuilding it; a paint job would suffice for now.

I will draw in the last of these deep breaths before it becomes a bit weird, and scream off all the shackles holding me down, scream out all the negativity and scream out happy New Year. All inside my head, of course.

I'm taking a sure step forward, into 2015; the way you step into unknown territory when you realize you have no other option and nothing to lose. All of us live to die one day. I would like to live as this person whose actions were true to the life he led and didn’t delude himself into thinking more of it that what it actually was.(Is 26 is too early an age to turn to philosophical chicanery?)

An eternal optimist, this is me hoping for a good year, fresh mornings, beautiful sunsets, clear skies with twinkling stars and full moons and holding hands with the people I love. 

aaaaa fireee

(One morning, all bleary eyed, I walked up to the wash basin at the nearer of the two ends. After theatrically splashing my face with water and admiring myself on the mirror with the water rolling down my face, I caught sight of  a lone hammer, held captive, balefully staring out of the open door. Below the glass casing was written : "hammer for breaking the window glass for emergency exit" . My cognitive powers had not peaked as yet as it was still pretty early in the morning and my pausing and parsing was going all wrong...)

From my travel diaries : Exigency plan for a burning train (a step by step guide to exit through the emergency exit)

What to do when the AC coach catches fire?

Aaaaaaaaaaah fire… eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee save meeeeeeeeeeee?

No , this is not the right response. what is the right way? read on.

• Don’t panic. Stay put. Take a deep breath. Let it out, see whether that blows off the fire. No?  "NOOOO.WHAT DO I DO NOW?"  you enquire politely.
• Keep calm. You are in an AC coach, maintain your dignity. Politely apprise your co-passenger of the situation in crisp English. "Fire fire aaag aag (with appropriate hand gesticulation)"
• Next, look for an escape. Emergency windows are located near the ends of all AC coaches. Locate it.
• Once you have located it, collect your wits, get a hold of yourself and move on. you need to find the hammer. The hammer at the end of the compartment.The light at the end of the tunnel. (Send a small prayer to make sure you are moving towards the right end as the hammer is placed only at one end sometimes).
• The seconds are ticking by.Run. Courage favours the brave, brave favours the fortune, no fortune favours the brave. Don’t be confused like this, be calm. Proceed to the exit. Avoid stampede. Make a single file. Sing 'fire in the mountain' and people will run run run, Run along with them. 
• Now pay attention.The next step has the distinction of extracting an expletive out of every person who has tried it, realized the stupidity of all this and saved himself, by jumping out of the train. But you are cultured, you speak fluent English. So when you see 'this'… don’t panic. 
• 'This'

The hammer with DIY instructions on top.





• ’this’ that you see near the door might seem like one of Jigsaw’s wicked schemes, it is if you think about it… but you become a better person for it.
• Wipe off the stray tear that has trickled down. Fight the overwhelming urge to jump off the train. It might just be two steps away,tantalisingly close, but it is not the right thing to do. Be stupid, be noble and don’t be shallow. 17 virgins are waiting for you in heaven (it is not a good thing, you are actually gay). Don't cry. Don't die 
• Clear you head, Take a close look:

'Break the glass'
How?
With a key (please observe the picture closer)
No key.
Coin?
Ok… Doesn't work, sweaty hands...
Scratch with nails ya…
Aaah that sound makes me uneasy.
Ok break it with your shoulder.

Cool beans.

• Once you have the glass out of your way take out the hammer. A small word of advice here, please don’t pause here.Why? You would look extremely stupid standing with a hammer after breaking a glass for it.There is no 'save' for you. Rush back into the inferno, against the tide, against common logic, against your faith. Trust Indian railways. This is the moment of truth.
• Find a window, swing the hammer back, aim and let it rip. You should have a good, free swing now that most of your friends have already jumped their way out of the coach through the doors.

*CRACK*

Take another swing

*crack*

Another one

*crack*

With all your might

*SPLINTER*

• Get out, the heavens will open, the rain will pour; and my friend you will remember, Hope is a good thing, may be the best of things and no good thing ever dies.

The epic war of spices, The final Solution

History never lies. A period of peace is always followed by war and the following paragraphs, as a mark of this impending violence, further ahead, may be accentuated by many commas violating the peace of small and simple sentences.

The people of Andhra loved kara kozhambu. They enjoyed it so much that they decided to ask for the recipe. Now, it is human tendency to balk in the glory of your success for some time; especially when you hold all the aces.
Polite rejection:

“Thambi enga vandhirkeeha?? (where have you come? brother)”
“Naaku recipe kavali ( I want the recipe)”
“No”

The actual exchange:
“Thambi enga vandhirkeeha?? ( where have you come?)”
“Naaku recipe kavali ( I want the recipe)”
“For what?”
"Kara korambu"
"What?"
"Kara kolambu?"
"Haha what?"
"Kara kodambu"
"Hahaha Pronounce it correctly and we will see"
"Kara kombu (hot horn, in tamil)"
"You can go ask angry cows for that"
*storms off*

The Telugu vadus(people) found the 'ழ' (zha) of the tamil horribly difficult to pronounce. Even though, a lot of native Tamil speakers didn’t pronounce it correctly, the tamil took great pleasure in making fun of the telugu folk. This derision was so rampant that the guests were becoming a bit uncomfortable with the hospitality. Added to that, they were also fast becoming the butt of xenophobic jokes; the laughing stock(of kara kozhambu), if you may.

One starry night, in an open bar, as in, one without a roof, at the edge of madras, 'unknown' by the name Ennore, a portmanteau of enna and ooru (what + place),a gruff, drunk voice broke out amid the general buzz of gibberish.

“Let us show them kuzka’s mutton” roared ABCD Raju. By now, people with two initials in Andhra had begotten kids with three initials and ABC Dharma Raju decided to add a fourth one by shortening his name for good fortune.
“Is it kulka?” inquired his diminutive friend, afraid of the lampooning that might follow later
“No Kuzka, Kuska I think… Eh whatever, let us show them that ra…” Raju retorted.

Confusion followed conniption which was further followed by commotion. It is believed that, following the war cry, all hell broke loose and Raju, in the middle of the resulting melee, vowed just deserts for all the repression and ridiculing. People still talk about the crazy eyes of ABCD Raju on that night. This particular expression can still be found on the expressive faces of the villain characters of telugu and tamil cinema. On that day though, ABCD Raju, who had powerful, in fact very powerful, political friends, went back to plot his revenge.

One note: no more, no less: No one knows what Mr Raju meant by kuska, he was pretty drunk on that day. Later though, this kuska became widely used to refer to chicken biryani without chicken, mutton biryani without mutton or vegetable biryani without vegetables, a total waste, reminding one of the ‘total waste’- ness of the uproar that day.

The small outrage in a nameless place, north of madras, had suddenly rekindled the rage that had been dormant all this time. People bayed for blood in the streets. The fight threatened the whole of south India. The sleeper cells of the weapons divisions, disbanded a decade ago were woken up for what would be later be referred to the Machilipatnam project (1975). A project whose aim was to settle the spice war once and for all.

The 'solution' was called 'TsarGonkura' or Emperor Gonkura(This is now deployed in a controlled environment for civil consumption as Gonkura pachadi). Originally developed in the labs under highly secure surveillance with great care, this project was a first of its kind. The raw materials were procured from various parts of Andhra with the best of available quality. In a rare show of intelligence, they were transported in public vehicles like busses, to avoid detection by spies. Some of these busses, in state of derelict disrepair are still running today reminding the few who know, of its glorious past.

The Tsar Gonkura had a three stage core. A sour base, a fissile red chili paste and an oil tamper. This was designed to obliterate the entire intestine by the time it reached the rectum. The design was slightly modified later, just before testing, to lessen the impact on the native civilian population as it would have otherwise been detrimental to a ‘show of strength’ if no one could ever eat it. The first test was carried out in a controlled manner beside the river Godavari with large amounts of ‘ice water’ reserves (the river water flowing just a few feet away acting as a back up).

A news report on the first test conducted at an undisclosed location on the river bank of Godavari 50 KM from Rajamundry(1979):

“Within seconds after the ball of Gonkura touched the palate, a blood curdling yell was heard that shattered the windshields of busses moving peacefully across the Godavari bridge. This was followed, almost instantaneously, by the face turning bright red and water condensing at the eye level flowing down like the river Godavari. The fall-out lasted for days with the ensuing diarrhea refusing to respond to all known medication. The yell was so loud that it was recorded at a Kashmir radio station, listeners of which disregarded it as a particularly long and irritating static noise. Shammi Kapoor Who was holidaying there, was believed to have mobilized his men to look around for the prankster making fun of him.”

The news of this test shook everyone up. None more than the neighbouring state, which faced an imminent threat. Fearing insanity if the war continued any longer, the Tamil population conceded their defeat. A treaty was signed in 1980 to start making sweets instead. This unwittingly saved a million lives; probably more, if you included the ‘adventurous’ foreign tourists who might have wanted to get a taste of the local cuisine. Many recipes were exchanged by both sides during the signing of treaty as a goodwill gesture. By the early 80s as a result of the white flag, the three part composition used in Tsar Gonkura was successfully deployed for peaceful purposes; many new pickles were created and to great success.

In Andhra the experiments still continued. Avakkai was used instead of Gonkura to increase the sourness of the base; this was however channelized to constructive use with curd rice, delivering gastronomic kicks, going down with the cool curd rice. As a result of the pact, new research was initiated in making sweets like the complicated Pothereklu.

Over the years, many other chutneys, mixes, concoctions of various intensities have been reported across India. There are unsubstantiated claims of an Englishman running around like a colloidal particle after having a taste of the marathi “thecha” made from chili and garlic. Till date though, Tsar Gonkura remains the wildest and hottest concoction made by sane humans etching out a permanent place in the Indian folk lore.

~fin

The epic war of spices : Part 3, The rejoinder

Part three of most stories are mind numbingly boring. The chief selling point is the apparent progression of the story or the apparent introduction of plot changing characters. This blog doesn’t employ a PR agency to moderate mass messaging.  Hence the blow of boredom is not going to be cushioned..

By 1967,where this part takes off, the congress was all but uprooted from Tamil nadu. This, though irrelevant to this story, holds some significance to the readers of this blog who can leave this passage right now and read up briefly, on the fascinating history of the madras presidency and later the madras state. The links may really be interesting and you might end up forgetting that you were directed to those pages from here. So, I beseech you to be lazy to click on those links and to continue with the next paragraph.

Before getting started... what is a response to a rejoinder called? God only knows a? ok.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Madras welcomed guests with open arms and soon businesses were set up. There were a lot of people from Andhra, Kerala and some from Karnataka too.The Marwaris gheroed Sowcarpet. One wonders if Sowcarpet was two deg. cooler than the rest of Chennai(Chinnai is hot yaar). History is not very clear about this. 

In time, many Andhra messes crop up in lacalities with considerable Telugu poppulation serving up piping hot Andhra meals. The amount of rice served in these places per day, if stacked one behind the other at one rice thickness would… hmmm… ok this was really before the time of internet so placing an absurd comparison on this is beyond me…  let us say it  would cover 2-3(say) foot(d) ball fields or something. The essence of the statement though, is that large quantities of rice were served.But, this was not the novelty; the novelty of the place was finding more green chillies than vegetables in the various broths served by them and the Gunpowder, silently lurking just out of eyesight.

While this Andhra mess movement grew, offering a spicy alternative to the pretty bland local cuisine, the other messes like the ‘erode kurinji mess’ and the ‘namakal nayagan mess’ started losing its patrons. The cold war had fizzled out by now, but the slow weapon deployed by Srinivas was working with cold precision. It was hurting in a way not originally designed for; but, it was hurting.

The Dravidian movement was at its zenith and anything non Tamil was met with, err… Tamil. The Tamil mess uzhiyar sangam (TMUS) (Tamil mess employees union) approached the Chief Minister with a petition banning Andhra messes from Tamil Nadu. “Andhra is also north Indian, anything north of Chennai is north India” reasoned a visibly tempestuous Sathiyamoorthy. 

The CM heard the petition out and is said to have remarked "andhra mess a? ithu enna vengayam" (what Andhra mess?? onions!!)

One more note: Though it is puzzling, this random reference to onions; it is a popular phrase first used by one of the then CM’s mentor ‘Periyar’. Used with the right intonation and swagger it can be remarkably dismissive of the topic in discussion.

The CM’s aide though, one Mr Chokkalingam, was a shrewd fellow. He understood that there were already too many protests to organize, quell and ghost direct. This issue cannot become another one of those. He walked home that day, contemplating his move against this new problem at hand.

“What do I do? What do I do?”

Onions!! the CM’s voice played in his head.

“Hehe… onions…Wait... onions… Why not?” He got up. Sambar shall be fought with sambar, kootu with kootu, poriyal with poriyal (various constituents of a Tamil cuisine). He recalled his wife Meenakshi’s first attempt at cooking. It had been a disaster. What had started out to be an edible broth had turned out so spicy that he had playfully named it "Kara Kozhambu" (through running nose and tears). That ‘kara kozhambu’ had onions which were small islands of solace in the swelttering sea  of orange. It was wild. but like some wild things, delightfully so, and with a potential to take on the formidable foe.

Mr. Choks slyly introduced a tempered version of Meenakshi’s recipe at strategic hangout spots. The Kara Kozhambu, a devilish concoction of spices magically burned tongues while putting a smile on the crying faces. The play of various emotions on the face was an added bonus for the cook to watch. 

Strangely, this was followed by a lot of culinary experimentation on both sides. A lot of cuisines were ‘Indianised’. Slowly gobi machurian, originally from a place near Gobi (not gobichettypalayam), chicken 65, maggi noodles, etc. were included as a part of the 'cuisine'. A period of happiness and contentment followed.

But… things change... part 4...

The epic war of spices : Part 2, The rebuttal

The Head of bio warfare, Capsaicin division, Andhra - one Mr R.T. Srinivas was given the task of answering back to the Tamil taunt. This Srinivas was a man of considerable fortitude. He was lean, healthy and well fed. (What Varadhachari would have called a ‘chamathu kutti’ which translates to ‘smart small’, which actually implies a smart boy). He also had a keen taste for fashion and many believed that in this regard, he was way ahead of his time. He would carry off pink and yellow with such grace and masculinity that the womenfolk stayed away from those colours for the next few days.

He also spoke many languages.  He spoke English too.  

“What re? their sambar is spicy?”

“Yes saar” his understudy replied.

“I like this sweet flavour of bisibelabath, why spoil it in the name of war ra?”

“Dunno saar”

“Our boss is going mad over this issue... let us see… lunch chesara?” (had lunch?)

“Yes saar”

“What?”

“Curd rice with mango pickle.”

“Oh... I love that, sweet and sour... they are very tasty.”

“Yes saar”

He absentmindedly blew at his hair from his lower lips, a mannerism that he had picked up from the movies. His hair fluttered coyly in response.

A few more seconds passed. The clock on the wall ticked away.

Exhaling deeply, he got up. “I’m going to eat now, let me think about it while I eat…”

“Ok saar”

“Please finish the report the PM asked for. ‘Open drains as a prospective weapon of self-destruction’ or something no? That one…”

“Yes saar, Saar but that is not even in our scope saar”

“em cheyyali babu… they are saying garden drainage toilet drainage something and all, all smell the same no? what is difference…”

“ok saar”

“like this only is life, plus order is from the centre,nothing can be done ”

“Ok saar”

“sarra babu, nenu vellostanu”(I’ll be back)

“Ok saar”. 

So, while our Srinivas takes his lunch, he encounters ‘Curd chilli’ (a direct translation furnished for the benefit of the English speaking population). The Side dish, as they were called (not the ones we wrongly refer to now; stuff like pickle, chicken 65 or roasted peanuts), for curd rice, covered a variety of edible delights. The salted pickles, the raw onions, the chutneys, and for the adventurous ones, raw green chillies. The Curd chilli, being munched by Srinivas presently, is chilli emasculated by drying it in the sun after dunking it curd and salt. It is found in both Tamil and Andhra cuisines.

Srinivas gets his ‘eureka’ moment as he licks the last of his fingers and reaches for the glass of water. He leans back allowing the moment to pass, letting the bile settle down. He stares at nothingness for a while and nods off to sleep.

A Chilli Cries for help as it is slowly pulled into the quagmire of sour curd. The cries become more and more strident as it nears its death. Finally, there is nothing but deathly silence.

A lone tear streaks across Srinivas’ face. He wakes up, “I shall never have this again, I shall become a vegetarian like Gandhi. "Wait what? no...“. In his confusion, He is suddenly struck with a bright idea.

Note: Had this been a story written by a fellow who had an inclination to stitch in historic events for drama, Srinivas, at this juncture would have run on the streets naked, shouting “devudaaaaa”. But no. People of Andhra look down upon such things and running naked is a strict no no.

“Reddy garu, I have a plan.” Srinivas gasped. He paused for a bit, panting at the door way, having ‘fast-walked’ across the lawn. Reddy garu or A.V. Raghava Reddy was Srinivas's reporting officer.

“What?”

“Sir(not saar, because srini is posh), if we slowly increase the spiciness in our food, uniformly, in small quantities, such that even our people don’t realize the difference, over time, the Sambar, the weapon of the Tamils would be part of our regular stock. In a few years, we can surely render their 'sambar sadham' impotent.”

“Hmmm…” Reddy removed his spectacles with his pudgy fingers and wiped them. He was a stout man. When he leaned back, the chairs creaked. The biggest research in the weapons division was on the durability of A.V. Raghava Reddy’s chair. If they could only isolate the element that kept the chair together, they could design bomb proof tanks, tank proof vehicles and dent proof bumpers and so on. In fact, the many nips on the chair falsely attributed to the mice in the office were actually the samples that had been removed surreptitiously for testing.

Putting them glasses back on, AVRR exhaled, “but, Srinu we need to respond spectacularly. They will think we are sissies otherwise”

“Sir, you are right, it does seem too slow a process, but we have to take a lot of factors into consideration. Primarily, our finances. The "unscientific" bifurcation has left Andhra poorer. It would be a huge setback if we were to waste funds on a weapon that would be ousted easily by the Tamils two years down the line.”

“I can see your point Srinu... It is also true that you are a 'deergadarsi' like lord Krishna. I always like that about you... But in this case... "

“Sir, if I may add, Madras is going through a tumultuous period with Rajaji facing opposition from lot of quarters. If we can ever do something like this, it is now.”

“You have started advising me now”

“Saar no saar(the crowd pleasing version of sir)… your experience is my age, what saar, you are telling like this… just telling my view”

“Hmmm… let me see”

“Also, sir, to speed up the process of “heat calibration” we can use this mixture I have manufactured in our lab, I was just reviewing the results of its testing last week. It is a highly potent weapon for air attacks leaving the opposition sneezing and watering through their eyes. It incapacitates the opposition for up to four hours. But frankly Sir, I really don’t see it being deployed in the near future. I thought we could use the composition for this programme, with your permission.”

“For ingestion?”

“Yes…”

“Oh!”

“Yes… it does not taste that bad actually.”

“what? You have tasted it?”

“Accidently”

“what is it? safety is as simple as ABC or something right? always be careful or something… what happened to all that nonsense?“

“saaaar”

“Hmm... Ok ok I will see… but this is a nice addition now”.

“Yes, sir kandi podi”

“Thank you Srinivas, now you may leave”

“Thank you sir, it is also called GUN POWDER”

And thus began Operation Meals, Andhra Meals 

..... part 3

The Epic war of spices (Part 1)

Andhra did not get Chennai, or Madras as it was known then. The states were reorganized, boundaries fell, capitals rose and new states were formed. But, Andhra did not get Chennai. The newly formed states, Tamil Nadu (madras state, back then) and Andhra Pradesh though, never forgot what had transpired. There was residual anger under the surface of this uneasy calm,fanning up petty fires.

But, the animosity as it is today, between the two clans has nothing to do with the partition. It has innocent beginnings. It is also linked strangely to the sweetness of sambar in Karnataka (Who woud have thought sambar could be a bone of contention?).

Madras, a long time ago, took the sour and mildly sweet bisibelabath of Udupi and did away with the sweetness. The sambar, without its sweetness was hot, and spicy, and mildly sour. Gone were the sweetness of thoughts, actions and taste.

The first instance of this spicy sambar as always, can be traced back to a cook's smarts. Varadhachari, The head cook at the Chief Minister’s bungalow, Madras wanted to be rid of the ant problem in the kitchen. As he was tidying the place up, he saw his understudy slipping a few slabs of jaggery into a cloth bag.

“Edhuku da?” (for what?) he snarled. He was a man of quick temper and was generally as sour as tamarind rasam and as bitter as bitter gourd fry.

“Sambar ku na…” (for sambar / Anna,also na, are words for elder brother)

“Cha! Throw it out of the window; I have had enough with this nonsense. Today we are cooking sambar without jaggery.” 

“It will be too hot Anna”

“Nonsense!! Throw it!!”

“without jaggery?”

“Aama da” (yes)

Legend has it, that night, the Chief Minister’s bungalow glowed extra bright with the lights of the bungalow and the tummy of the occupants. The next day though, the bunglow and its occupants realised that this was actually tastier and that adding jaggery was in fact “nonsense”. They forgave Varadhachari but cautioned him to watch his temper and that his next transgression would be his last.As he was leaving the hall, after the inquisition, the matron of the family remarked “Varadhu, Please reduce the spice, but don’t add jaggery to sambar ever again”.

All was well. For the next few months at least. But, Varadhu, being Varadhu had to lose his temper again and this time it had consequenses. He became the unwitting protagonist of the fateful evening that started this cold, pile bleeding war.

The events of the day are mostly documented only through word of mouth. By stitching together the anecdotes of the many hands in the chef’s kitchen, the following has been agreed by most scholars as the most plausible story of that day. On that fateful summer  night though, no one spoke, and on the next day, most of them stayed in, refusing to come out. (rather, they stayed out, refusing to come in - the toilet complex was outside the premises). 

It is believed that Varadhachari had missed his afternoon kapi (coffee). His wife had fought with him over some domestic issue and had refused him his afternoon kapi.

andha round pathrathula pala sudavekadhengo nu eththandhadava sollirken?

How many times have I told you not to boil milk in the round bottomed vessel?

Mathadellam thekkanum di…

Others are already used and are to be washed

Thechu eduthukkapdadha?

 Can’t you wash them?

Ippo enna aachu?

What’s wrong with this now?

Neenga velila pongo, ongalukku coffee kadayadhu…

Get out no coffee for you today

He was actually angrier at not having kapi on schedule than he was with her for denying it. He stormed into the CM’s kitchen.

“What is all this?”

“Guests have come from Andhra na, I'm making our famous sweet free bisebelabath”

“Seri, for that you will waste this much rice a?”

“Anna… 4 people more”

“They won’t eat even half of this… remove some rice...”

“Anna, the spices are already...”

“Ennada noinoi nu, I said get some rice out of this Anda” (Anda- A large vessel)

“Seri na…”

What happened after that as they say is history. And the last line, as they say, is a cliché.

The main ingredient in the Sambar responsible for this, the powder of spices: Extracted, enriched and reduced into a highly spicy concoction was not sufficiently controlled by the heat exchanger (Rice). The nuclear fission instantly brought tears to the eyes, steam through the ears, mucus through the nose and other miscellaneous things from other miscellaneous orifices. 

In other circumstances, the incident at the bungalow would have evoked laughter, derision and a string of bad toilet jokes. Not this time, this was different, this was war. The “guests” from Andhra would take this personally.... 

.... To be continued