pebblesthrow

Srilanka: An arrack toast to many more!

2008-05-26T19:32:00.004+05:30

When amma and appa planned vacations, it was an annual permission to spend the scrupulously saved salary acorns. The date was first carved in stone, factoring in summer vacations and bank holidays. For months before that set date, everyone in the household was to scan newspapers and previously-ignored free mailers for bargain vacations. In those months, few whims of new shoes and Internet connection were entertained. My dad would raise his hands to mimic a moral balancing scale, “(Right hand) You can ‘surf’ after 3 months … (left hand) or we can go again to Ooty, the Darjeeling of the South.” Polite smiles exchanged, obvious decision choked forth. In their itinerary, there was also always a compulsory temple and relative visit, unfortunately never combined.

Despite all this middle-classness, when we actually went on the holiday, no one was to mention money. I always got the horse ride I wanted, my sister could always eat everything she set eyes on, and after we grew taller than 4.5 ft each, we never had to sleep on extra beds. If my parents pooh-poohed posh-type, spa-type and guided-tour-type packages, it was pure superior judgement. Of course, photographs were taken at every waking hour, with a never-compromised 400 ASA Kodak film (blue tint for beaches, green tint for mountains) and various memorable poses from cousins reflecting the dance-step of the season.

To my mother’s inexpressible shame, my holidays since then have failed her. Holiday decisions taken in the middle of an auto-pilot bike ride home, no meticulous saving, no hotel bookings, hardly ever a travel companion. No prior plan whatsoever. And even if there was one, it had a tendency to stray way off the trajectory. Still, every time I actually set off on a trip, I seem to find exactly the essence of experiences that I would’ve, if in tow with amma and appa. Barring the guilt-salve visit to a revered shrine or relative.

When I rattled off on the phone to her about my recent trip to Srilanka, amma listened, laughed, gasped, and in the end, said, “Aiyo Ro, how did you feel like coming back?”

I don’t think I have, entirely. It is still difficult to let even a day go by without smiling to myself about the Lankan accent I caught, and the train and fish I didn’t. Srilanka was so easy to love. I like to believe it’s because somewhere not very deep inside, I’m an islander. In other words, I have slow reflexes.

But I didn’t get to be a bum in Srilanka this time, given I was there on work and all. TV travelogues, I always thought, would be my dream project. I mean, the combination of a job you love and the thing you love outside the job had to be deadly. So as a shameless student of the Ian Wright and Anthony Bourdain school of fabulous nonsense travel, I packed my bag with ideas and gimmicks that my teachers would be proud of. Until they came undone, one by one.

At the Pinnewala Elephant Orphanage, I decided to ride an autorickshaw (Trishaw). For TV, of course. And all was going well, till the sonorous sound of rickshaw metal slamming into expensive Toyota metal ended the joy ride. Guilt, fear and a large group of trishaw drivers gripped me. They threw sharp Sinhala words my way, and our Tourism Board driver decided to do everything short of singing the Lankan national anthem. He began to demand that I pay up the trishaw’s cost. Yes, the entire trishaw’s cost, because “Srilanka is a poor country”.

It’s stupid, but it was only then that I suddenly realized that I was a foreigner. The brownness and coconutness of everything until then had made me forget. By now, the owner of the dented car had arrived—a sweet looking uncle I immediately warmed to and asked in English what I should pay for damages. But the sweet uncle said “I’m calling the police.” Utterly unnecessary, I explained, but his ears were red and receiving only panic signals from the meddling mob. Through a mind clouded with images of my last rites in Colombo, I hazily realized that when a mob gets unruly by the minute, and the word passport is screamed a lot, it’s time to discuss dollar exchange rate. An hour and many wasted calls to the Tourism Board later, I paid up what a friend later told me was a reasonable amount. Later the same evening, in a Buddhist cave, our camera was confiscated by a monk for being a video camera. I’m surprised I still woke up happy the next morning.

I’m glad I did too, because that country is beautiful, dammit. And the previous day, I may have just walked into a meeting of ‘The Community of Only Horribles in Srilanka’, because I didn’t meet a single mean or unhelpful person after that. They readily invited me to private parties, they showed me into their homes for a change of wet clothes, they fed me till I was ready to be their slave.

I travelled through West and South Lanka, the East and North being cut off for tourists now because of LTTE activity. Even in just those two directions, there was so much to do, and so much to film. And it didn’t help that almost everything I wanted to see was plopped dauntingly on a hill or some natural elevation meant to deter the weak spirited. Sigiriya, Dambulla, and Kandalama. All scaled twice over thanks to retakes. The incredible view shut up any whining I was trying to squeeze through the tired wheezing. So quiet, so plundered, and yet giving the impression of being so untouched.

The South Coast was an endless stretch of aquamarine that I have only managed to see in an art class palette. I was to stop at Koggala beach, where I was told fishermen use a method not seen in any other part of the world—they get on stilts poked in the middle of crashing waves. And just sit there, waiting for the fish to bite. As we neared the shore, 5 men came towards me, looked at the camera, cheered up and took our patriotic driver aside (he had by then, started to like us, and given up on the tourist milking). The unprofitable stilt fishing, I understood, worked a lot better as bait. To net the awed tourist looking for a perfect sunset shot. The terms were discussed, but they hadn’t accounted for me insisting on getting on one of the stilts. The waves threw me off a few times, and I landed with my head on the rocks, but later, one of the fishermen told me in perfect flirtatious English that I could be his fisherwoman any time I wanted.

Travelogues always end with last lines that read as if the author has a faraway look, a lazy smile, and a nostalgic sigh as the best moments of his before his eyes in slow motion. Mine though, I see in fast mode, because so many people happened-- a schoolgirl I took around on a cycle as she taught me Sinhala, a crackly-skinned old woman who was shocked I spoke Tamil, a boy who took me around in a moped and then carried the heavy equipment, a frenchbearded fellow who noticed my dorky shoes, a curly haired girl who lined up her family and friends and sent them marching to help me.

Actually, right now, I don’t mentally picture the sights I saw there. I still get the schoolgirl’s smses, and the curly haired girl’s online hugs. The Srilanka experience continues... Now more than vacation leftovers, perhaps even entwined with my daily life, its routines and variety. I’m also joyous in the knowledge that my restless feet will shuffle their way to all these people once again. And believe me, this is not the arrack talking.

Click here for online video of the show

Citizen Journalist

2007-12-24T20:01:00.000+05:30

People on the street always have the best lines. None of my deeply thought-out scripts, or pun-laden headlines ever match up. It’s probably the combined effect of their resignation and rage, the unchecked discharge of colloquial lingo, or maybe even the freedom of unaccountability. But they always say it best.

Which is why some channels (like the one I work for) decided to hand the mike to the man/woman on the street. Made them single-cause journalists. And basically just let them to vent their ire on national television.

The idea seems simple enough…. Storytellers are everywhere. In courts, hospitals, police stations, neighborhood parks, aunties’ homes, even sharing your seat on trains. There were too many complaints, and too few reporters. And I’ll admit, not all stories, especially the repetitive ones about potholes and vague ones about corrupt politicians, inspire a half-an-hour special show. But there were definitely many others that did.

Hence, a Citizen Journalist Show. Since the word has been out, so many people have written, called, met us, armed with horrible stories, touching anecdotes, ambitious investigations. But most of all, with little significant stories and complaints.

My role is to be the quasi reporter. Helping anguished first-time reporters to spit fire, take on erring officials, shoot blurred visuals of appalling callousness. It turns out, it’s not as easy as we thought it would be. Many citizen journalists have terrific stories, but cannot articulate it suitably on an English channel. They visibly freeze as soon as the camera comes on. Language and lens has been our, and their, greatest stumbling block.

For instance, a man in Maharashtra told us how government milk dairies have transferred all their work to private players. But he spoke only Marathi. And winced involuntarily every time he looked at the camera, looking repulsed by the very sight of the lens. Finally, we worked around that with less-impactful but inescapable English translations and paradubs.

There have been many others who’ve come with a fantastic story, bowled us over with their oration and passion. But when the essential ground checks are done, we discover a factual error, vested interest, or an exaggeration. It’s shameful and disappointing each time, especially after all the faith we instinctively place in citizenry. Earlier, the discerning ear was reserved for those in power. It is now turned to the citizen as well.

But once doubt is out of the way, we hit the street.

Every time I work with a citizen journalist, there is mutual astonishment. They’re surprised by how much work goes into a seemingly simple 2-minute story. And I marvel at how the soft-spoken woman turns into a raging truthseeker when she encounters deaf ears everywhere; or how the aggressive residential association president bows in all servile glory in front of the Mayor he was supposed to take on.

And then there are quirks. My colleague first explained, then forbade a lady fighting for rape victims from reapplying bright red lipstick every few minutes. I turned virtually into a speech coach for a rapid-talker trying to say why Andhra Pradesh didn’t care for its farmers. Another time, I had to keep barking at a guy who was a detail-fiend: “In 1977, I bought land in No.12, 5^th street, Ganeshapalya Road, Near Sai Baba Ashrama, and visited the lawyer at 3 pm on 12.12.1977….” Another man couldn’t understand volume control, another refused to do any retakes when there was a crowd watching. This got especially complicated, given he was venting about crowded buses.

They call for days after that, asking when their story would make it on air, and at what time. Some introduce us to more zealous citizen journalists in their family. Some ask whether they can send their bio-datas and if they would get a job.

But somehow, even if their eyes are shifty, even if they lapse into their mother tongue, or lose the point in the flurry of details, they still say it best. Some see answers to their long-pending RTIs, some see that urgent water requirement being met, some see the donation-demanding colleges in Court. But the blind citizen journalist is still not allowed to open a bank account, the Bangaloreans still don’t have a cycling lane, the old zoo valiantly guarded by Mumbaiites is still coming down.

We repeatedly visit these causes with the citizens… but many give up. Those who plough ahead, however, see the cause to the end. Even after they stop reporting on camera. Because, as they all always admit during the shoots, they’ve “always wanted to get into journalism”.

travel notes

2007-12-01T03:52:00.000+05:30

Two months of rapidly passing clouds, trees, yellow dividers. Thoughts flew, new colours surprised, the blur was welcome. Introspection? In gallons, flowing into every landscape, and entering every relived conversation. Many faces and places merge now; I credit someone’s joke to someone else, too many anecdotes put away for the right audience have now faded.
But some things, not photographed, not talked about, still linger.

The face of the man from Hyderabad who took my window seat without asking

A day slowly begun in Bangalore. Contentment rushing through my blood that cool Sunday morning by Cubbon Park.

The informed knowledge of a night blacked out in Phuket, and the balding guitarist at the bar.

A new country seen with the oldest bestest friends.

The locket worn by the Bangkok taxi driver whose name meant “a good man”. And the story of how he met his wife (she was posh hotel clerk, he was bell boy)

“I’m going to live to 120” in five languages. Said in rapid succession by the 107-year-old woman in Chennai.

The little Sikh boy trying to eat a banana while holding a sword, in a rally before Guru Nanak Jayanthi in Amritsar

The usher at Wagah Border who goaded the Indians to out-scream the Pakistanis

Walking on Valmiki beach, Chennai, hopping to avoid stepping on poo, looking for the turtles that’ll come only in February

Mushraf, photographer at Taj Mahal, who disappeared with my parents’ eternal-love photograph

Realising while talking to a friend I’d mixed up Bay of Bengal and Arabian Sea. Eyes shut tight in embarrassment. Followed by a desperate attempt at memorizing the India map.

The wonderfully half-read novels, abandoned to accommodate occasional staring from the window

The puncture changed in Warangal while convincing sickle-armed men claiming to be Naxalites that we meant no harm.

The search for local food in dim lit streets, and temple premises

The elation of constant motion still tickles my feet. Tired, dusty feet greedily ask for more. More people to ask directions from, more train food to be complained about, more after-mints to nibble on flights. And through cursing and hating packing and unpacking, I jog my brain for even the semblance of clarity it had when on the road.

Journeys are the midwives of thought. Few places are more conducive to internal conversations than moving planes, ships, or trains. There is an almost quaint correlation between what is before our eyes and the thoughts we are able to have in our heads: large thoughts at time requiring large views, and new thoughts, new places. Introspective reflections that might otherwise be liable to stall are helped along by the flow of the landscape.

- Alain de Botton, Art of Travel

parfum. From this angle

2007-10-02T19:02:00.000+05:30

Sometimes, the lens view takes over real life.
A casual conversation suddenly hushes all ambient sounds. A random passerby looks at his watch in slow motion, the tick from minute-15 to minute-16 audible a mile away. A child’s white-knuckled grip on her mother’s shoulder more desperate, the otherwise infuriating honking joyously cacophonous, even the cemented grey of flyovers meaningfully gloomy.

The job behind the camera has shown me how exactly to achieve teemingness in a not-so-crowded street. How to capture the brightest festivity in a low-key celebration. I now see potential in every moment.
And add to that obsessive movie watching. Everything these days looks like a scene from a movie recently seen, or a dream dreamt with spectacular cinematography.
Which means, out of the job, I’m pretty much living in dramatized moments.

One such is the Sunday autorichshaw ride. All is quiet after the initial bargaining session. The put-put-put is all I can hear. And the flow of unfinished sounds from scenes that zip past. I consider closing my eyes.

“Madam, the perfume you’re wearing…. It’s very good.”

I’m jolted awake.
This is not the opening line of any of my auto-men conversations. Not weather, not traffic, not those damn politicians. He spoke about perfume. My perfume.
Before I figure out why I should feel a comment about my perfume is too personal, he adds to the discomfort.
“What message are you trying to give by wearing that perfume?”

There. His T-shirt turns redder, the put-put-put softens, the situation slows down. A lock of my hair flies slowly onto my face. It’s cinema time.

“Message?”
“Yes, don’t you think everyone has their own unique smell?”
This, he asks in perfect English.
Is he a man with no personal smell, but supreme olfactory senses? Is he on an autorickshaw ride in search of smells he wants to bottle?

“It’s a smell I like. So the message is only that I’m wearing something I like.”
“So, madam, it’s not for others?”
“No, definitely not. Why would you think it has a message for anyone?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t everyone do everything only for others these days?”

Pause. Pregnant.
“Madam, which part of South are you from?”
(How?! But yay, he knows there are 4 states and not just one idli-shaped island)

“Why are you so sure I’m from South India?”
“You called me ‘sir’,” he beams into the rear-view mirror.

Then there was mention of my grey hair, his laughing confession about his sham musical talent until he played the flute at his sister’s wedding. His probing questions about why I didn’t wear any symbol of wedlock. His knowing grin when I say, “Only if the aadmi will wear it too.” His sad definition of ambition as a fading dream. His rejection of associations with Delhi.
40 minutes later, he shakes my hand and appreciates the conversation.
“Aaj kal traffic ko gaali dene ke siva koi kya baath kartha hai?” (These days, who says anything but to curse the traffic?”)

He wasn’t a perfume bottler, but he owned every second of the 40-minute film.
The ambient noise returns.

media wart

2007-05-23T16:30:00.000+05:30

There are some men on the bus I would never sit next to. Some people in the office I would never ask help from. Some writers I’d never read after a really offensive book/article. Once the judgement shapes itself, it takes too much to remold it. I’ve always been quite at peace with my little prejudices. (Not to be equated with customs officials detaining a passenger because he has a Muslim name) Until recently.

Being at the receiving end of niggling suspicion isn’t pleasant. At all. I faced not one, but several raised eyebrows recently.

A film festival on sexuality and being queer is, to me, a great effort at awareness, clarification, and celebration. And I said so. But because I held a mike in my hand and had a cameraman in tow, this was simply chastised by many as a cover to a more malicious intent. Skeptics felt (some even said) I was being warm so some poor soul would unwittingly reveal he had a boyfriend and I’d flash his “disgusting illegal desires” on TV news.

First, I was asked if it was a Hindi or English channel. The latter put most people at ease. I was even sent after a journalist from a sister Hindi channel to have a “journo-to-journo talk and ask her to please not shoot the people who’ve come to the festival”. I was, on the other hand, given a relatively free hand. Decent English channel privileges.

Then there were those who asked me pointedly whether I knew what LGBT was. “Do you know the difference between a hijra and a transsexual?” Each time I interviewed a filmmaker, I went through a test designed to ensure failure. This, I could handle. But the cold shoulders, obvious escapades behind curtains, sudden cropping up of super-urgent appointments— the passive avoidance tactics… these were purely insulting. People would probably have been more welcoming if I were digging at my oozy wart with my claws. Even in that case, I’d have to dump my Press ID card and mike somewhere.

To make things worse, my cameraman, utterly unused to any expression of sexuality outside a drunken boys’ party, was shooting away. The posters, films, anybody holding hands... everything was material. It was worrying, but understandable. Despite he and I being “one unit” and all that, he wasn’t in my head.If there was an anti-street-harrassment installation with a blow up of a woman with a torn blouse, he thought “here’s this picture on display. People are seeing it. So what if I shoot it?” So he zooms in and out of her cleavage. I told him it’s art, yes, but we cannot use close-ups of blow-ups of breasts on TV. He kept asking a defiant "why?" And I failed miserably in explaining. Of course, I edited those visuals out while putting the story together. But his excited shooting at the venue didn’t help my already suspect objective of being at the festival.

I realize there has been enough nonsense on television news to worry people. It’s always either a question of morality and westernization, or a matter of fascination: an “oddity” to be curious about. But keeping aside the question of whether the mainstream media should be involved at all, (I think it should be, responsibly), lately, there have been several honest attempts by journalists to cover queer issues. There isn’t enough space on 24-hour news for a full-fledged debate yet, but questions have replaced comment, and responsibility—whether self-motivated or imposed— has definitely increased. So especially now, the reverse stereotyping is getting a little old.

The festival directors knew what I was doing there, and were fortunately, unruffled about my camera and my presence. But weeks after the four-day film festival, I’m still wondering what do about my invisible media wart.

silly mind, silly stomach

2007-04-02T18:52:00.000+05:30

Monthly dread

Little independent globules of fat floating in body, finding each other. Fusing. Bobbing happily towards top-left corner of body.
Flashes of being rushed in horizontal position to George Cloony in green pajamas (or McDreamy in blue). Oh joy. But Red Cross nurse rams metallic shock things into chest (mine), barking panicky orders in mallu-accented Greek to note-taking minions.
White flash.
Suresh Oberoi in white-lab-coat touches my father’s shoulder. Looks down. Takes off rimless spectacles.

So do something about it

A great bright morning. Early. Aunties walk, trying to unhinge their arms from their torsos. Uncles laugh loudly in groups at parks. Girls jog in matching trackpants*, boys lift impressive weights. Ah, the fitness loving world. Beautiful, determined, guilty.
Not today.
We wear our helmets. Breathe in the clean air. Head to Nizamuddin’s little lanes. Crowded even at dawn. A hysterical beggar demands her biscuit breakfast. A muslim family runs en masse towards a shrieking car alarm. (“Damn goats!”)
In the passageway to the dargah are little holes in the wall. Against the still-clearing morning fog, tea brews, paratha sizzles, nihari simmers. Nihari of the thigh meat, and myriad secret masalas. Of the old Delhi Muslim. Nihari, of the fresh, cool morning. With naan, of course.
Oil gliding, only half-touching over the brown broth. A piece of oh-so-tender beef anchors the bunch of ginger slits in the middle of the bowl. A tall glass of sugary tea on the side.
Fat globules are welcome.

*Why do fitness clothes seem like they're only made for already fit people? Wonder if I can ever find a loose pair of trackpants. You think the fitness people know "loose"?

Also please to watch this ambience-full video of The Search for Nihari in Karachi. Courtesy YouTube.

the demise of the 50 paisa

2007-03-15T17:56:00.000+05:30

Waking up to find that people reject you to your face. That’s got to be the worst ever morning. It’s relatively easy to hear people say you’re useless, especially if you know you’ve been sort of out of the scene for a while now. But to find that because of a few rejections, you become rejectable? Now that’s a tough life. Why even get off the assembly line then?
Even the otherwise penny-and-pound-wise rickshaw-walla rejected it. “But I’m giving you four of them… that makes TWO whole rupees,” I explained.
“But madam yeh nahi chalti”
Well, I took it from someone. It chalo-ed to me…
“Arre madam…chalta paisa dena. Koi nahi letha isko.”
But the RBI still makes it, right? Stuff is still priced with the half.
(An annoying realization hits me about how I never bother to collect the change in such situations. But as long as this unreasonable man doesn’t know it, I can have any incriminating realizations secretly in my head)

The rejecter called on the parking attendant. Ask him if he’ll take it, he goaded me. “He’s your friend ok, he’ll be as unreasonable. I’ll call a neutral someone. Aap lenge na isko?”
The vegetable vendor looked blankly at my palm. “Yeh nahi chalti madam”
What is with these people?!!

I used to buy a fistful of orange-toffee once. And a few years down, a band-aid plaster. Then it clinked around at the bottom of my bag for a while. Afterwards I didn’t bend to pick it up when it rolled into floor crevices. Then it was useful in even numbers, to be given away when you wanted to thin your wallet. And now, chalti nahi. When I said it was this or nothing else, the rickshaw-wallah actually went with ‘nothing else’. It’s a horrible way to die, I tell you, being less than your value.

first impressions

2007-03-07T19:43:00.000+05:30

So now, Delhi. Incredibly beautiful, sprawling and breezy. But the shade of brown-green in trees here irritates me. Makes me nostalgic for the wet, healthy green of south India. The roads are wide, but honk-ful nonetheless. The house comes with two balconies from which we can feel grateful about the brown-greeness of a well-maintained Welfare Association garden. There are security guards we have to soon ask to not salute us. There are two maids who arrive everyday at 8 a.m. sharp, speaking in an outrageous blend of loud Tamil, Telugu and Hindi. There is a Khanna for water cans, a Jasmeet for garbage bags, and an eager Pandey for anything else we would have to lift a finger for. We want none of them, but they keep offering themselves. Because Dilli mein there’s a ‘ladka’ for everything.

The vegetable buying, fridge filling, dish washing has “settled” written all over it. It was all done before as independents, but now it’s done for two. Which means it invites “All domesticated, eh?” jibes from friends who’re not sure how much anything has changed, if at all. Anyway, the electric wire coils and ready-to-make mixes peeping out of corners and constantly moving furniture, betray unsettlement.

But when the smug IAS officer Mr. Arora from upstairs said, “In north India, no one will understand if you both have different surnames. I’m Mr. Arora, so she (points to beautifully graying, disapproving wife) is automatically Mrs. Arora. It works like that. You have no choice.” Mrs. Arora sipped her chai, “He doesn’t know anything. You both are wonderful children. You don’t want to change anything from before? You absolutely need not.”

We’ve taken Mrs. Arora’s advice very seriously.

Banana leaf musing

2006-11-14T15:42:00.000+05:30

So much rice and sambar and rasam and vegetables and curd and buttermilk and sweet and pappad and pickle. All for just under 30 rupees. What a good, happy, food-loving world.
As my mom used to say, there's nothing more reassuring than watching someone enjoy their meal.

keep the change

2006-10-30T21:38:00.000+05:30

It’s a fine line between a gift and a bribe. And a lot of people think no one sees that line anymore. When this man slipped a Rs.100 note to the driver “for tea”, and shone a servile grin at me, I wondered if it didn’t matter to him that the entire street was watching. All eyes hoping that his possibly representative offering will bring a Corporation official to dry their waterlogged homes. Maybe the press could pressurize the real authorities to act. Let’s flatter their ego, whoever they are, if they show a little worry about our stinky streets and open manholes.

The man actually managed a hurt look when we slapped his hand away. Immediately, he appealed to my cameraman. As if saying “You’re a man, you know the ways of the world. Let’s let little honest girls be righteous… come on, let us men be realistic.” And the street was still watching. Some soft confident grunts even insisted we stop making a fuss. Once threatened that he was risking us covering his locality at all, he put the dirty money away reluctantly. Not only was he still not convinced we were for real, he clearly thought we were idiots and wouldn’t survive in this bad bad world.

But I do think I won’t survive in this bad bad world too long. If you’re not screeching down the road, the traffic won’t part for you. If you’re not a foul-mouthed feudal lord, many who work under you do not respect you. If you’re not a hard-ass bribe-taking (and giving) reporter, you don’t get the scoop. Forget the scoop, you don’t even get what every reporter in the world and his never-leave-the-office editor has got. The realization makes me feel old. And pitifully young. At the same time.

Another day, a man in the court slipped a 500 to a tamil newspaper journalist. In a few minutes, he was powdering his precious nose for many camera interviews. “Should I look at camera or to my left? Is this white shirt a problem? Yes, yes, I’ll wear my robe” He’d done it all before, and parroted what some would consider quotable quotes. Nothing clever, nothing funny. Just TV-lingo that TAM and other organizations making money out of scientific ice-vecchufying (flattering) would pin-point as the words “Indian households tuned into”. Sure, how their hair must’ve stood on end when the powdered nose quivered in passion to “Justice must be done!” But his 500 mars his credibility.

Maybe they've learnt a hard lesson from the sharks of the journalism trade. Maybe they want to make sure they’ve done all they can. Leave no stones unturned, is what they say, I think. But the lady can demand to know when her story will come on air when I’ve just walked into her home and stuck a camera in her face. The uncompensated can expect reaction, even if temporary, from the authorities if they see the story. The ones fighting for their homes have every right to demand an answer from an often TRP-enslaved me when the twist of a cricketer’s knee elbows out their unfair eviction. But they cannot demand a space in the viewers' minds by handing me a note. Many journalists will continue to make the aggrieved believe in their supreme, far-reaching individual power. But if they’ve done so for a few sodden rupees, their power is not that supreme, is it?

Why is there widespread trust in underhandedness? Money makes the world go around, someone I didn’t much pay attention to, used to say. But if it’s your money, can it please just pass me by? I’d like to keep my conscience. They say it’s getting rare.

postal dilemma

2006-10-11T19:49:00.000+05:30

Who should I write to if I want to apologize for the world?

baby you can drive my car

2006-10-08T17:12:00.000+05:30

There is a remarkable amount of talk about women drivers. The usual accusations: too slow, can't park, too panicky.

It is believed that every woman driver, without exception, sucks. There are still some countries where insurance companies refuse to cover women drivers. There are books dedicated to the subject. Example: "28 Days: What your cycle reveals". We understand, the book says, you have menstrual cycle, you poor girl. It isn't your fault that PMS makes you take the wrong lane, it consoles. But also suggests that anyone with lower levels of oestrogen is bound to be a better driver.

There are tons of "humour" websites with photographs of bizarre accidents and cars stupidly parked inside pedestrian subways, and a caption in capital letters reading "Yes! It's a woman!!" Some driving schools in Chennai too offer women learners longer classes so they don't hit the road in a hurry. The nicer people empathize with this innate incapacity to drive: maybe she's born with confusion about gears.

Yes, bad women drivers do overtake from the inside, they do maintain irritatingly low speeds on highways, they do take ages to park. But the bad male drivers (yes, they do exist) do the same things without being bumped/rushed/yelled off the road for their road skills, or alleged lack of them.

An Australian Transport Safety Bureau's website makes an interesting observation from accident statistics involving men and women drivers. The national toll is decreasing, they say, but the number of women drivers killed and hospitalised is increasing. "This is due to an increase in the number of women obtaining drivers' licences and an increase in the amount of travel they are undertaking." If there are more women figuring in the accident statistics, it doesn't immediately mean they're getting worse by the minute. It just means more women drivers are now included in the total count.

Busy as we are shaking our heads ruing "these women drivers", we forgive those men who would take sharp swerves around wrong sides in peak hour traffic to say, "Madam, what are you doing?" Whatever we might say about women at the wheel, it is hardly an equal road for her and her male counterpart. The teenaged boy shifting gears lurchingly isn't offered a Traffic Rules manual at the next signal. The man on the cell phone driving in the two-wheeler lane doesn't get knocked on his bumper by angry motorists. When the call-taxi always in a hurry whizzes past a red light, no one yells expletives about the driver's flawed genes. And no male driver has to try and block out the lurid gaze of the woman in front, twisting her rear-view mirror for a better look at his chest.

Update: Some phew-ness here.

the world needs cartoons

2006-09-22T15:43:00.000+05:30

"Everybody has a cartoon of themselves," suggests David Remnick, the editor of New Yorker, a magazine famous for cartoons, "Mine is: I write very fast, and I'm ruthlessly efficient with my time."

This is fun! Let me see... Mine is: I eat a lot of rice, and come up with stunningly crackerjack last minute ideas."
Tentative name: Last minute rani (with a ticking clock showing 11th hour in the background)

What cartoon are you?

BlogCamp!

2006-09-10T17:47:00.000+05:30

I went, buzzed around, and because I was covering it, didn't get to listen to anything except for one little limerick by Aparna Ray. Were there really just 200 people at the BlogCamp? That was supposed to be the upper limit of the number of participants, because as Kiruba says, "After that, it's either too chaotic, or we'll have to induce structure to make things more orderly." And at this event, asking for order and structure is blasphemous.

What excited me was that in a BlogCamp, if you're in the audience, and can't believe how boring the speaker is, you can actually stand up and show him how wide you can yawn. Fun, but that's a long way off. The rules have been broken for you, but it takes a while to relish that freedom. While some people sat with legs crossed on the table, some others hissed "How rude!" on the side. Teachers in school have trained almost irreversibly to only speak when we're spoken to. You wanna say something? You raise your hand, buster.

But the unconference did show signs of weaning its participants away from the usual conference etiquette. I caught at least half the people bringing their lunch plate to the table; those who didn't have probably had bad (and common) experiences of sambar splashes on their keyboard (No, drumstick sambar was last week. This week T,H, and N have slurped onion sambar).

There were bloggers who talked about pet fish and pandas, fashion (unrelated to the pandas), rural connectivity, disaster management, sleeping on the job while your blog earns for you, body shopping, blog journalism, podcasting, firewall skirting, how to avenge those that steal your content, how to increase your hitcount (I need to learn a thing or two), how to be likeable.

But today, a certain sense of wooziness was perceptible as soon as I entered the room. When I asked if it was post-lunch ennui, someone corrected me. “Post Beach House party booziness!”

I wish I’d hung around a little longer, but as soon as too many people started noticing my CNN IBN mike logo and saying "Why don't you attend my talk on a very pathbreaking concept," I decided it was time to leave. After all, they know that a little appearance in the media can do much for your blog. At the same time, I did know of some interesting bloggers like Amit Agarwal only through TV. It’s not surprising that blog-branding and promotion was one of the talks. But I was primarily looking out for blogs with a cause, and found Osama Manzar. He doesn’t blog himself, but came from Delhi to ask bloggers to be responsible in their writing—in that they don’t just detail their breakfast menu, but write of what they see in their travels. “Not take Coca Cola to the villages, but bring the sherbet to the city,” he said. His Digital Empowerment Foundation searches for solutions to bridge the digital divide. They’re the guys that awarded the now quiet and bitter youth, Raghav Mahto, for his enterprise in running his own radio station from rural Bihar.

I expected less tolerance for clichés in such an environment, but politeness and a will to be democratic let some sessions unclocked. Of course, it’s also probably just my patience that needs work. But being at the BlogCamp (even for a few hours) was great— you can almost hear the whirring of minds. And it’s a place where you meet so many you’ve only just read before. Even for those who spend more time in the virtual world than in the real one, shaking the hand of your favourite URL can put you in a great mood.

Jussst missed the elephants

2006-08-24T13:05:00.000+05:30

I decide to have a Kodaikanal holiday that isn’t ditto my dad’s 25 years ago. Since then, I hear, too many honeymooners and rowdy boy gangs have taken over. But surely there must be more to Kodi than just a repetitive line of rocks giving different views of blinding white mist. Surely it isn’t already explored out.

If you’re desperate enough for something new in this old, old place (since 1845), look behind the rocks the guide’s pointing at; demand to turn left when he turns right; look at the little cottages hidden from view by the mammoth holiday home. It takes a gritty kind of tourist to outfox the local travel guide. But when you manage it, you’ll find a door into the Kodi that is only for special guests.

But first, promise you won’t stone the monkeys. Or etch your eternal love or turbulent lust for someone on a tree trunk.

All right now we’re ready.

On the winding drive from Kodaikanal Road Station to Kodi at around 5 a.m., I try not to make a list of things to do. A list means structure and itinerary, which means asking someone for directions, and that means going where everyone’s been and is still hanging around. Instead, I talk to the driver. “So many tourists spoiling your town, no?” By the end of the three-hour drive, I’m armed with ideas and a determination that will keep me away from anything that has an attached shopping street. Or a bellboy.

I drive to Cinnabar, literally my home for three days. The man of the house, Bala, has two rooms and his entire home (always filled with delicious smells) to offer. After Kodi’s first cold wind has frozen my nose, it’s a relief to walk into a room that’s warm, delightfully distant from the overcrowded Kodai Lake area, and only two steps away from the kitchen. Breakfast is wholesome, and reminds me of something that will definitely only happen at home. Being cajoled to eat more because it’s good for you. Bala inducts me into family. I’m to say hello to the canines sprawled on the grass: the three-legged handsome Hero, and the slightly cynical Cookie. Then I’m packed off with a bottle of water to go find my own Kodi.

If you look a little lost around Kodai Lake, you’ll have at least four people walking up to you chanting names of ‘points’, ‘sights’ and ‘treks’. I say I don’t want to see touristy places, only directions to a certain Guna Cave. Shock, awe, disappointment: It’s a place that’s fenced with barbwire ever since 12 boys decided to go too deep into the caves five years ago, and didn’t come back. The crowd disperses, except one man. Selvam is a driver-cum-guide, and once I’m in his Ambassador, he fishes out a little book of 28 must-see sights. Published in 1975.

Guna Caves is the local name for Devil’s Kitchen, a deep bat-infested chamber between three naturally arranged imposing boulders (Pillar Rocks), a sight that is listed in Selvam’s book. It’s now called Guna Caves after it was turned into a romantic kidnapper’s lair for a Tamil movie. Loud teenagers stand just outside the fencing around the cave, screaming angstful “Abiramiiiii!”s (name of kidnapped in said movie). Selvam and I go around the base of the pillar rock. Me, petrified about being the potential thirteenth ghost in the cave, and Selvam, looking for a certain hallucinogenic ‘magic mushroom’ that gets him a good price from “Keralites and foreigners”.

We find an entry, veiled by bramble. “It’s a path only some of us know about,” says Selvam. The rocks are loose and wobbly, the fluorescent green moss making everything slippery. Bats are shrieking from somewhere really south, and we, errr… are heading in the same direction. Someone is haggling for a kilo of carrots somewhere far above and it sounds warm and safe there. Inside Devil’s Kitchen, however, the air’s muggy, the walls smooth, with little shelves that look perfect for a perch. Selvam chucks a pebble that’s instantly swallowed by the darkness. We hear the plonk only after about 10 seconds, and a crash of wing flapping (of bats we jolted awake). We’d discovered fresh country by simply stumbling on it. This is the kind of place that teaches you to how important it is to have a firm footing.

It’s almost four p.m., and Selvam goes off for a trippy omlette garnished with chopped magic mushroom. I grab a muffin and glass of hot chocolate at Pastry Corner, where you can hobnob with the old and famous from Kodi. Prasanna and his sister have run this cosy little bakery for years, dishing out heavenly Chickoo icecream, pizza, and whatever else you see in the store.

The streets near Kodai Lake are unusually deserted. Either it’s naptime, or the punctual afternoon rain has driven everyone indoors. I find The Art Gallery that’s spot on for penniless idlers. A dramatic Lotus theme quilt hangs on one of the walls. Differently sized canvases fill the two small rooms. Adam Khan, Cristina, J. Nath, Richard Pike. Not very local sounding, but the creator of every piece of art in this gallery has a home in Kodi, and each work of art is a sketch of the everyday life of the town’s people.

Back at Cinnabar, Bala introduces me to more family—Vasu, the lady of house, and Vidya, their 17-year-old daughter. We sink into the sofas in the fireplace defrosted living room, and agree with lethargy-softened passion that city life is for slaves. Why doesn’t everyone move to the hills? Defiantly, we proceed to the Middle Eastern dinner, in which every single vegetable, exotic or not, is plucked from the garden. And dessert, an affable cheesecake, too is thanks to a cow milked in Bala’s farm, and cheese made in Cinnabar’s own kitchen. Seriously, it’s like a Ukrainian folk tale.

The next morning, after another solid breakfast, I’m packed off with a bottle of water again. Today’s Kodi is one of the fugitives; people who ran away from the belittling enormity of cities to lend their paintbrushes some colour. People who found a town that gave them enough room to breathe.

J. Nath is a sprightly Punjabi artist who gave up Bombay’s pace 25 years ago for Kodi’s unpaved roads and potato farms. The plot next to his, Senora Garden, is a failed attempt at tempting the city-weary into a cottage on the hills. It has to be done right, like J. Nath’s home. Full of daylight shining in through large glass windows, the ceiling low enough to touch. Brushes and palettes strewn about; canvases at different stages of completion. And two little cushioned chairs. One for the white-bearded storyteller (him) and one for the enamoured (me). Nath tells snaking stories of travel; getting lost in the characters memory throws up. Once in a while, his wife Jaya points out to him that it was in 1983, not 1982 that he lost his graphic printer job at Dubai, and Rs.340, not Rs. 350 was the price of the first painting he sold.

Nath doesn’t waste paint on anything sad. Nothing can make him paint a tear, or the violence of rage. “Why not just brighten our walls and our lives?” His pointillist style and vigorous colour scheme adorns every wall in the famous Carlton Hotel of Kodaikanal. For superb tales about old charming Kodi, changing Kodi, and masala tea, Nath is the man to meet. He won’t care if you don’t even look at his artwork, but you won’t be able to help it.

Just a few minutes away from Nath’s home is Bharat Bakery, the only place in Kodi for incredible ginger biscuits. I munch them on the way to the ‘quilt lady’— Jayshree. The architect of the Lotus motif quilt in The Art Gallery. In a house next to hers, five women work with needle and thread, carefully sewing each puppy, jungle scene, and butterfly into the intricately designed quilts. They came to Jayshree from broken homes, and now they’ve together built their lives around the income and warmth the quilts bring. Jayshree had learnt quilting in London, before she too came away for a quieter life. Many visiting Kodi step into Jayshree’s little factory to learn a little quilting, and to sew personality into an otherwise rug.

The rain’s back again, and so is my excuse to laze. The chai chat with Bala roams around the valleys of Kodi, and stops at Joey. This man’s address could say: A. Joey, No.1, Kodaikanal Shola forest. Joey’s grown up bathing in waterfalls, watching elephants saunter by watering holes, and panthers slumber in his farm. Before the rural road connectivity project half a decade ago, Joey trekked up 20 kms of hill to buy his month’s supply of rice. Today, he’s a family man with a Maruti Omni. And anyone’s welcome to his wild home.

Bala takes me to Joey’s early next morning. The 45-minute drive of anticipation ends in an unbelievable house right in the Uthamapalayam range. Joey waves at us, and immediately wants to show off his backyard: the jungle. Throughout the four-hour intense trek, not once does 51-year-old sit to rest, or glug down water like one of us half his age did. He instructs us to not lose it if we saw an elephant, and do exactly what he does. Scramble up a tree. “You can climb a tree, right?” he asks, and I’m not sure he’s joking.

“Look, rosewood tree”. “You have a wound? This herb is a coagulant”. “A bear’s been at this beehive”. “Smell this. Wild lemon”. Joey enjoys the forest and its details. Things we can only gape at, and try to cram for an article. A fat bison runs noisily across a stream and Joey’s after it in a second. “Come, come! Bison! See it!”

The elephant valley, however, is Joey’s forte. Trees they’ve rubbed up against, the age and contents of the dung, the herd’s mud bath locations. Niceties only love and a long relationship can teach.

When we return (several kilos lower, I’m sure) to his home, there’s a hunter-gatherer lunch. Papaya, beans, drumstick. “Oh, it was just growing in my backyard.”

I did what I set out to do after all. I found the Kodaikanal I wasn’t looking for.

-------------------
For Outlook Traveller, September 2006.

Mount road

2006-08-07T17:47:00.000+05:30

2006

1905

2006-08-04T17:55:00.000+05:30

I wonder if the officeboy thinks his existence doesn't matter to all those whose empty coffee cups he clears.

Keep out because we've said so for ages

2006-07-18T19:58:00.000+05:30

Saamis will soon be all over town, throwing away their cigarettes and slippers, sleeping in the living room, and turning on their goodness for 41 days.

"Swamiyeeeii! Sharanam Ayyapppa!" is a chant I've heard and enjoyed every year, as my father would wear his rudraksh necklace, and suddenly turn so pious that I felt respect and fear soar inside me. I liked that he suddenly sported a beard too; it made him handsome. His friends planned the trip for a whole month: cars to be booked ("We're getting older, the Tempo will give us slipdisc. Get a Scorpio"), leave to be applied for, and celibacy to be attained. It was a man's holiday from the household, but these men were truly believers. They loved their Ayyappa and didn't fail to bring home the cherished Aravana payasam (prasad) that we licked for weeks after. I'm glad I got to go once when I was nine, and while trekking up the hill, some uncle even took the bundle of divinity from my head and threw it on his. "Little girls needn't bother."

Looks like not-so-little girls needn't bother either.

"Jayamala shouldn't have entered the temple."

Why?

"Because she's a woman, and women are not allowed inside the Sabarimala Temple."

Why?

"Because Ayyappa is a bachelor and he doesn't like women entering his temple."

Did he tell you personally? Did he have a nice booming godly voice?

Jayamala didn't just touch Ayyappa's feet; she hurt male pride. How dare she enter what God said was man's space? To add to that, an unnecessary court directive a few years ago asks the temple authorities to enforce the ban on women strictly. Now that Jayamala said she entered the temple 19 years ago, suddenly so many men are afraid that the fellow they've been worshipping all this while is a dirty fellow. Touched by a woman. Did it mean that all that work they put into leading a pure life was a waste? "Ermm... so can I smoke again? God ain't that pious anyway."

Rahul Easwar, grandson of the chief priest of the Sabarimala temple, is "a believer in tradition, but a feminist." That's how he describes himself. He's a VJ, wears stylish unwashed jeans, and could give Dhoni a run for his hair. He also chants Sanskrit slokas, seems to be a yoga expert of some sort, and said on a news show that he's is a believer in Sati. Whether he's that much of a believer in tradition, or he just said it to seem consistent on TV, we will never know. But it is this kind of Saami that worries me. The one who seems modern in every way, except that he's not too progressive. The fellows who have no qualms about clinking vodka glasses with their girlfriends, but would "be practical" in getting her parents to cough up dowry (To soften them up for the intercaste marriage). The kind of guy who "allows" his wife to work.

My dad and his middle-aged friends going to Sabarimala wouldn't care if their wives hopped along. Their sons who go along aren't really sure about this, though. They're still walking the trapeze between being a modern chappie who condemns the purdah system, and an Indian boy who must not question his tradition and culture.

How stupid can be thought funny

2006-07-13T20:12:00.000+05:30

If anyone asked me for advice about what 2-wheeler they should buy, I always said, "TVS. Mileage is great. The perfect middle-class company."
Nevermore. Because they went ahead and okayed one of the worst ads ever:

Chase skirts now. Soon you'll be washing them. Eeeyuck.
This writer's justifiably annoyed in her post, and calls it the "wtf ad". But it's the comments that are shocking. Take a look. And at this too.

Maybe the ad-men (or some strange women) were suffering from testosterone poisoning.

Dei Ambi, ketayo?

2006-06-27T11:48:00.000+05:30

A rascal was recently heard plotting annihilation of the dreaded tam-bram cult and stop forever curd-rice warfare in social, economic and virtual circles. As he sat with his cronies (software engineers from Bristol, New Jersey, Toronto and Tidel Park) one night-shift, he revealed his plan.

"We are to hijack The Hindu paperboy in Mylapore tomorrow morning. The Hindu must not reach Iyer and Iyengar hands! If that doesn't ensure heart attacks to every single mama on Kutcheri street, at least it'll ensure constipation."

Thanks, Meera, for this. A fantastic sociological finding:

A survey has revealed that 'Ambi Mama' is the leading relative among Tamil Brahmin families worldwide, with six in ten families having one of their own (a 60% repsesentation. Apparently, Ambi Mama held off stiff competition from Mani Mama (with 55% representation) and Baby Chitti (39%) for a well-deserved win.

"It's a great day for all Ambi Mamas. All the years of hard work-- drinking coffee, criticizing the Indian team selection and complaining about blood-pressure-- have finally paid off. Yay!", said Ambi Mama, a spokesman for the Ambi Mamas Association of Dear Old Rascals (AMBASSADOR), a division of the Hardcore Brahmin Organisation (HBO).

Yes, Vaidhi periappa did say, "Naangal ippo llaam broad-minded aakum." (These days we are all broad-minded). But...

Not all are happy with progress, however. "These youngsters are ruining everything by naming their children Archish, Dhruv and Plaha.", thundered Badri Athimber. "Can you imagine how it will sound? Dhruv Mama, Anamika Athai, Archish Chittappa-- Ugh! Phooey! That is so not cool!!", he growled, using expressions of disgust picked up from his states-based co-brother.
When asked for their response, several Brahmins living in Adyar merely arched their eyebrows, pursed their lips, and continued waiting for the December music season.

Update: Further research of the same. I think it's the vibhoothi overdose that's at fault.

the incident called monsoon

2006-06-21T18:56:00.000+05:30

I've seen how easy it is to just copy-paste, so here is another Outlook Traveller piece I wrote. The place: Beautiful, beautiful, Gokarna.
Next time, blog, I promise I will write exclusively for you.
---------------------
Rain is a big event only for those who don't see much of it. Those who see it in plenty scoff at any wide-eyedness about full rivers and rumbling clouds. People in Gokarna talk of a thunderstorm as if it were a tiresome old aunt who coughs too loud when everyone's asleep. For them, monsoon's just a time to wash clothes in smaller batches and make the umbrella the arm-extension of the season. A time when conversations with tourists go beyond giving them directions to the beach.

The conversations begin at Mangalore, where I take the local bus: the only sensible way to get to Gokarna, apparently. If you ask for a taxi (as I did), there will be no mistaking the utter disbelief on the driver's face. "Why spend so much money? Take the government bus." There is just one direct bus to the town, and if you miss that (as I did), then just let the wind and state transport take its winding course. The view from the shut window pane lashed with rain is worth the detours and retours. Don't let all the localites nodding off in the bus trick you into believing there's nothing to see on the way. They seriously have no clue they're living in a world of watercolour.

When I get to Gokarna, I ask for Swaswara, where I'll stay. It's just a month old, so the local name for this beach resort is simply, "aa hosa jaaga" (that new place). An autorickshaw man volunteers; his vehicle has curtains, big stereos, and a detachable door to keep out the rain. But no meter. I postpone the annoyance of having to haggle, and decide to enjoy the ride. As the autorickshaw the leaves the main town behind, it's as if someone switched off all the ambience. Except for the auto's putt-putt, and an occasional rumble from the skies that seems to shush any chitchat.

After a lot of quiet travelling, the road abruptly climbs onto the rain cloud we've been following. As the autorickshaw man switches off the engine and lets momentum play driver, I let my jaw drop. I can't believe I've seen white froth recede from sand. "Kudla beach, to your right," I'm told. Walled in by towering umber rocks that seem to relish every tourist's shock at suddenly discovering waves crashing underneath them. "There are three more beaches like this. Your hotel is on the next one," he points left, "Om beach."

When we're there, the autorickshaw driver seems almost shy to ask for money (though when he does, he's talking dollar conversion). He insists I figure out what he deserves, but manages a look of deep hurt and resignation when I give him what I think is a generous amount. "Foreigners never argue," he says. Guiltily, I slip him some more money, not realizing that I have now established a non-negotiable fee that he will forever hold me by. Still, I store his mobile number as "Only transport", and walk into Swaswara.

Their website had asked me to "be watchful, for here, spaces expand and time slows down." They've taken their warning seriously. My "room" door opens to a miniature Konkan villa, complete with cool red-oxide floors and tiled roofs. And, of course, the open-roofed bathrooms: initially unsettling, but gradually inviting more and more indulgent baths. The yoga room upstairs soon became my regular spot for tea and staring.

Five minutes from here is Om Beach, whose sands are footprint-free. Not because the sea does an impeccable clean-up job, but because monsoon is a time Gokarna goes from being a tourist spot to a town going about its business. People live on off-season mode, believing that tourists don't want their hair and feet wet. So although Gokarna's an almost round-the-year destination, most places that let out beach-shacks and cottages close down almost as soon as the first dark cloud makes its appearance. But those that are open are glad to have you, and serve up well-meaning chai and fried rice.

Even when Gokarna is introvert, it manages to make the endless expanse of the Arabian Sea seem like my own little holiday space; like all I have to do is clamber up another bump in the Western Ghats to conquer another bit of sea. From Om Beach, I walk a marked route up a mountain, stopping once in a while to get a top-view of the beach's Om shape. I stomp through a forest clearing for 15 minutes, simply following the sound of the waves.

Kudla Beach shines many shades of orange through the forest darkening after sunset. Palm trees line the beach, as if it's perfectly normal to stand there right next to big masses of sea-eroded boulders. A few fishermen venture out with torches, searching for fish that might get thrown up when the waves mess about in mountain crevices. When I'm done being stunned, I notice a board that says "Dangerous route. Do not use before sunrise or after sunset. Beware of robbers and thieves. -- Gokarna Police". A fisherwoman offers to let me stay in their house for the night, but I risk the walk (ok, ok, petrified dash) back to Swaswara. Thank you, good diligent man, whoever you are, for painting a white arrow every five steps up to Om Beach.

At Swaswara, I prescribe myself a Bollywood style shower dance in the open-roofed bath. At dinner, I look at the fish on my plate. Don't I know this fellow? "Just caught from Kudla Beach by local fishermen, madam," says Manjunath, 24-year-old proud wearer of F&B manager badge. There are vegetables too, in case it hurts to eat someone you've just met. The menu is flexible, and you'll get almost whatever you want. Even conversation. The staff will you tell you unbelievable season-time stories. Of when beaches are full of foreign tourists and backpackers from Goa who stay so long they have tabs in the town market. Of Gokarna (cow's ear) being named for the ear-shaped confluence of two rivers. Of how the man who runs 'The Spanish place' in Kudla fell in love with a Spanish traveller.

I sleep well, until it gets slightly colder and some fat clouds explode on top of the place. It rains with a vengeance here. Unbroken, noisy sheets of water. Till sunrise. Then the sky tells you to go on with your holiday. So I do. An auto takes me to town at the earlier standardised rate.

Gokarna is a little town, too high up in the Western Ghats to be bustling. October to February is the time most tourists land there, so a rare monsoon traveller is a delight, and is quickly assumed a pilgrim. Shopkeepers, temple priests, local tribes selling flowers... everyone is ready to break into a story. The temple town of Gokarna has about 18 temples i.e. more than two temples per street. When the shrines tend to get quite repetitive, someone suggests visiting only the town's main lord: Mahabaleshwar. It's the one temple stop to holiness.
There, a board says "Foreigners are prohibited inside the temple". A tad unfriendly for this century, what? Many agitated priests justify that god doesn't like unbathed people and they're not sure if foreigners bathe. Those they think are tidy are advised to spend a bomb for a Shiva linga puja. After a total flop of embarrassed bargaining, I try to get my money's worth by getting the priests to explain all the legends of the temple town. With illustrations.

Only a little wiser, I walk to the nearby Gokarna beach, the only one accessible inside the town. If it wasn't monsoon, and I wasn't a woman, priests would've persuaded me to appease my departed ancestors. A puja for the dead (tharpanam) performed at the seacoast is one of the reasons Gokarna's a sacred destination. But it's raining, and all I see is some snoozing Brahmins and white cows chewing on the discarded puja flowers.

The town covered in half a day, I head to the two beaches I've been warned to only touch by road: the Half moon and Paradise beaches, which can be reached by auto or trek. The adventurous spirit wins, and takes the forbidden path. This time, there are no white arrows to show the way. Just an often-taken muddy track that's now running off the cliff because of the non-stop drizzle. Some dependable rocks are held on to, and the photographer Kedar and I look down at the Half Moon beach. More peril, less sand, this beach. But any peril will seem worth it if dolphins suddenly slice through the sea surface. Four of them, like synchronised swimmers. We watch and breathe the sight in. The drizzle slowly turns impolite, urging us to turn back. Paradise is far, far, away and may be conquered in a safer summer.

The sand is shrugged and shaken off and one hand grabs the chai, while the other snatches the buttered toast. We await twilight for Kedar's "perfect blue sky". Whoever said rain would play spoilsport doesn't know how fair it plays the game in Gokarna.

Aei auto!

2006-06-05T13:09:00.000+05:30

Automen are perhaps the most worldly-wise swindlers I've ever known. And in Chennai, all they have to do is narrate a few anecdotes and put forth a few cute theories that relate the water scarcity to Rajnikanth having been a conductor in Karnataka. And there you have the passenger just handing over his/her wallet to the sideways sitting man.

All for a hilarious, frequently disagreeable lecture about tamil kalacharam (culture) and splendid profanities yelled at idiot motorists... all for a show of personality and wit, I part with my not-so-hard-earned money. I throw away precious negotiating power the moment I giggle at 'yamma di, thodaiya yenna grip-la pudichirukka!' (wow, what a grip she's got on his thigh. Pointing at a girl and boy on a bike).

The carefully constructed scowl is all but menacing when my eyes shine interest in his speech about the irrelevance of arguing the banes of populism when the promised free rice is actually wanted, and being distributed. How to not give an extra 10 bucks to someone who's so angry about the thiruttu VCD (pirated VCD) crackdown; and so excited about seeing Pudupettai at Rs. 2 per head at home than Rs. 35 at the theatre. I pass the buck. If only to continue the conversation without interruptions about the ornament that is the auto meter.

Automen, they rule, but autorickshaws, they joggle bone joints. It's a strange relationship we have with autorickshaws. A strange flavour of love. Made of need, cheating, and entertainment. And when you think you can second guess all of their moves, you encounter this: The Indian Autorickshaw Challenge, 'the birth of a new motorsport'. A 1000 km rally through Tamil Nadu in a three wheel motorized vehicle. On August 21-28, 2006.

And if anybody has read the magazine Autokaran, then please do let me know where I can get hold of a copy.

whose hand

2006-06-03T15:54:00.000+05:30

Seen for 5 days in Bangalore (on RBANMS school ground wall... where the exhibitions usually take place):
READ HOLY THIRUKURAL

Seen on 6th day:
READ HOLY THIRUKURAL
THEN READ DAVINCI CODE

Dammit they don't use flags anymore

2006-04-27T21:00:00.003+05:30

(Written for Outlook Traveller. I know, it's cheating to post it here. Especially when it's so long. But hey. New thought must accompany new look)

It's the first thing I get wrong. Looking for one man. The board does say The Station Master, but that must've been nine platforms, 221 trains, and a century ago. These days, The Station Master at the bustling Chennai Central is actually a team of white uniformed, slightly rounded, intensely dutiful men. Three men, as one force, making sure we have enough time to cry our goodbyes, to give strict instructions about the milk in the fridge, to make a dash for a last minute bottle of water even as terrified moms snap at us to "GET BACK in the train".

The second bit of idiocy has something to do with the blazing warning the Railway higher-ups reserve for those eager to meet the railway staff. I'm scolded stiffly that my request to just observe the men at work will create a definite situation of imminent danger. Did I really want to be responsible for the sacking of the stationmaster, and worse, the deaths of a train full of people?! Did I not care at all for an inconvenience (me) free environment?

After signing something of a mea culpa, I set off grimly to the stationmasters' office. Karunakara Reddy nods me in, while Rajasekaran tries to look concerned about some article on rice politics in Tamil Nadu. Reddy is pleased that there are still people who want to "study" the work of stationmasters. "There are ladies like you in our trade, you know. But after one month as stationmas… err, mistress, they don't want to do standing work. They ask for a transfer and go sit in the office." This topic interests Rajasekaran and he speaks as if reading from the newspaper: "Sometimes I don't know what to think of woman power." Reddy laughs and elaborates the tiffs his friend has with his ambitious daughter. "Rajasekar has one plus, one minus, you see. One son, one daughter. Both want to work. My friend wants his daughter to be a housewife. He is an old fashioned man, you see. My wife, she is employed."

There is love light in his eyes, but without a word of consultation Reddy and Rajasekaran suddenly get up in unison and leave the room. The digital clock on the wall has blinked the call of duty. Train departure at 9 o'clock. On the way to Platform 6, voices in Hindi, German, English, and barely-there Tamil plead train numbers coaches, and ticket rates. Reddy has an answer for everyone, an encouraging nod nudging them ahead, partly so they find their way, and partly so they get out of his. "I know railway related lines in eight languages!"

Rajasekaran gets into a heated argument with the Freight Loading In-charge. "See the spring under the coach! It's jammed! The train cannot carry this much weight! Why don't you listen?!" His fists thump the side of the crates violently. Just then a confused family stumbles to him asking in Hindi for Coromandel Express. He's suddenly a soft mass of goodness. "This only, sir, this is your train. Get into the unreserved bogie. Be careful with your little girl." Beads of sweat escape from his nose tip onto a train of wetness on the front of his white shirt.

Reddy has meanwhile sorted the overloading issue with special negotiations. He points to the confused family and little girl getting on an already overflowing coach. "72 people in one coach are allowed. But see these faces peeping out." Faces peep out.
"Must be 150 per bogie. Mostly in northward bound trains." Rajasekaran joins in. His theory is that it's the north Indians who make travelling such a nightmare. "They carry trunks! Even ten-inched kids carry trunks!" He has a thing or two to say about the "arrogant army fellows" too and where he'd like them to shove their trunks.

A reverent worker from the Pantry Car informs Rajasekaran that there's no water on board. Five minutes later, private supply has been arranged. Is that ok in a government-run monopoly, I ask, obviously a fool to have. "Solutions. Quick solutions and good water. That's what people want," Rajasekaran says. Apparently, people bear the toilet stink and sometimes acrid train food because deep in their heart they know "no other country will allow hanging from a train like this." "Passenger oriented railways… new meaning, no?" laughs Reddy.

Somewhere along the 155 years of Southern Railways, the stationmaster has become an oracle, a voice of good sense. A voice with an answer to any existential dilemma in all that mad chugging of wheels. Reddy and Rajasekaran agree that to the passenger, they're the front office guys. Probably thanks to the Southern Railway mascot, an exceedingly friendly looking elephant with blue tie and a trunk-held lamp. Rajasekaran chuckles about how he is the living mascot sans the friendly face. "I keep a scowling face when I'm bored of answering stupid questions."

But the real responsibility takes more than a friendly face.

And that's where Balasubramaniam, the third man, (no, he wasn't forgotten) comes in. Not friendly, not ready to answer questions, not wearing his uniform. "Who's going to see?" Far away from the passengers, his world is up in the second floor Cabin, amidst the buttons and knobs and brakes. And the constant ringing of the eight phones. At one point, he was "calling driver of Jaipur train" on the microphone, with three phones tucked under his jaw, filling in complicated numbers of arrival and departure in a record. The driver of Jaipur train was not responding. And the train was rolling towards a platform that already had an engine stalled. But Balasubramaniam was still on the phone. "Even if he wants to bang the train into another train, my braking machine won't let it happen," he says, proudly turning a knob and smiling for the first time, "Of course, if upstairs authority says to crash Jaipur train into Howrah train, then it can happen." Whoa. Railway higher-ups? "No, no, God."

As he sits among his phones and knobs, Reddy and Rajasekaran, at work near the Guard's coach, find out that a split in a weak rail-line last month has got only Reddy blackmarked. Rajasekaran says guiltily that he has been let off because of his familiarity with the top boss. They both smile sadly at each other.

They're a team that has been together for over 25 years. Seeing trains grow longer, bogies getting fuller, and private advertisements in the station get louder. And as their senior officials go to collect their awards in the Railway Week celebration, the Station Master, all three of them, turn back to mark the arrival of the next train. 'On time'.

the old man and the prizes he gave me

2006-04-12T18:51:00.000+05:30

I first saw him as Purandaradasa, his earnest voice pleading with the Vittala shrine to give him one glimpse, asking if an untouchable's devotion was only worthy of rebuke. As B&W temple bells clanged and crashed into each other, I remember my dad imitating the nasal tone of Rajkumar's voice. Trying to flare up his nostrils like Rajkumar's would when he sang.

Then I saw him as the detective whose 'idea face' was a nose-flare and big wide eyes. Also imitated by appa even in front of guests. Then Rajkumar was a policeman, a father, a man to take behind the bushes and kissing flowers, a devoted son, a farmer, a smart smuggler, a special common man. But Purandaradasa with his pleading voice remained with me as the lasting image.

To my family, Rajkumar was the voice of devarnamas (kannada devational songs). None of this was about faith, or devotion, of course. In Bangalore, Rajkumars devarnamas always won first prize at any music competition. Buy that new tape. Write down those difficult lyrics. Get meanings from kannada miss at school… because you had to emote right to win the Kannada book on Tipu sultan. Or else you'd end up with second prize. A book on someone who didn't even have a TV serial to his name. When one Rajyotsava Day, Rajkumar handed the first prize certificate to me in Town Hall, and ruffled my hair, I told the whole school.

Every morning, Rajkumar played out of my grandmother's old radio. "How many times will they play Bhagyada Laxmi Baaramma?!" We'd knot our ties and polish our black shoes wondering aloud why so many of Rajkumar's songs had the word preetse and bangaara. Then after Radio City happened, Suresh Venkat brought us at least two Rajkumar songs per evening on the Kannada-only show. After Rajkumar was kidnapped, every day we'd go to college (very near Rajkumar’s Bangalore home), only to be packed off home in the afternoon because of possible rioting. We hoped everyday that he was well and healthy in the forest. Believing that his wellness meant our safety in our mostly-Tamilian neighbourhood.

When he was returned from the forest, we listened to Huttidare Kannada nadalli huttabeku being played over and over on TV and radio, with as much elation as the people we were afraid will land their lathis on our head. We'd forgotten how much we loved the old man, how much we had internalized him. As he became just something we grew up with, we had forgotten his ability to sway opinions. His proud refusal to use his stardom to step out of the studios into the assembly. His shockingly steady voice even at 60.

Still, he'd stopped short of being a legend in my home. There were too many 'legends' sitting in our living room: MGR, thanks to appa. Prem Nazir, thanks to amma. And Rajkumar, thanks to the land we lived and loved.

Today, the last of them has had his funeral swamped with love and tears. So many adjectives, so many anecdotes, so many garlands. Suddenly, my family's love for the man seemed a mere fondness.

Till appa messaged me: "Dr Rajkumar dead. What to do now?"