Banana leaf musing

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.

Mount road

2006

1905

Dei Ambi, ketayo?

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.

Dammit they don't use flags anymore

(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'.

new pal

His only job is to open the gate, shut the gate, and in between retrieve the screamer kid's ball from the sunshade every five minutes. He told me his name thrice, all when I asked, but I nodded without paying attention. I try to squeeze every bit of English out of my Tamil just to get him to dismount the wall he climbs every time I so much as look at him. It's a class thing, a friend said, but I naively want it not to be.

Today is ayudha puja, and on Sunday everyone in Sri Ramachandra Apartments was washing his/her bike. I rode off to work, came back with the same dried-up-and-unsuccessfully-scraped-off pigeon crap and all the slush in the city. But I wasn't going to clean it if it meant having the shirtless prowler attack me. The Prowler is an uncle who circles the apartment block and asks quick questions every time he sees my flat mate or me... "What time does work get over?" which means am I loafing (=going to night club with boys) till now; "You must be eating out everyday..." which means I'm the 'modern' girl they will ever despise; and "What salary do you get?" which means do you earn more than me. He was funny for 2 days. But then he tried to convince me to cover a wedding as national news, and I have been on the run since.

Anyway, watchman walks up to me yesterday and says, "Amma, neenga mind pannalena, naan unga bike-a thodachidava?" (If you don’t mind, can I clean your bike?). Offended at the presumption that I wouldn't clean my own bike (where would he get such an idea?), I quickly assured him that I would do it myself. To that,
"I don't mind, really. I'm here all day. Sunday I can do."
"No no, in Bangalore, I washed the bikes of everyone in the house. I'll manage."
"Oh, but now you're alone. You must be thinking who you'll clean for...”
(Laughing) "No no, I don't have such sentiments..."
"I understand, ma. It's ok, you don't have to pay me. But please, I can't see anything in such condition!" Then as The Prowler approached, "Ok madam, you go upstairs now."

The next day, Reddy was sparkling. Even the pigeons didn't want to crap on so shiny a surface. (Instead, they came to my balcony and relieved themselves on the broken fan blade). It hasn't been an ayudha puja with pori and sweet boondi, lemon, agarbatti, and bruised fingers... but in many by-the-electricity-meter conversations I have found in Palani the greatest bitch in town. Our victim: The Prowler. Apparently, The Prowler can never start his scooter in the morning.

a place taken

A new home means large windows that can be swung open with every bit of strength that limp hands just woken from sleep can muster. Brighter, cleaner sunlight splashes itself over every inch of white space.
Four little black marks on the floor tell me there was a sofa there that someone cushioned into every evening after work. They had a TV, and you had to lie on the sofa if you had to watch. The bathroom floor dips a little by the tap, where someone stood singing "Vaa di yen kappa kezhange" through the mugs of water dribbling down his/her face. The mostloved windows open in smooth swishes, while others screech dryly. Strangely, the kitchen is unsolved - even if someone ate too much garlic, mango, fish, ghee or coconut, it has been distempered.
Walkedabout houses are like yellowing books. They say, "I've been enjoyed." Some doors handles are wrung more, some balconies more smoked in. The top shelf in the wardrobe, it seems, had sheltered a few gods who bathed in sandalwood incense. Someone who didn't believe in diets went to the commode a lot, and now it's a crater because of the weight. There's a leaky tap still sticky with scotchtape efforts. A rusted shower telling of times when Cauvery wasn't impartial. Pigeon crap that helps track which windows were left open too long.
Ok the last one, I want to wish away. I picked up one little curled up crapball yesterday while cleaning the bathroom. With bare fingers! That has got to offset all my sins.
Now to find cellotape and leave my poster marks for the next tenant to appreciate.

brand new

A little rain was all it took. Ok, not little, because the sky came crashing down, along with some trees and electric poles. Sharp pokey needles pierced my face and neck as I zipped blindly through road lakes. In between two great splashes arching out from either side of my bike, I suddenly realised how completely drenched I was. What’s the point now, of rushing home? So a circuitous route taken, some plastic cover wearing people seen, and rain songs loudly blubbered, I got home.
"Shit, my cell phone! Oh god, my wallet! Yaaa, my cheque book!" All wet. Colours meeting each other on Gandhi’s face. Little blue waves on my account number. I’m all soaked, and there’s a droplet tickling the end of my nose, still unsure about landing on the floor. I shouldn’t have to worry about sodden paper, dammit.
So the dripping bag was chucked in the corner, wet hair ignored, and rain soaked in.
I feel a secret amusement at how the morning after suddenly looks like life in slow motion. Civility, parched and scabbing till now, has become fresh and dew-sprayed. Everyone’s breathing is leisured, walking softer, singing louder.
No flying tempers, no nonsense-boys wanting to overtake you from all sides and crash and die all the time. No chest starers, mirror and crotch adjusters. Loosely flapping shirts, clean wet-from-the-puddle feet, raspy voices, cups of tea, and white clouds. I look around more, and wonder about right-lanes, "Stop Horn OK Please", "Nodey ley Upendra", a Gent’s beauty parlour board illustrated with the pic of a boy being facesqueezed into a haircut. Wonder why tumblers are better than cups & saucers. And why skipstepping, once started, cannot be stopped.
The air is clean of intrusive dust particles that otherwise make for dangerous irritants when combined with sweat. The tar road is not a sheet of heat anymore, and even the blaring horns have shut up (except for the occasional idiot who I curse to burn in acid rain).
Yes I know it’s hot again. Not dry, though.

road to eldorado

Every time someone tries to tell me Madras is changing into "a hep and cool city", I bite my teeth tight, scrunch my hands into fists and pray for the proliferation of "uncool" people in the city.
But after one random wandering into Mylapore, I’ve got a certain jasmineoilbath-turmeric-Cuticura-vibhooti smell bottled up in my head. And each time someone swears that the city’s becoming a salon-manicured, pink-clothed, cappuccino-preferring person, I smell my Mylapore smell.
I had strolled into the place, staring up open-mouthed at the gopuram of the Kabaleeswaran temple. The temple is all I knew of the place, apart from some "in my bachelor days" wonderfully embellished stories from dad – about the Brahmin agraharams (streets set apart for Brahmins), the banishing of fish/mutton shops in the area, some political speeches, and my dad’s best reel off: the shocking saga of a maami (aunty) who used Milkmaid condensed milk for payasam ("What?! She didn’t stand over the stove mixing the milk for 24 hours till it got thicker?").
But I must’ve chosen a particularly busy day to walk in there because I realised, still open-mouthed, that there wasn’t an inch of road to spare for another tyre, or foot.
Right in the middle of all the Swiss ice-cream shops, cell phone showrooms, gigantic shopping malls, and BMWs trying desperately to park in auto stands, were three towering chariots swathed in flower garlands. As the ther (chariot) jerked forward, pulled by tight-muscled perspiring young men, the milling just-bathed crowd parted reverently to give way. Just as I was craning my neck to see what was glistening in the ther, I realised that apart from two policemen standing in a corner wolfing down free slices of pineapple from a vendor, no police was around to handle the masses.
Apparently, during the Panguni festival that happens every year in the Kabaleeswaran temple, it's like the temple priests fleetingly reclaim their lost authority. Every morning and evening, for 10 days in March, the temple idol of Shiva is brought out, mounted on different vahanas. And for those 10 days, one wave of the priest’s hand voicelessly directs hundreds of people. The minute he wiggles that little bell and the chariot lunges forward, folded hands and soft prayers go up in the air. Some children get to ride on the ther, prettied up in new shiny clothes, and appropriately ohh-aahing when gold-plated puppets come flying from all sides and shower flowers on the idol.



During these 10 days, people from villages around Chennai throng to Mylapore with plastic toys, beaded necklaces, clay pots, plastic flowers, matchboxes, kumkum, turmeric, merry-go-rounds, mini giant-wheels, blouse-pieces, idols of gods and goddesses…
And in the middle of it, I couldn’t help cheering along, especially when the little girl who wanted to see it all shifted herself coolly from her stunned dad’s shoulder onto my head. Each time the closely watched puppet angel swung towards the ther, the entire crowd watched, saying "Ippo vizhum. Ippo Vizhum" (Now it’ll fall), as if they'd be proven fools if they didn't guess right. And the fresh-faced boy hiding behind the electric pole, holding the puppet strings, would smile to himself, and tug the string just when everyone least expected it. The blood red flowers dropped on the idol, among mad clapping and cheering and hurried praying.
10 days of a locality turning into a complete chandhai (exhibition-cum-market). A day of impulse buys ("All for god only. Shiva, shiva"). My pick of the day: a big-headed plastic monkey in red painted T-shirt, riding a red cycle-rickshaw, at the back of which a proud sticker said "Hardworking rickshawman". It even has a key to wind the guy up so he can take imaginary people for 5 second rides.
Ok, so there were guys in Adidas shorts filming the whole thing in videocams. It isn't about saying shut-up to new things. It's about poohing to the self-congratulatory cool world that poohs to the sometimes similarly self-congratulatory old-world. But oh well, there ain’t nothing cooler than kudumi vaadhyaars (priests with pony-tails… oh yuck to English translations) on Bullets.

---------
Note to self: Find photoshop for size-cutting and posting more photos taken.

drippy days

A week ago, I looked with disgust at a dusty drum and orange plastic pot sitting in the corner of our miniscule kitchen. "I need to keep the potato basket here. Can't we chuck these useless things out?" I asked my flatmate. When I touched it, she slapped my hand away, looking like she'd like to pull my nails out of my fingers one, by one.
"Summer's coming. When you have soap in your eyes and the tap makes that khiiisssshhh sound, you'll know why this dirty drum is important," she said. I thought it quite unneccessary that she walked off without finishing the coffee she was making for me. What drama.

Today, the tap said "Khiiiiisshhh" when I had soap in my eyes. And the potato basket is a big waste.
Fortunately for me, there's a tap on the ground floor with running saline water. I'll only have to climb up two floors with the orange pot, boil the whole thing on our little Clix gas stove, drain the salt with the littler coffee filter, and wait for it to cool before I use it. All this on the day I stop jogging because it's too stressful.
I find it utterly non-funny that today is World Water Day.

tiffen ready

I try not to be in awe. I struggle against becoming the stereotype ‘gazing-in-wonder’er of something that has been raved about in websites, newspapers, food guides, and has even been given a thumbs-up sign at the Mommy Quality Testing Department. But I’m suckered in.
I tell my roomie I’ll buy dinner on my way home from work, and try to plan my route so I can stop over at a food-joint on the left side of the road. Then I see Shanti theatre and vaguely remember someone telling me that there was a Saravana Bhavan in the building. "Oh God, I’ll be buying from a brand," I think, the word shaping into an index finger wagging itself at me accusingly. Oh god, even newcomers to Chennai look into their places-to-visit list and ask directions to "Sa. zha. va. nah. Bha. waan".
It is… (shudder)… even recommended in travel books that describe sambar as "a mixture akin to lentil soup" and chutney as "pureed cilantro condiment".
But one impatient roar from my stomach and my bike turns into the Saravanas parking lot. The next thing I know, I’m looking at the menu. But I promise I chanted "Shame on me" 100 times before sleeping that night. I’ll walk on hot coals next, as atonement. Or drink toxic cola.
So many choices on the menu make me nervous. So I scan the column on the right — the one with the rates. For a tiffin room, they definitely don’t believe in being too wallet-friendly. "These brands… pha!" I crib. After I’m billed for one of my most uncreative dinners in ages, I take my token to the counter that says ‘Parcel’.
This moment on, what I witness is pure industry.
Non-sweaty boys in blue uniforms crinkle their brows, toss this, and mix that in the open kitchen. Shiny steel, and white rags flash through idli-smelling steam. A man standing in the far corner near an expanse of square, black, sizzling slate straightens his tall white chef hat with SaravanaaS printed across his forehead, and says, "Masala", softly, and cleeeaarly. He’s hardly closed his mouth after speaking, and a boy zips invisibly to the man and places a steel bucket of yellow potato masala to be smeared on the insides of a masala dosa.
Everyone has a no-nonsense expression as they go about dipping washed dishes in piping hot water; cutting freshly bathed onions to sprinkle in a circular fashion on the sambar vada just so it lazes about in the droplets of glistening ghee. :)
I’ve always expected those kneading parotta dough to conjure up enough anger to slap that damn flour into suppleness; but the tall sprightly teenager’s shockingly chubby hands play about in the flour, the thumb carrying the dryness of the flour into the dampness of the lukewarm water, all the while looking like he was strategising on how to beat the damn rival team in morning beach cricket.
Waiters and stewards in white, wearing name badges, walk in and out of the kitchen… no ones gets jostled, no one does a pehle-aap routine, no one even realises how the white brigade weaves through the blue troupe in perfect sync.
Fluorescent green banana leaves lie upon a platform, to be whisked away by the whitemen and placed on the plates before the food is dropped on it ("For preventing grease from clinging on to the plates, and for the little south Indian touch," explains the coffee-making expert who stands by the counter marked ‘Coffee’, where the rare order of tea gets prepared too.) Whatever the size of the plate, there is a neat leaf cut in that very shape, so it sits like it belongs.
The quiet of the kitchen is numbing. Especially because a few steps from there will take me to the unbroken buzz of the dining hall, where a father urges a little girl to choose a flavour of ice-cream for the fruit salad while he himself unthinkingly orders coffee, and a family of four that dismounted from a Bajaj scooter decides to have soup, naan and gobi manchurian, "for a change".
It thrills me that one of these whitemen may one day be an investor in another SB outlet. SB is one of the few non-corporate dos that encourage its employees to set up their own outlet, and even provide half the capital to do this. But otherwise, the place runs like a factory, and each bowl of pulao and and raita is weighed and a few grains of rice thrown in to make the standard weight.
All the cogs in the machine are unfaltering, largely expressionless men, who only collectively snort, guffaw and hold their stomachs and the closest walls for support when they realise that the idli-man has switched the steam machine thingie on without placing the batter dumplings in. He was too busy gaping at the pink foreign women who’ve walked in to check out if Lonely Planet is right about Sa. zha. va. Naah. Bha. waan.
It is my roomie who said the biryani was "soooo yummm" when I prefunctorily sulked about the price and brand association. "But it’s a home-grown brand, no?" she said, to ease my pain a little bit. But by then, my tastebuds were too happy to care.

sunshine again

"I've spoilt myself living in Bangalore," I thought, one zany day, "Let me treat myself to some Chennai."
So here I am, in the city of wide roads, little smartypant kids who know every Rajnikant, Vivek and Vijay dialogue,
shockingly gutter-mouthed motorists,
wisecracking automen telling their passengers "petrol rate yeri pochu ma…" (petrol rates have risen) just when papers announce that there will be no price hike,
music and film festivals that turn into 'tamizh vazhga' (long live tamil) fiestas,
lording of The Hindu, lording of amma,
Sun TV, set-top box, HUGE movie hoardings,
super kaapi,
jasmine and oil smelling hair,
winding flyovers, in-city buses with scrawny college boys dancing on top,
women who don't hesitate to grab dirty old men by their collar and throw them out of moving buses,
wise men who scramble away from the women's seats,
disappearing monuments,
the exultant "tamizh thaana?!" on discovering tamilians from other States,
Koovam, Spencers mall,
begging mafia, water mafia, sand mafia… oh, there's just so much!

Aside: Somehow, the word 'Chennai' has just no effect. So official, it sounds. So I will say Madras. Colonial? So be it.

I turn a deep maroon to say that all it took to ease into the city, and sweat along was the end of my Bangalore prepaid SIM card. Come new Madras number, and I've said my last "tata!" to Kempegowda. Shame. Shame upon me.
The last two days have been spent house hunting... Before I actually got on the task, I figured I'd see a real estate ad in the papers, make an appointment to meet the landlord/landlady, see the place, fall in love with it, and instantly go curtain shopping. Leave alone home accessories, I haven't still found one piece of floor I would like to step on everyday after work. And a wart-sporting, steel-scale-holding budget witch follows me around, rapping me in the knuckles every time my eyes light up at a wonderful, but annoyingly expensive house.
I now realise I should've kissed the walls and doors of my home in Bangalore a lot more. Sigh. I hear the new décor trend is to paint your walls white and then keep them unclean enough so they turn other shades. That way, there is even a surprise element to it all.
Now, in the search for my new home, I've walked into snail shells, brothels, palaces, convent dormitories, prisons, religious conversion centres, and nice homely little houses. But what I cannot believe is the number of people who've appointed themselves my real estate agents. From friends to aunts, colleagues to Vasantha Bhavan (VBs- a south indian fast food restaurant near office) waiters & cashiers, neighbours to shopkeepers… everyone's in on it.
I walk into VBs for coffee and "You got it-a?" has replaced "Hello, ma". We all pour over the classifieds, laughing over every ad that says, "24 hours water supply" and "fixed rent 3000/- negotiable". After all, during eight months of college, I only ate every meal there and translated complex demands like "no skin in coffee, please" and "I have strands of hair in my sambar" into tamil.
But what has now bound me to them for life are their offers to let me stay in their houses if I didn't find a suitable accommodation. ("My house is always open for you, ma... but it might be little humble for you..." Humble?!! I don't see anybody offering to let me stay in his 8 bedroom house...)
The kannadiga manager first tripped over himself with joy when he found I knew Kannada. After that, he refused to speak in any other language, and kept announcing our Indiranagar connection to all the waiters as they nodded with interest sufficient enough to keep their jobs.
Hmmm... maybe moving wasn't such a bad idea after all. The Madras grin is as beamy as Bangalore's anyway. The only addition is the squint in the sun-tortured eye. All else is happily warm. So things couldn't be brighter.