parfum. From this angle

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.

Aei auto!

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.

ka-ching!

Automan (irritated): You want to go to bank first, and them home?!
Me (Very carefully): Umm.. Yes.
Automan: ATM? Or State bank? If it is public bank, you will be there long enough for me to go have bath, get married and have kids. And then I can give them bath also. ATM means go inside, chak, zzzhup, chadak, chinnnng! Over.
Me: No, no… ATM only. Fast-fast I'll come back.
Automan: Good. I like the youth of today. Umm… can I also withdraw money from my ICICI ATM on the way?

town criers

Slow to react, we all are. In all our worries about passing exams, getting home on time, not burning the milk, paying the phone bill on the last day, filling petrol before the bike breaks down, finding a home, finding peers, asking boss for leave, not getting fleeced by the automen, watching soaps to see if the vamp gets her way, and oh so many mini-paranoias, we are only taken aback by a tsunami.
Not shocked, terrified, or anxious. Just taken aback. Dazed.

I was going to blog of how I ran from the huge wave in Mahabalipuram rushing to swallow the town, but I heard too many people say, "I almost died, you know… I'm ok now. And I'm all ready to party on New Year's".
I'll desist from telling my tale. I don't want to be another tourist with a digital camera, capturing a capsized boat with the naked orphan bawling next to it. I'll let the ones who know speak.
*****

This morning…

Me: Did the tsunami affect some more slums last night?
Automan Raja: There are no slums left, ma… See how everyone's on the streets…
Me: Is your house ok?
R: Mine was a brick house. One full wall crashed down on Sunday morning. I'm wearing my brother's shirt. I'm left with nothing but my life.
Me: Oh. Your family…
R: Thank god, ma. They're all alive. We are living in this school here (points to it as we pass by).
Me: The government is giving some compensation, no?
R: Yes, yes… Rs.2000, rice, and clothes. Oh, to get that stupid Rs.2000, the kind of nonsense I had to go through… No queue, nothing. They'll throw it and we have to catch. Everyone was stamping on each other, grabbing whatever they could. It was like they were feeding wolves.
Me: Umm… Rs.2000? For how long?
R (Laughs): Till another tsunami strikes!
Me: …
R: That's all, kannu. That's all they'll give us. But Jayalalithaa has asked for more funds. I hear so many people are donating money and medicines. But where? I haven't got anything… I don't know where it all goes. We can't say politicians take rice away! They might sit there on their asses doing nothing, but I think we poor people are the ones really stealing away from each other.
Me: How can you say that?!
R: Because everyone's afraid they're going to die now. If I sit dry and safe in a big house far away from the sea, I might feel sympathy. But right now, I want my family to be alive. I don't care if the guy in Nagapattinam dies.
<<>>
Me: Do you get food regularly?
R: They bring food to us everyday. Some sambar rice in packets. They bring it in the kuppathotti lorry (garbage lorry). The food stinks, but we have to eat, no? All the kids have been vomiting since 4 days.
<<>>
Me: I'll get off at Santhome church.
R: Santhome? It's near Marina, I hope you know. Be careful, ma… Don't go near the beach. If something happens to you, your parents will not be able to bear it.
Me: I thought you didn't care…
R (grins): What to do? Stupid human feelings…
*****

This morning at home…

Me: Your daughter didn't come with you today?
Maid Chellamma: No, she's gone to my old house near Besant Nagar beach. It's all broken.
Me: Who stays there now? Is it your own house?
C: What you are asking me such idiotic questions? As if I'll have my own house! I'm a maid!
Me: So? My maid in Bangalore has a house…
C: Are her children earning?
Me: Yes.
C: So there. Mine is still in school.
Me: Ok, anyway… did the people living in your old house get money from the government?
C: Yes. They got Rs.100, 3 kg rice, one sari and one lungi.
Me: Rs.100?! Per head?
C: Oho. If it's per head, will you be happy?
Me: No, even that is not enough. Unless it's per head per day till you find a new place to stay in.
C: Aaaha. Sure. The government will give like that. It's actually Rs.2000 per family. But the real house owner comes after the government officers have gone, and take the money away. They give us Rs.100.
Me: It makes some sense. I mean, he only has to rebuild the house no?
C: Ok fine then. Shouldn't they have some provision for the tenants also? Does it mean that just because I stay on rent, I can die?
Me: Come on, Chellamma, don't be dramatic…
C: Tell me… how many people like you--students and young working people--live on rent? If some earthquake happened and your house crashed with all your possessions inside, will you say "Paavam, the owner will have to reconstruct"? You might find a new place to rent, but what about your belongings?
Me: They should have separate compensation for the tenants...
C: Are you even listening? I said those people got just Rs.100 to wipe their ass with.
Me: What about private people helping?
C: Yes, thank god for that. So many are surviving only because of that. But I think much of the contributions are not reaching us. Ok one help I want... Will you ask people to give their help to credible organisations? Or they can come and help us directly. We won't bite and eat them up.