Shanthi, Crown & Bhuvaneswari!

No,the halls were definitely nothing much to write home about.  Creaking fans, broken seats with torn upholstery, stinking toilets &  rank bad audio-visual systems.  But what gorgeous names they went by!  Wellington, Paragon, Plaza, Gaiety, Globe, Casino.....And on the distaff side, Chitra, Shanthi,Kamala,  Bhuvaneswari....not to mention the royal clan comprising Maharani & Maharaja....

Ages ago, when Chennai was still Madras and Jayalalitha was still our endearing Ammu, our salvation lay in our cinema theatres.  Cinema was, and still is, in the life-blood of the average Madrasi.  Fridays were eagerly awaited not for the succeeding week-ends but for the latest block-buster from Kodambakkam.  That was when, if MGR fans swarmed to Devi Paradise & Agasthya, the army of arch-rival Sivaji Ganesan stormed Shanthi and Crown.  Towering cut-outs then too dotted our promenades, as they do now, only that the local ward councillor's cut-outs dwarf the tinsel world hero's, nowadays.Those were the days when every Tamil movie was released in three theatres! In a combination that would not be altered. (Sivaji's were always in Shanthi, Crown & Bhuvaneswari.  One other well-known combination was Devi Paradise & Agasthya.).  Around a 100 metre radius of Mount Road's Anna Statue were at least eight temples promising instant deliverance - eight edifices housing cinema theatres, witnessing influx of pilgrims from Mannadi to Mirsahibpet,  Aminjikarai to Ambattan Varavathi.

Going for a movie was an elaborate exercise those days, requiring careful advance planning.  Much thought went into the planning and execution.  The movie's release would be announced about a week early.  Advance booking would start 5 days early i.e. on Monday.  The first two weeks bookings would be gobbled up by the fans associations and so the commoners can plan advance booking from the third week onwards.  The ticket rates those days strictly classified humanity into three distinct classes without much fuss - lower class, middle class & upper class.  Rs.1.50, 2.90 and Rs.4.50 respectively.  The rate band for the top and bottom rungs slightly varied from theatre to theatre-oscillating within a band of 50 paise but 2.90 was always 2.90 in all the theatres for about two decades; middle class was so clearly identified and defined.  The 2.90 middle-class!

And how proud we were to be in that 2.90 class!  To appreciate the art of movie-going and experiencing the chaotic bliss, it pays if you hail from Triplicane.  Oh, what a place!  All the heavenly destinations were just a furlong away from Triplicane.  Marina at the eastern end, Chepauk stadium at the northern & all those majestic picture halls of Mount Road at the western. 

Yes, coming back to the 2.90 class experience.  Show starts at 6.30 in the evening.  The entire day in school spent day-dreaming about the adventure for the evening (if the film-going event is slated for a week day, that is).  Return from school at 4.30. Drape yourself in your elegant best.  Walk the half  mile if the destination is Star or Paragon.  Better still, catch a PTC bus from Ice-house, pay 10 paise for a ticket and alight at Adam Market and walk through the gully to reach Devi theatre's rear end.  Enter through the back gate, enjoy the cool spray  from the building's air-conditioning plant up there, exit through the front gate, take a right turn and there it is, Shanthi theatre in all its glory!  As you enter, seeing the milling crowds, your spirits wane.  A long queue in front of the 2.90 counter.  You join the queue and immediately start praying.  Invoke all known Gods. And make a secret pact with Big Street Pillayar to enrich his coffers by  10 paise the next day, if in turn, he manages to transport you to the inside of the hall this evening.  A bell rings.  The matinee show crowd rushes out.  You scan the faces exiting.  All seem smiling.  'Well, the film is good, then.' Your spirit soars.  Another bell!  the ticket counter opens. The heart just started beating louder.  The queue moves forward inch by inch.  You crane your neck and try to see the man behind the counter, dispensing tickets.  He finishes one bunch  and stretches his hand to reach for another. Your heart already misses two beats.  'Sold out so early?'  the mind races.  The stretched hand resurfaces with another bunch.  You heave a sigh of relief. 'Another 100 tickets are there'.  You start mentally counting the number of heads in front of you.  98.  Or is it 99? Count again.  'No, it's 101. I am sure I will not get a ticket.  Pillayarappa, don't desert me.'  The queue moves further up.  Only three in front now.  'Will I, won't I?'  Two exit.  Just one left.  You crane your neck further to look at the inventory at the counter-man's hand.  Is it one or two?  To add to your misery, the man ahead just bought two tickets.  'How unjust' you curse, 'only one man at the counter and how could two be given away?'  Miraculously it is now just you in front of the counter-man with no one in-between.  And bless the lord, he still has one ticket left.  You tender the two rupee and one rupee notes, carefully tucked between your fingers for the last 10 agonising moments, the lone ticket is transported to your hand with the change of 10 paise.  No sooner did you  retract your hand from the counter than the sign-board 'House full' was placed!

 How can this moment of triumph be adequately expressed?  Even as you exit the turnstile, you can't resist turning  back and witness at least another 100 people in the queue behind you, disappointment writ large on their faces.  Your heart swells with pride and involuntarily you lift your head,  heave your chest and exit the queue with a feeling of exhilaration. Triumphed against all odds!  Beat 100 men  in your quest for a tryst with destiny!

You enter the hall and take your pride of place.  The first feeling is one of relief that the newsreel is not already running. The 2.90 class in me expects full paisa-vasool for the hard labour just endured.  That means being parked comfortably in your appointed seat much before the lights dim, thoroughly savour the moment the screen is lifted and "Shanthi welcomes you" slide is displayed, followed by "No smoking",   "Head ache? Take one Saridon",  " Relax, have a Charminar" , "Daily 3 shows".  The slide show ends, the ad-reels now roll out.  "That's why I always use Palmolive shave cream", explains the original Tendulkar.  This is  followed by the news reel which is, as always,  abruptly cut off even as Indira Gandhi is half-way surveying the floods in Bihar.  The main movie begins, to the accompaniment of the orchestra of whistles and cat-calls.  What an experience!  The 2.90 experience!

Where are those Paragons, Plazas and  Wellingtons gone now?  Movie going is a lot hi-tech today, what with DTS, surround sound, net-booking, 3D et al. Getting into a hall now is simple but the movie, as life itself is, has become a lot more complex.  Those were the days when the three hours preceding the actual start of the movie were more adventurous than the movie-watching  itself.  Those were the days when spotting a "100th day" wall-poster of your favourite hero's picture plastered all over town made your heart swell with pride. Those were the days when 10 paise change was returned by the ticket vendor. Those were the days when a bombshell called Jayamalini attracted half of Madras to Paragon over a 100 day period to watch her 'horror'-cum-historical magnum-opus called 'Jagan Mohini'.

And those were the days when two care-free adolescents from Ice House, Triplicane, had the gumption to watch Jayamalini's gyrations in Paragon just 15 hours before the commencement of their SSLC public exams!  In 2.90 class splendour!  One of the two is yours truly. The other, though at the other end of the globe now, would not deny this either!

The Ratabari Rishkaw walla

This is a story about Ayub Ali of Ratabari.  No one has heard of either him or the place and no one ever probably will.  Nothing about them merits any serious attention.  Then why do I bother to tell his story?  When he no more walks the earth?  Because it is non-entities like these that still keep the world going.  It is these characters that still offer a glimmer of hope that doomsday is still eons away. 

By the way, I must warn that this account will be a bit lengthy.  Great tales about great people can’t be put in a nutshell.  As some wise man said, if something can be told in a nutshell, it belongs there.

First about the place.  Ratabari is a small village located at 24/36 N and 92/24 E coordinates in Assam.  It could not have cared less if it is, one squally day, transported to 92/24 N and 24/36 E.  Life and time whiz past Ratabari without so much as touching it, caught as it were in a time-warp.  Some fifty years back, all it boasted of was a road bisecting the village with lush paddy fields on either side, a few ramshackle shops, mud houses, an elementary school and a police thana.  Fifty years hence, nothing much has changed, except that the shops sport a more decrepit look.  The road sees respectable traffic, with doggy buses (trucks past their shelf life, converted into buses) transporting goats and humans between Dullabcherra and Karimganj.  There is a rail line connecting these two places and Ratabari has the privilege of being one of the stations in between.  One train plies daily making one up and another down trip.  Bangladesh is only a few miles to the west and Ratabari’s citizens, most of them at least, have ‘dual citizenship’.  Many of them during days ply their trade in Ratabari and the nearby big town Karimganj and as the sun sets, cross over to their homes to the neighbouring country.  Passport? Visa? BSF? You mush be joking.  Who bothers with all these hassles when in Ratabari, India’s international village, with no cross-border barriers?

On one cold February morning in 1990, I landed up in Ratabari at about 9 a.m.  As I got down the bus from Silchar, I looked around and was pretty certain that I had got down at the wrong place.  Damn! I could not understand Bengali, much less Sylheti, one of its variants.  As I was standing, looking very foolish and very lost, I had already become an amusing exhibit for the small crowd that had gathered.  Two urchins were tugging at my luggage and were laughing.  One old man with a goatee white beard, puffing a bidi and clad in lungi, looking very much our cousins across the border, was asking me something.  I pretended not to hear since I could make nothing out of the blabber.  I could have as well landed in Conakry, Guinea.  The thought suddenly struck me that  I had to spend the next few years here.  My bank is known for having offices at God forsaken places but this one takes the cake, I thought.  This place looks even ghost-forsaken.

As I was contemplating my misery, I heard a voice in Hindi.  Suddenly Hindi appeared to be the sweetest language on earth.  I turned to my right and saw the hero of this tale.  Name of Ayub Ali, I learnt later.

 ‘Saab ko Kahan jana hai?’ he asked.

  I mentioned.

 ‘Boitiye Hum le jayega’

And then I spotted his rickshaw.  Cycle rickshaws sport different colours and designs throughout India.  But the rickshaws of Ratabari really deserve a place in the British museum, after they become extinct.  Their ‘aerodynamic’ design assures maximum discomfort for the passengers in the least possible time.  It is meant to seat two but one and a half men of medium girth can barely park themselves in.  The seat slopes downwards at about 30 degrees with the result that unless you apply full pressure on your legs to bear your body weight, you just slide down.  Definitely the Ratabari rickshaw is an engineering marvel designed for some purpose by a genius engineer, only the purpose eludes me, the  hare-brained.  Well, Ayub was the owner of one such locomotive on which I climbed and sat.  The 2 Km joy ride to the bank started.  I preferred to keep to myself but Ayub would have none of it.  And so thus went our first conversation, reproduced in English.

‘Where are you from Sir?’

‘From Madras’

‘Madras, near Kolkata Sir?’

I knew of no Madras near Kolkata but poor Ayub’s world extends to a radius of may be about 10 kms around Ratabari, so for him Madras could as well have been near Dhaka.

‘You, the new field man in the Bank Sir?’

News travels fast here, I thought.  But ‘field man’?  Sounds like a post man.  Over time, I understood the lingo of Ratabari.  Rural Development Officers in Banks (a grand designation given to me by my Bank- does not it sound more pompous  than ‘Chief Operating Officer?) are called field men.

‘The old field man was very good, sir’

As if I would be no equal to him.

‘He gave me this rishkaw, sir’

For many in Sylhet, rickshaw is rishkaw and risk is riks.  So, if you are in Sylhet, you can be sure of a rishkaw ride full of riks.

‘But this rishkaw has gone to dogs.  Taking too much on repairs. I need a new one.  Can you give me one Sir?’

I suddenly felt like Emperor Aurangazeb, doling out gifts to his courtiers.   From a crouching position, I straightened up.

‘How much does a rickshaw cost?’

‘Now Rs.3500, Sir.  This one I bought for Rs.2400.  Bank gave 1600/- and balance subsidy from Government’.

We arrived at the bank.  Pretty imposing structure, I thought.  A cloth shop at the ground floor and bank at the first.  The cloth shop owner owned the premises and very often thought that he owned the bank too. 

From that day on, Ayub voluntarily became my personal chauffeur.  My home was at Sugar Mill staff quarters about a kilometer away.  The mill itself is now defunct, only the skeletal remains of the machinery remain inside a haunted factory;   Intriguing, how factories shut down and decay so fast in Eastern India.  The Cachar Sugar Mill was perhaps the biggest industrial hub in that part of Assam and so many families depended on it for sustenance.  As did many shopkeepers and rickshaw pullers.  Ayub had seen better days when the mill was running.  The mill shut down, his income dwindled over the years and he now barely manages a living.  He had five mouths to feed and he himself was not keeping very well. 

But not a single repayment instalment of our bank loan he missed.  A princely sum of Rs.80/- per month.  We would not have minded if he skipped an instalment or two.  But he seldom did.  Rain or shine, on the first of every month, he would come into the bank, softly panting, sweating from head to toe and hand me the money.  I would fill up a pay-in slip and he took great pride in signing his name, in English!  He is an illiterate but some how he had managed to learn how to write A U B A L I – his autograph.  The only rickshaw-wallah in may be the entire Karimganj district to sign in English!

‘Kya karega saab, Kishthi (instalment) tho dena hi hai.’

‘How much do you earn per day?’

‘About Rs.30 daily.  When the mill was running, I used to make much more.’

‘But if we give you a new rickshaw, the instalment will be about 140 bucks.  How will you manage?’

‘Hum sakega saab’

‘Kaise sakega? Tell me’

‘My daily repairs cost will come down and may be I can make more trips on a new vehicle’ he would justify his business plans based on his own viability study.

I had to visit several villages far away in the course of my work, and always took Ayub Ali with me.  When I say villages, picture in your mind a contiguous formation of about 50 mud houses, with thatched roofs, right in the middle of paddy fields and slush, covered by dense foliage, far away from the nearest road and have never known luxuries like electricity and water supply.  To such villagers the bank has lent and most of the time they would be unable to repay.  One may personally commiserate with their plight but as a responsible ‘field man’ of my bank with authority,  I had to at least pretend to collect the dues.  So off I used to go to about 10 villages per week in Ayub Ali’s chariot.  The undulating pathways over which Ayub pulled his rickshaw by hand were so narrow that the danger of toppling over always lurked.  The thrill of the  rides was nothing less than  what the giant ferris wheels in big amusement parks had to offer.  Ayub also earned handsomely by ferrying me on such trips which always cost about Rs.30 per trip. 

A year went by.  Ayub’s loan was almost liquidated and we thought may be now we can give the new rickshaw.  The sheer joy we spotted on Ayub’s face when we handed over the sanction letter still remains etched in my mind.  As if he had been sanctioned  a million rupees!  He immediately took our cheque and fled to Karimganj town, in searchof his dream machine.  At about 8 p.m. some one knocked at my door. Ayub with his gleaming Ferrari was standing outside.

‘What happened Ayub?  At this hour?’  (Midnight descends on us at about 7 p.m.)

‘I came to show my new rishkaw, sir”

‘Hmm. Pretty nice’ I went around the vehicle and officially made an inspection of the asset we have financed.  Though, I cannot tell a nut from a bolt.

‘Thank you very much sir.  You were of great help’

‘Oh, nothing.  Now remember this is bank’s money and you must repay 140 bucks from next month.’

‘Sure, I will, sir’

And sure he did.  There was again, as expected, no default.  How he makes ends meet has always been a topic of discussion among us but the regularity at which he repays has never failed to astound us.  Over a period of 5 years in that place, I had given (or rather persuaded my manager to sanction) scores of Goru, Chogul and Hans (cows, goats and ducks) loans and several rickshaw loans too but the repayment record of Ayub Ali was always unmatched.  After a couple of years, I told him that the bank would be ready to finance him for another new rickshaw or may be a cycle repairing unit but he was not very willing.  ‘I have to repay this first sir, and then I will take further loans.  May be, some day, I will own ten rickshaws.’ He would say. We wished he would. Ayub was our bank’s model borrower.  Our poster boy.  On our field trips to villages,we would show-case him as a role model for other borrowers.  ‘Repay promptly you must, then only you will get more loans’, we would preach. Other rickshaw wallahs were secretly jealous of him as he had become a chamcha of the bank sahibs. But he did not seem to care.

 

And one day, he died.

In the morning, I was waiting for him at my home as usual to take me to the Bank, but he did not turn up.  Instead, the news of his death did.  He fell ill suddenly at night and did not wake up from sleep in the morning. ‘TB’ someone said, ‘he smoked a lot, you know?’  And some said he used to drink like a fish, though I had never seen him in an inebriated state ever. The news shocked me.  Shamelessly, my mind immediately did a quick math of how much he still owed the bank.  May be about Rs.1000/- and now there it goes, down the drain, I thought. A borrower is only a book asset for a banker.  That he is also a fellow human being, with his own trials and tribulations is rarely appreciated by him.  I still look back with guilt at that moment when I heard of Ayub’s death and when the first concern that overtook me was his loan..  I still wish I could somehow rewind the tape and over-write that episode.

A month passed.  I had almost forgotten about him.  And then one Friday evening, a middle-aged lady with two children in tow, turned up at our office.  She had a cloth pouch in her hand.  The elder of the two kids had a terror-stricken face and his younger sibling with a running nose, perched on his mother’s waist, was bawling.  She was simultaneously trying to keep him quiet and talk to us.  She introduced herself as Noor Khatun, wife of Ayub Ali.  I exchanged a perfunctory condolence with her.  I was not sure about her purpose of visit.  By that time, I had managed to speak a smattering of Sylhetti and I asked her about her mission.

‘I came to repay the rishkaw loan my husband took’. 

I was dumb-founded.  How on earth did she manage Rs.1000?.  I knew for sure she and her kids were starving right now, with their only bread winner gone. I asked her about the source of her funds.

‘My husband sold off his old rickshaw two months ago, saab.  He got Rs.800/- out of that and had told me to safe keep it for emergencies.  The balance I somehow managed.’

My heart refused to take that money.  But my bank does not pay me for compassion,  it expects me to recover bad loans. 

‘What do you do now to maintain the family?’ I asked.

‘Doing odd jobs, saab.  My eldest son will now ply the rickshaw.  We will manage, saab’, she said without a tinge of emotion. Her eldest son was all of 15.

Trying to keep a stone-face, I collected the money and made out a pay-in slip.  Involuntarily, I pushed it towards her, expecting A U B A L I to miraculously appear on the depositor’s sign column.  Instead, she pulled a stamp pad and affixed her thumb impression on the piece of paper. The money was deposited, the loan was closed.  And a treasure snatched from a family wallowing in abject poverty.  That sum could have kept her going for another few months.  Provided succour to five starving stomachs.  But the bank, a sarkari appendage at that, does not take cognizance of starvation.  It snatches from whoever it could bully and meekly prostrates before whoever it gets bullied by. 

That is how our system works.  That is what our system does to the Ayub Alis of the world, who borrow in four digits for his lowly rickshaw.  If only he had managed to borrow in fourteen digits for jumbo jets, it would have been the lot of the bank to run after him, beg him and cajole him to take more.  And after the loans go bust, the banks would fall head over heels to restructure the same and if possible, lend more and go bust themselves. 

Myriad hues of Mylapore

Glistening huge expanse of water in the tank reflecting a thousand images, seemingly dancing in the rippling waves. The majestic tower as the backdrop. A clear night sky above, strewn with a million stars. A riot of colours emanating from the illuminations of quaint old buildings. 'Rasi' neon glow signage holding centre-stage, further adding charm to the ethereal visage.... This picture-perfect setting, the signature motif of 'Discovery Tamil' channel is not from a glitzy, distant Paris. Nor is it a Diwali night. It's much nearer. At the heart of Madras. It is Mylapore!

Not without reason has the motif been so thoughtfully chosen by Discovery. The imagery captures the essence of Tamil and Chennai. Just as Chennai is a microcosm of all things "conservative" south of the 'cosmopolitan' Bangalore, Mylapore is the symbolic leitmotif of the wonder that is Madras. The venerable jewel in the crown.

Mylapore sports different colours at different times of the day. At dawn, it is the intoxicating aroma of Kumbakonam degree Kapi wafting from all around. At noon, even as the blistering 'winter' sun scorches the streets, it is the bangle sellers in North Mada street, milking roaring business out of the fair sex just disgorged from the tourist bus from Gujarat. At evening it is the throng that strolls the inside Prakarams of the temple, savouring every gentle whiff of the cool breeze from the beach a furlong away and every gossip from Meenatchi Mami's house-hold a couple of continents away. At night, well past 11, well past the REM sleep phase of the rest of Chennai, it is the odd drunk with the single chappal splayed on the steps of the tank, the intake of Tasmac brew an hour ago still working wonders inside his head. Mylapore is all this and much more.

What more, one may ask. First, the Kapaleeswar temple. It is not the biggest of its genre even in Chennai. If I were to say so, one Mr.Parthasarathy with the handle-bar moustache, about 5 kms. away, lording over nearly twice the built-up area would take offence. The number of occupants inside the temple (the permanent inmates, not counting the human visitors and members of the canine family) is also not big. Just the family of four and the Navagrahas for company. It is just a well-maintained (in the inside, that is) timepass hangout, a rendezvous for the retired post masters and elderly mothers-in-law of the neighbourhood, suddenly remembering their 'roots' in religion, pierced by pangs of guilt and yearning to atone for their past 60 years' misadventures and seeking 'punyam' for 'pora vazhi'. It is also these days, a hip-joint for the youngsters for whom being seen in temples is the in-thing nowadays, next only to perhaps Express Avenue. It is also in the must-see list of the tourist from Japan and Jhumritelaiya, the former scrounging for something he is sure he has missed in Osaka and for the latter, the stronger his outpouring of his favourite Bol Bam, the nearer is salvation. 

I do not mean for a moment that no fourth variety enters the temple. It does. For this ilk, it is impossible not to experience a light-headed feeling of happiness inside the sanctums. If inside the 'Ambal' shrine (idols of our Goddesses can be real beautiful! come, see and experience!) automatically switches on the i-pod pouring out lilting Ilayaraja masterpieces at the back of your mind (partha vizhi partha padi...., Masaru Ponne varuga....), once inside her spouse's sanctum, his 'Kunitha Puruvam' and 'Kovvai chevvai' makes you feel, well, happy and long for more! Pure happiness, unadulterated by any religious or mystique connotations.

What more in Mylapore? There is this Giri trading agency, at the eastern end of the temple - the haat that sells beautiful things like incense sticks, dhoop, trinkets, khadhi wear, books on Ramana Maharishi, tomes of a best-seller titled Gita as told by one Krishnan Vasudevan hailing from Mathura of UP (his only best-seller) and other sundry items. Oddly the store calls itself the 'one stop shop for Indian culture and tradition'. Debatable, unless all things cultural and traditional are beautiful.

What else? Oh yes, the daily 24 X 7 chaos of the vegetable market south of the tank, the Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan to the east, another Bhavan (Saravana) to the north, its competitor Sangeetha to the south. And the Chitrakulam, Dooming Kuppam, the pure South Indian Udupi 'Brahmanal' eateries, the sprawling Ramkrishna Math, not to mention the omnipresent lovely ladies and the jolna-bag mamas (I mean uncles, not Vivek's 'mamas'). And then the seasonal flavours of Margazhi month Kolams on the Mada streets, the Oduvars in the temple, the Kutcheris and Bhajanais.

Emperor Jehangir is said to have famously said, 'Agar kahin jannat hai to bas yehi hai, yehi hai, yehi hai!' - meaning if there is heaven on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here. For me, I need not look far for my jannat. It is here, it is here, it is here in Mylapore. I would consider my life's purpose served if I manage to acquire its citizenship at least for some years or even a few days and enjoy the associated privileges in my own small hut right at the heart of Mylapore.

Love thyself - and show the world that you do

Narcissist - Excessive love or admiration for oneself.

               - A personality disorder in which people have an inflated sense of their own importance...

A quick google search of the definition of 'narcissist' throws up the above dictionary meanings. Sample specimens can be  an actress spending hours before a mirror, admiring the reflection of her beauty, deluding herself for a moment that she is the most gorgeous female that ever walked the earth.  Or a six pack ab body builder for whom the daily push-ups and weight lifting long since ceased to be mere efforts to improve physical fitness but have now become an end in itself. Or  even the street corner mongrel  which fancies that its bushy tail is the most beautiful posterior appendange on any earthling.  

Or perhaps the face book user next door who spends the better part of his waking hours daily, 'liking', 'sharing' and 'commenting' on 148 things day after day, month after month and displaying no sign of tiring!

The social on-line network has today become the most fertile breeding ground for narcissists the world over.  A typical addict of face-book logs in at least five to six times a day, 'likes' whatever trash appears on his home page, has a comment or two to offer on about anything under the sun, rummages his friends list about twenty times and posts his pearls of wisdom on each one's wall and assaults us with pictures of his whole clan, grand mother to pet dog.  He started net-working initially out of curiosity, which later turned into a daily habit, which later metamorphosed into an addiction and eventually unabashed narcissism. 

Narcissism?  Of course, but I shall come to that later.  We do quirky things in face book which in real life we won't dare to.  Would we ordinarily yank out our kids from our homes and parade them on the streets imploring every passerby to have a dekho?Would not we be too embarrassed to proffer our unsolicited opinion on the profanity your next seat traveller on the train just dished out to his next seat friend? And that too loudly, for everyone to hear?  Would we, in our senses, while walking the streets, spotting a filthy dog rummaging the garbage vat, approach the animal and whisper "like you" in its ears?  Will we, witnessing a particularly gory accident on the road not only "like" the spectacle but also "share" it with others? (Strange, there is no 'dislike' button in FB). All these things and many more weird ones, we routinely do in face book daily.  Because it's cool.  Because it's the fad. Because it's not entirely unlike alcohol, which intake rids you of inhibitions.  You swig a peg or two and you tend to open up.  People seem more friendly and the whole world more likeable, and you enjoy the float and conclude life is sweet, yesterday's hangover not withstanding.  Also because, we may hate to admit, we crave for attention all the time.

I am not sure, but fabbing (if a twitter user can 'tweet', an FB user can surely 'fab') would surely be a subject of psychological research.  About why people do things in FB which they otherwise will not?  It may be because of a deep desire to get noticed.  You post something, you get noticed.  You comment on something, the comment gets noticed. You upload a photo and the thing gets noticed.  With each activity, you get increasingly noticed.  And when you get noticed, you get responses. The responses add to your number of friends. More friends means more posts, more traffic, your wall is splattered top to bottom with posts each time you log in.  So it is more of everything, you can't have enough and eventually you begin to feel important in cyber space. That sense of feeling important is, aha, intoxicating.  You begin to feel big, you start loving yourself and you increasingly yearn to love your alter-ego in FB and you turn a narcissist!

This may all sound warped logic but there is a pattern to this FB behaviour.  Unconsciously we all tend to fall into this trap of bloated egos and megalomania, at some point.

Me not excluded.  So lemme rush and share this crap with FB.  After all, all crap gets noticed in FB, at least by accident if not by intention, once in a while, and mine too will be.  So all you folks, read this once and make my day!

A tale of three cities

A city is not just an agglomeration of assorted homosapiens that inhabit it.  A city is characterised not just by the number and height of its imposing glass and steel edifices. A city is not just wide promenades, glitzy malls and mega-slums.  A city should be  much more than all these.  A city can and must exude life and vigour.  Its inhabitants may sleep but the city itself never does.  Like a woman, every city has its own smell,  feel and texture.  You only need to gently remove the outer veil and discover the beauty within.  Over the years, I have also tried to and have managed to get a feel of what lies beneath - in case of three cities. This is a tale of three cities, three special places in each of which I have lived for quite some time.  This is a tale of Kolkata, Mumbai and Chennai.

Amar Sonar Kolkata

Everyone loves to hate this city of joy - but still can't have enough of it.  Its decadence, at first sight hits you like a hard slap on the face.  Calcutta stuns our senses, scalds our innards and simply overwhelms us initially.  As we gradually get accustomed to its ferocity, Kolkata charms, seduces and ensnares us and we fall hopelessly in love with it! Like an insect  rushing towards a mothball, we fall for it.  We fall in love with the glistening Ganga meandering across its belly,  with its quaint trams, with its puchkawalas dotting the New Market in the evenings, with the Victoria in all its colonial splendour, with its imposing old mansions in Girish Park, with its hand rickshaws and a million other things.  Typical of the Stockholm syndrome, we also fall in love with its squalor, filth and muck.

While other cities just exist in brick and mortar, Kolkata not just exists - it breathes, it lives with a capital L and it thrives.  Did some one call it a dying city?  Well, if dying can be so beautiful a process, let Kolkata keep dying forever.  Kolkata exudes vitality and energy like no other city does.Even as you get over the initial shock, Kolkata takes you into the embrace of its protective arms, as a womb would envelop the foetus and you would wish you continue to remain in such warm environs forever.

Every city is only as good or bad as the people that live in it. The Bengali majority among the Kolkatans is what has made the city what it is - warm, loving, caring and affectionate.  They are always there when you need them ( and many a time also when you don't!), they astound you with their wisdom gleaned from their travels throughout India and the globe (without Bengalis domestic tourism would have ceased to exist).  A typical Bengali can be equally at ease with a Kafka, a Kareena or a Kaka;  He is proud of his city, his culture and his discerning taste for food, particularly of the piscean variety.  He is firm in his credo that what Bengal thinks today, the world will, tomorrow. He is sure that he is far ahead of the times, notwithstanding the wag's quip that he is so ahead in a circle that he actually trails the others! 

Volumes can be written about Kolkata and Kolkatans.  That would still leave volumes about the unhonoured and unsung.  Suffice it to say that if India was the jewel in the British crown, Kolkata was and continues to be the jewel of India.

Aamchi Mumbai

They call it the maximum city not without reason.  Everything about Bombay is breath-taking in scale and scope - be it its suburban rail network, its sky scrapers, its teeming millions, the opulence of Malabar Hills, its glitzy shopping malls and the number of vada pavs sold daily on the streets. If Kolkata epitomises a typical laid back and desi metaphor of chalta hai, the Mumbai metaphor is one of 'go for it, at any cost'.  Rarely anywhere else in India would such industrious people be found, who value  and worship work.  The most abused term 'work-culture'  finds its true meaning in Mumbai.  The average Mumbaikar's penchant for discipline, not only in work but in everything he does (except when jumping into a train to grab a vacant seat, when his animal instincts get the better) is legendary.  Concepts quiet alien to our Indian "we are like that only" culture - like forming a queue wherever there is more than one person, switching off the fans in a train at the last station, refraining from littering etc. are what have made Mumbai the best city to live in for many.

Enterprise, energy, resilience in the wake of adversities are synonymous with Mumbai.  This megapolis never goes to sleep.  The Mumbai suburban network is a perfect example of what Mumbai stands for - the 'never say die' attitude.  Come rain or shine, floods or blasts, the trains chug on relentlessly, transporting in a day more than the whole population of half of europe. Plying along such congested networks, what with tracks passing through dense slums and lines interspersed with so many level crossings, the motormen of Mumbai are its real heroes - all the Khans may take a back seat.

Several other real-life heroes also abound in Mumbai - the housewife from Ambarnath reporting to her office at Nariman Point, sharp at 9.30 in the morning, every day, despite everything that the daily train commute has to throw at her (experience it and you will know), the enterprising idly/dosa seller at the basement of Churchgate station, who landed in Bombay penniless  from Ramanathapuram while he was 5 and now makes much more than the Reserve Bank Governor, that wondrous tribe of dabbawallas who, till the other day, was non-existant in the mind of the average Mumbaikar but who has suddenly become their pride - just because one Gora called Prince Charles managed to spot their talent...... heroes are aplenty in Mumbai.   Each sub stratum of the Mumbai society is a hero in itself - kindness, bravery, chivalrous, hard-working, all attributes of a hero are found everywhere in each human specimen of Mumbai.  Unlike Kolkata and for that matter any Indian city, no one identifies Mumbai with Maharashtrians only.  Mumbai was made by Mumbaikars hailing from all over India.  A pot-pourrie of  a hundred languages, cultures and tastes, that is the miracle called Mumbai.

Yes, jeena yahan is a bit mushkil but where else do we go?  Mumbai is where genesis is, Mumbai is our present and Mumbai is where we would vanish into the elements. Jeena yahan, marna yahan, iske siva jaana kahan? Salaam Bombay!

Namma Chennai

Long long ago, so long ago, where no human inhabitation existed, there suddenly sprouted a small fishing village by the Bay of Bengal.  It prospered and thrived.  It begot another hamlet nearby, and then another and a large agglomeration came into being.  It assumed the name Madras.  The die-hard natives called it Chennai.  Until one day, the conflict ended and all of Madras came to be called Chennai.  Over the years, Chennai grew in geometric proportions in population and size and is now one of the largest cities in the country.  

So what? yes, what is the big deal?  That exactly is the irony.  Namma Chennai is older than most of the other big cities in India, but still Chennai seemingly has no history to brag about.  Delhi was the seat of many a great empire and had always enjoyed clout in the power corridors.  Kolkata was the seat of the great British empire till a century back.  But Chennai has nothing to bandy around.  It started off as a single village and at best it now is a large collection of villages.  It never was 'cosmopolitan' and never will be.  It always was 'conservative' and ever will be.  Its climate is insanely hot and will always be.  Given all these, why Chennai even merits a discussion? 

Because it is simple.  Chennai never went attention-seeking, but on the contrary, attracted attention and continues to.  Some of the cliches the snooty cousins of the west and the north heap on Madras have never really affected the city's progress in any real way.  Chennai is not 'cosmopolitan' because there is a serious dearth of sleek high-end cars zipping about in the streets.   Chennai is 'conservative' because there is not much public  display of kissing  and hugging (only relieving oneself is quite public in Chennai but so it is with other cities)  Chennai is 'not hep & happening' because malls here find it difficult to sell astronomically priced junk.  Ah, yes, Chennai 'does not have a night life' because its liquor outlets do not vend their wares after 10 and its denizens still believe nights are meant for sleeping.  Well, if only other cities were as conservative and boring!  Life would be much safer and easier.

But Singara  Chennai has much to offer, for the benefit of ignorant souls.    It still is the capital of music and fine-arts among the big metros.  It has its unique December music season when it witnesses the largest ever gathering at one place of great musicians of all hues.  It has a 5 km long stretch of heaven called Marina beach.  It has the Theosophical society.  It still has arguably the finest film-production infrastructure and continues to produce the largest number of films in the country. It has produced highly skilled and acclaimed film technicians and has  given the world Ilayaraja and Rahman. It has produced several Chief Ministers out of film personalities who have fared far better than what the cow-belt could ever proffer.  It has some of the finest educational institutions and hospitals.  Its infrastructure is still holding and public transport has still not gone to the dogs. It is still the only city where auto and cycle-rickshaw wallahs can be routinely seen browsing through newspapers when not carrying a fare! (show me a similar sight in Delhi or even Mumbai and I will show you a scam-free politician).

In short, Chennai is where the typical middle-class Indian would want his kids to be brought up in.  He is game to watching sex and violence on screen but in real life would yearn for the safe haven that is Chennai, for the sake of his family.  He relishes being a peeping tom in his wild dreams  but would rather prefer to be esconced in his own safe flat in a quiet neighbourhood in Chennai with his wife and kids,  where the neighbours strictly mind their business and only their business.  Because he knows Chennai is safe. Chennai is comfortable.  Chennai is laid-back, yet happening in the real sense.  And of course, Chennai is 'hot and sultry' as the latest Bollywood heroine is.  It is hot but seductive too!  Fall for it at your own peril.

Now your vote goes to which city?  Whichever way it goes, you will not regret your choice.  Every city is but a microcosm of India, every city has its own story to tell.  Our cities may not be in the same league as a London or a Paris but they can very well hold their own among competition.  Because our cities are not merely tall buildings, swanky cars and tourist sights - they are but  mirrors reflecting the spirit and vivacity of our great people.  Our cities were not built with a plan and purpose.  They evolved into their own purposes.