"I'll be off a second later, and go straight to the theatre!"

Metroplus Theatre Festival 2009, Chennai.

I seem to be writing against theatre a lot, philistine that I am. This time, however, I have nothing against the play. The play was visually brilliant. Aurally fantastic. The sets were gorgeous, the lighting was divine and the actors were par excellence. The problem: the play was in Korean.


The language was not the problem here, for there were subtitles. Sadly, the people seated in the balcony of the hall could not see these subtitles, (the screen blocked it from view completely), consequently having no idea what was happening. It does credit to Chennai that some sixty people can sit through a Greek tragedy interpreted in Korean (Medea) , and not make a single sound. Shows you how many people understand Korean.

There were four of us who could not see the emperor's new clothes.


Later, as the lights came up, we asked the rest of the audience what they understood. Some looked sheepish, others looked down their long intellectual noses at us ( As if you need subtitles for something so beautiful dah-ling) and one aged caucasian person told us that we had witnessed something of great beauty and had just ruined it. He went on to say that all Indian audiences disgusted him. When we took up this statement with him, the organizers brushed us off, asked us to drop it. Lovely behaviour from the staff of a Newspaper that claims to be the most dignified, intelligent and honest journal in our country, don't you think? And yesterday was Independence day.


Did Jai Hind just become Jai Ho?

CASTLES IN TIME-SPACE

John Lennon once said " Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted". Which justified most of my vettiness in my life so far. But what d'you know, I've recently started doing stuff that was both pointless and not particularly enjoyable. In essence, I have become the prototype person from Loyola.

Yesterday, I built a sandcastle. Ok, in my defence, I tried to. I had with me, at this point, two grumpy women and a hyperactive giant. One grumpy woman helped with the sandcastle. The other one sat around on the sand. The giant consistently tried to sabotage the castleworks.

Now, all was going well (at least as well as the circumstances would allow), when ye olde fortune teller shows up. Not the creepy fat lady with the little stick, no sir. Not the one who tries to tell you that your wife will look like Aishwarya Rai (Poor lady, she's been invoked so many times by the fortune tellers that she went and married Abhishek Bacchan, who incidentally looks like my friend Waseem). So, this fortune teller of ours was a guy. Ordinary sort of chap. With a nice green parrot. Now, I've never had my fortune told before, and I don't ever intend on having it told again. (I'm the sort of megalomaniac freak who believes that he writes his own future, and the future of his minions, thank you very much) but yesterday, Giant and Grumpy Woman 2 decide that they want to know their futures. And mine, in the bargain. So with my sneering disapproval, little Mithu comes slinking out of his cage, picks a paper to predict my life, and sneaks right back in. The fortune man, who up till now has been quite normal, looks at the chit and breaks out into a veritable torrent of classical tamil, most of which even I cannot follow. After his first effort, he wants me to pick a card with my own hand. I refuse downright, so Giant does it for me. the man goes wild again, and I realize that he has just predicted that I will have two wives (?) and that I will be a millionaire after I'm forty ( I took very strong exception to that.) He also predicts that Grumpy Woman 1 should have been born as a guy (If she had, she would have raped at least ten women, but since she didn't, the world is safe) and that Grumpy Woman 2 is going to have problems in the near future. Giant's life is supposed to be somewhat like mine, with the whole millionaire before forty thing, but with an additional warning that he should avoid the company of younger people, and hang out with older people instead. Needless to say, this worried him quite a bit.

By the time this inanity came to an end, the castle was coming along decently, but it required a bit of water to make it a little more solid. So Grumpy Woman 2 and Giant are enlisted to fetch water from the sea (which is barely ten feet away from where we sat, just out of reach of the tide) Unsuccessful attempts are made at fetching water in a rubber slipper, bare hands and a coconut (which looked suspiciously like someone deposited a little.. er.. white substance into it) until I spot an empty water bottle and they go to fetch water in that. Thereafter we are treated to a sight of Grumpy Woman 2 running away from the waves very nimbly, while still trying to fill the bottle. Giant is more effective, and we build quite a bit. Then one whole section of the wall crumbles, Grumpy One gets hungry, and we leave. But not before they take amusing pictures of me, and kick down the castle.

I grin and bear it. Vaalkai is a vattam.

A WEIGHTY QUESTION

The impossible sometimes happens, you know? Fat people always wish that they would magically get thin. Doesn't happen, usually. Fat people tend to get fatter. Some get used to the fatness, some try to get rid of it with the good advice that's so freely available (even facebook is doing it -Check out the 5 tips to get rid of belly fat ) but most just passively hate large portions of their bodies. I used to think that people just made fun of overweight people at their expense, but it turns out they were making fun at their expanse. The reason I can write so insensitively about fatties is because I'm one myself. No, seriously. Stop laughing.


I suffer from what I call 'The Fat Hangover'. Between my sixth and eleventh standards, I was a fat boy, of middling height. I do not kid with you. Being fat usually has a lot of strings attached but thankfully I didn't experience much of the social trauma of childhood fatness. In my school, if you had half a brain, the kids would let you alone, didn't matter if you were fat or had bad eyesight. If you weren't smart, then God help you. I knew a kid called Andrew Shirley (yes you read that right) who had his glasses broken at least once by every guy in a particular gang. But the less obnoxious fat kids like me, the ones who passed the exams and whose homework was copyable, we were left pretty much alone. (except old Murtaza, of course. There are always exceptions) So everyone was used to Fat Francis, everyone including Fat Francis himself. Then, suddenly, somewhere between 11th and 12th, I grew up. From a portly five foot seven, I went to a gangly, gawky six foot nothing in about five months. My body didn't know how to handle this. It was almost as if all the fat in my body went to my extremities and caused them to elongate (Stop laughing, I know what you're thinking). So, all of a sudden, I was a tall skinny boy.

Unfortunately, in my mind, I'm still fat. This mental image is helped by the fact that I still possess a considerable belly.


My peculiar predicament struck me rather forcibly just a few days back when I made a passing comment about how all the skinny people in the room seemed to be holding a conference and one of the girls told me that maybe I should go join them. I looked at her like she was crazy. Why was she mocking me, a poor fat boy?

I'm an outcast. The fat people think I'm skinny. I think I'm fat. I don't have a psycho-morphological group of my own. Is there anybody out there who feels the way I do?! Help!

Bangalore bemusement

It all starts with the cold. It makes me reckless. (Did you know that cold stands for common obstructive lung disorder?) It's the 13th, the day before the pongal holidays. I have a cold, and I'm delaying Jerryd, Jason and Clifton, who are downstairs waiting for me in Jason's car. It's just one of those days. Murphy decides to hide all the handkerchiefs, and I run down, sniffling, and we're late for class. The magnificent three decide to bunk class, because their Prof. isn't going to let them in anyway, but I soldier on to class, nevertheless. I am an incurable optimist. I also believe in the constantly gullible nature of teachers. Predictably, I have forgotten what day order it is, walk into the wrong classroom and scurry away when I realize my folly.
Further contemplation results in my concluding that the first two hours are free, and contemplate going to the lovely Loyola canteen. However, one of my classmates informs me in passing that I've missed attendance because that idiotic professor Riju decided to take over my first two hours. I inquire as to why she is wandering around when she's supposed to be in class, and she says he let them go after taking attendance. I find Riju taking class in the preview theatre, beckon him out, and ask for attendance. He looks at me, asks me if I'm ill, and tells me he'll give me attendance. I wander around, discover that I have no further classes, and hop into the car to go home with the trio.


That's when they tell me they're going to Bangalore. I say, "I want to go to Bangalore too!" So Clifton says, hey, why don't you. This is at 11:45 am. By the time we reach my house, at 12:00 pm, I've decided I'll try to go to Bangalore. The trio has their tickets all booked and ready. The train is at 1:30 pm. I call my father. He says, as your mother. I call my mother and tell her my father gave the green light. My mother grudgingly says ok. I pack my college backpack with some stuff (I only forget my handkerchiefs, predictably, because I have a terrible cold). Ten minutes later, I'm in the auto with the trio. We stop at an ATM, because I have only a hundred and fifty bucks (fifty of which belong to Benjamin). The ATM tells me that my request could not be processed at the moment. I figure I can draw some cash at the station and we continue on. At the station, I brave the queue and the loud woman who wants a separate line because she's a lady (yeah, right) and get a ticket to Bangalore, Rs. 96 only. Unreserved.

Then, I line up outside the ATM in the station, only to discover that the IOB network is down, and I can't withdraw money from anywhere. Murphy giggles. I find a TT and ask him to give me a confirmed ticket. He scratches himself and tells me to go away. I look around the train and find that the unreserved coaches are threatening to explode with the force of humanity contained within. I slink into the trio's compartment, and sit with them, convincing myself that when the TT comes a-checking, I can get myself a confirmed seat. Suddenly I realize that my phone's battery is low. Really low. I message my sister in Bangalore and inform her that I'll be staying with her for a few days. She says ok, very hospitably, and my phone switches off. Now, I don't know exactly where her apartment is, only the vague order to get off at Cantonment station and take an auto to BEML gate. I have exactly 67 bucks in my wallet, and the need to pay for a confirmed seat. I have no charge on my phone. Even if I did, I have no balance (give me a break, I'm a college student. It's in my job description.) The trio will debark at East station. I will have to alight alone at Cantonment, alone, with insufficient money for the auto, no communication device, and the possibility that ATMs in Bangalore may not work as well. And a terribly limited knowledge of Hindi, and no knowledge whatsoever of Kannada.

Yes, laugh. Considering my history, the most probable outcome of this situation would be that I debark at Cantonment station alone, get kidnapped by a gang of hungry autowallahs and spend the rest of my life in a dark room writing witty statements that they can paste on the rear windows of their vehicles. But no! I transfer my sim to Jerryd's phone to see if I can contact my sister. My sister messages and says I cannot stay with her because she's at work and there's no one at home to open the door and she has the key (she works in a soulless investment banking corporation and child labourers in match factories have better hours than she does). And then, things get better. Yes, you read right, better! The TT comes around and gives me a confirmed seat for a measly 15 bucks more. I reach Bangalore east and debark with the trio and go Jerryd's aunt's place. I stay with them, (God bless them), for the next three days. They didn't even seem to notice that Jerryd had brought along an extra friend with no warning. At their house, Jason somehow manages to set up a working Internet connection on Clifton's retarded laptop. He claims that he will go mad without the Internet. We watch several movies and much stand up comedy. The dog falls in love with Jason, and follows him around and drools all over him. Predictably, Jason hates dogs. He is forced to unleash all the toiletries packed into a pretty baby blue vanity bag and clean himself. The weather is brilliant, the night is as cold as a Loyola-lecturer’s heart.

As an alternative to this sedentary behaviour, Jerryd takes us to his cousin's apartment, where there is supposed to exist a table tennis table and a badminton court. We go there somewhat late in the evening to discover that the table is already in use, and the most active player has one arm completely wrapped in bandages. We sit around, waiting for the game to end, when a posse of old aunties come in and curtly order us out, saying their yoga hour could not be disturbed by our bouncing. We walk out and wander around the massive building. When we return to the multipurpose hall where the table is, it is shrouded in darkness. We are wary of entering. We are unsure as to what the aunties may be doing inside the darkened hall. We are innocent boys after all. An aged uncle vigorously taking his evening walk on the terrace assists us and enters the hall to unravel the mystery. There is some noise, and aged uncle exits, saying there was a power failure, and that the aunties were practicing yoga in the dark. We are not convinced, but we say nothing. Later, the power comes back on, and the aunties exit. We proceed to play for a long time, and later Jerryd's cousin takes us out to dinner.

The next day, Clifton and I go to meet my sister for lunch. We find our way to her rather decent apartment, and she then takes us to a restaurant called the beach, where the buffet is quite good. I did not see her after that. Bloody corporate sellout. We return to Jerryd's house, and go sightseeing on Brigade Street. You know what I mean. Jerryd discovers that the Cafe Coffee Day on the sidewalk is a very good vantage point. After he has his fill (of coffee, of course), he begins to window-shop with a vengeance. We walk into every store on that street. A hawker of spurious ray bans follows us around mournfully, but we do not succumb. We even visit Garuda mall, the site of my previous astonishment (ref: when I saw a fashion show by the students of Mount Carmel College) but it does not amuse nearly as much.

The rest of the trip... we'll I've written plenty now. Suffice to say that I somehow got a confirmed seat on the way home, reached Perambur station safely and proceeded to my grandmother's house to celebrate my uncle's fiftieth birthday.. But that's another story.

YOU KNOW WHAT THEY CALL PRETTY GIRLS IN CHENNAI?

Tourists.

Seriously, it’s just not fair. I was in Bangalore last week, and the sheer volume of passably pretty, quite pretty, and oh-my-god women struck my staunch Chennai spirit as unfair. Here we are, a bunch of decent, unpretentious guys just looking to, well, look, but alas! There is no one to look at! Maybe it’s the fact that I studied in a school reserved only for males, and consequently never had the chance to meet any pretty women. That’s what most people (read women who have illusions of prettiness or are feminists for some creepy reason) would argue. However, in the course of the several culturals I participated in, I never did notice anyone who managed to fit the above bill.

But Bangalore! I was on Brigade road, on my own, as my sister had deserted me to go earn her living, and being bored, I watched people. As usual, I was lounging around, sniggering at ye olde “dudes” wearing funky, get this, DUPATTAS around their necks, and others wearing aviators at eight in the evening. I spot the occasional artsy desi boy being intellectual and teaching a firangi chick how to eat methi paratha. Probably a prelude to teaching her the positions in the kama sutra. I spot a Sardar guy, big as a house, strolling around in a baby pink turban, perfectly offsetting his skintight black tee and jeans. Oh, and aviators. And then, all of a sudden, the women! They spring up from nowhere and begin strutting their stuff. I am innocent Chennai boy. It startled me. So many hot women in one place at the same time! In Chennai, you can go for weeks without seeing a pretty girl. I’m talking pretty, not hot, just pretty. Hot? Forget it. Once a year, at the most. Of course, I’m talking about my own age group here, 17-20. I know plenty of very hot women over the age of 21. But my age? Nada.

Anyway, the next day, I’m in Garuda mall, this monstrous place somewhere off brigade road. They’re having some mall celebrations kind of thing, so there’s an oddly misshapen stage in the atrium with the traditional annoying MCs trying to be funny and failing. I walk around, and, as usual, gravitate towards the food. I buy a sub, which sticks to the roof of my mouth, and watch people. Once more, a surfeit of pretty women. I spot a couple (actually, the entire food court is covered in couples) where both the guy and girl are on their phones, ignoring each other. Classic. Another couple, the guy talks nonstop, and the girl gazes disinterestedly towards the digitally connected couple. I spot a congress of sardarjis plotting to kill Sonia Gandhi. I see that the price of lime juice is 40 bucks, and leave immediately, my sensibilities offended.

I head towards the rest room, but am foiled by cleaning crews on two floors. Finally, back on the grond floor and now in a slight hurry, I run into a guy. I apologise, then do a double take. The boy was wearing boxers. And a formal shirt. And a tie. I gasp, turn around, and there are five others dressed weirdly. The pee very nearly froze. I thought I had wandered in on a gay orgy and ended up looking nervously over my shoulder the entire time I was in the restroom. I escape back into the crowded atrium, when suddenly the speakers begin blaring “eye of the tiger” and the aforementioned gay guys start coming onto the stage. (no, not coming like that, you pervert). Turns out the oddly shaped stage was in fact a ramp. Ah well. So, I figure that explains things, and wander away to the coffee shop outside, where I find a nerdy guy with a supercilious expression singing “country roads”, and people asking him to sing ‘leaving on a jet plane’. I wonder why everyone in the city seems overtly sentimental, and wander back into the mall. And just in time to witness the most unfair thing I have ever seen. Another fashion show. This time around, girls. No, wait, amazons. Like Wonder Woman? Yeah. I watch the whole thing like the deprived Loyolite that I am. And after it’s done, I begin to walk away in search of a bookstore. That’s when I hear it. The MC says “and that, people, was the team from Mount Carmel college”. They were college students!! You should see the girls in my college! Lets just say my college has males and non-males. Then you will begin to comprehend how grossly unfair this world is. Aargh.

Ah well. C’est la vie.

Just wanted to rant.

Have a nice day.

WHY I'M BETTER THAN CARLOS LINNAEUS

Carlos Linnaeus wrote the 'Classification of Species'. He invented taxonomy. He was a bleedin' chemist, for Christ's sake. He missed out on all the humour of life studying the spineless creatures of the earth and giving them strange names like Rana Hexadactyla. (Which, incidentally, is the name he gave to the common frog)

 

So, here's my own classification of species. You may find yourself in here. If you don't, please don't be offended. Notify me, and I'll do the needful (i.e., spit in your face and tell you to get a life)

 

The following will certainly hurt public sentiment. Please feel free to be hurt.

 

1. Mallus:

 

The bane of the human race. They multiple like… well, Mallus, and aim at taking over the world through extensive copulation and the consequent spreading of their genes. (Henceforward referred to as ‘GENEocide’) Distinguishing features include tendency towards coconut oil, migration towards hapless arab countries, mispronunciation of the vowels of the English language and an inclination to speak very very fast. Acquisition of large quantities of wealth through aforementioned aents, ungils, chetas and chechis in the Gelf, and income generated through ownership of large coconut orchards and plantations are the main obsessions of this breed.  They are subdivided into two categories:

 

a)      White malls: this breed spreads itself across the world, passing itself off as a genuine member of the race that it infiltrates, due to its flexible skin colour and racial characteristics.

b)     Black malls: Highly intelligent owners of Parotta shops and teashops in various cities around the world.

 

 

2. Goltis:

 

This breed is known for its repeated offences against the human eye, indulging in the worst combination of colours known to mankind. Apart from this, they are pretty decent, despite having a language that sounds barbaric, and food that requires an iron stomach for processing. They are ever Reddy and also possess large amounts of money, but not nearly as much as the Mallus.

 

3. Bongs:

 

Too intelligent for their own good. End up inhibiting progress and imbibing alcoholic substances. Generally broke all the time, and talk loudly and vociferously, giving the impression that they have the customary roshgulla permanently lodged in their mouths.

 

4. Northies

 

Applies to anyone who lives north of the Cooum. They pretend that Hindi is the only language in the world, call everyone south of Bombay “madrasis” and generally have negative IQs. They have never been known to learn any other language, despite living in other parts of the world for large parts of their lives. They are uniformly loud and obnoxious.

 

 

5. Maadus:

 

Abbreviation of the Marvadi. They hoard wealth like the Mallus, wear worse clothes than the Goltis and spit paan out of their swanky Mercs. Also known as “Seths” they are primarily moneylenders and businessmen. They originate in Gujarat, but are found wherever there are people in financial distress. They infest the sowcarpet area in Chennai, and their children are known for their firm grasp of marvaadi insults.

 

 

 

 

JUST SO YOU KNOW..

One wonders, doesn't one?

 

I've decided to try a little free-association writing. For the uninitiated and plain stupid, that means writing without thinking, simply allowing the pen to move across paper, and eventually words will come, words that have been hidden in your subconscious. You may argue that almost all my work would then fall under this category, but hey, who cares. I am sheer genius, so it matters not.

 

So, anyway, I've decided to be randomer than usual, and cloak this randomness in a mantle of superiority and artsiness. If you don't understand, it's simply because your intellect does not match mine. A classic case of the Emperor's new clothes.

 

Speaking of that, I went for this play a while back. It was the last performance in the Metroplus theater festival and looking at the reviews for the previous plays, I was expecting something spectacular. But the emperor foiled me. It was a play where a man discovers his wife is being unfaithful to him, and takes the suit that her lover leaves behind and makes her pretend that it is their honoured guest. Bizarre, to say the least, without including several scenes where the husband in question has a bath, and then oils his upper body in time to a rising tempo. It made no sense whatsoever, and later I discover that it had overtones of apartheid and suppression. The fact that much of the play was in Gujarati or something may have added to the confusion. Why they expect a Chennai audience to understand Gujarati I have no idea. But then, Bloody North Indians! (He he! I shall come to this later)

 

Anyway, here's the crux. We walk out, extremely disappointed, and find a board outside the theatre, half of it for positive, and the other half for negative feedback. The positive side had maybe five comments, most of them guardedly saying "good!" but actually meaning "I'll understand it after looking it up on Wiki, but until then, lets appear intellectual!” The negative side, on the other hand, was absolutely covered. People were writing over each other’s comments, deploring the moronity of the play. I was proud of Chennai that day. So many honest people! 

 

 

And next to the board stood a girl, a few years younger than me, handing out the markers to people to allow them to relive their irritation for having wasted a hundred bucks and two hours in the theatre. (Of course, a few young couples were looking pretty satisfied, as the place was pitch dark the whole time. Young people these days… Humph!) So my friend Neil and I ask the girl, did you like the play? And she says, “ no, I didn’t have the opportunity to watch it, but if I had, I’m sure I would have loved it!” So we tell her “ Uh-huh. Trust us, it was pathetic” She gives us this LOOK, and says “ Oh I’m sure I would have enjoyed it. I like abstract plays”  And all I could think of were the emperor’s new clothes.

 

Coming back to North Indians. I have recently begun discriminating against everyone. I classify and discriminate. It’s nothing serious. I do it to pass the time. It’s fun. You should try it sometime. So, if I happen to call you a bloody oily mallu, or a red underwear-sporting Bong, or a Blaedy uncivilized Panjaabi, it’s not personal.

 

Have a nice day.