An ordinary life 2 - Radhakrishnan

"Idly, rava idly, pongal, vadai, poori, dosa, chapatti, barota, rava dosa, masala dosa, mysore masala dosa...." Radhakrishnan meandered through his list...
"One plate chola puri. Make it fast!" the customer interrupted. In his mind, Radhakrishnan sighed. It was going to be one of those days, then. "No Sir, no chola puri," he said, resigning himself to some abuse. "What do you mean?What else do you have then?"
Radhakrishnan took a deep breath and started again:"Idly, rava idly, pongal, vadai, poori, chappathi, barota, dosa, rava dosa, mysore masala dosa..."
"O.k. get me a panneer dosa."
Tch!

* * *

When Radhakrishnan first started working in Krishna Tiffin Home, it was at the end of several months of search and hunger, and he was ecstatic. In his mind, he ran Tamil-cinema inspired fantasies of meeting a rich, benevolent, sugar daddy in the cafe, who would be impressed by his serving skills and adopt him. He retained this dream for about a week after he joined. During the week, he realised several things: No bigwig would even bother stepping into Krishna Tiffin Home; cockroaches ran all over the kitchen, some were cooked with the food; there was more water in the sambar than anything else; the owner had his lunch at Saravana Bhavan everyday and daydreaming would do him no good.
He, however, worked his way from dish washing to waiting on tables. He was hoping to make it to "master" one day and stopped thinking there. There was a roof over his head (he stayed at the hotel), food three times a day, six coffees and Rs.2500 per month. He had few requirements and before he snipped it, his dream.

* * *

The first day there was flooding in Chennai, Radhakrishnan called his mother at the only phone booth in their village, "Amma, you should see this, there is water everywhere. It has nearly entered the hotel!" His mother cautioned him not to get wet or he would fall ill. "Bah! I'm grown up, ma. You don't have to tell me that!" he retorted indignantly. Putting down the phone, he folded his lungi upto his knees, covered his head with a plastic bag and waded out into the street.
A couple of buckets, plastic pots, aluminium vessels, mats, and brooms were floating around in the muddy water. The marriage hall next door was chock-a-bloc with people from the nearby slum, evicted after water entered their thatched huts and carried away the meagre belongings.
The kids were wailing from hunger and the women from losing their pans. Hitching his dhoti higher up, he waded back to the hotel and roughly shook the sleeping cook, "Mani Anna, come, we have work to do. There are hungry children out there. Get the rice and paruppu, let's make some Pongal to feed them, I'll tell owner-saar."

* * *

"Idly, rava idly, pongal, vada..." Radhakrishnan rattled off, a smile dancing on his lips as he swivelled his serving-tray on a single finger. There was a spring in his step as he walked over to the kitchen to deliver his order. Head held high, he walked proudly past a brand new frame on the greasy wall. A square piece of newspaper sat smug inside the frame, the dark smudgy headlines boldly proclaiming: "Young waiter to the rescue."
"Three plates idly!" he told Mani Anna," Fast, make it fast!" still twirling his tray stylishly on his right index finger, a fond glance carressing the bright gilt frame shining on the wall.

Harry Potter and the 'tharai' ticket

I did it!
I watched Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire at the first premiere in the city, despite great discomfort. They had overdone the pass thingie, so there were more invites than chairs in the theatre, but that was not to deter a hardcore Potter fan. I simply brushed aside the little boy usher who insisted I could not go in because the seats were all full. I had not come this far this late to go back home without seeing Potter get the Goblet. So I marched right in, estimated a vantage position on the aisle and squatted down happily. Happy to say, many followed suit. I say I squatted happily, but it's been ages since I've sat on the ground for about two and a half hours and boy! CREEEEAAAAAAAAK....
Nevermind that. HP and the Goblet of Fire is the finest Potter movie made yet, the film-adaptation interestingly tight, still faithful to the book (Can director Mike Newell dare anything else?!), the special effects stunning (be it the Quidditch Championship or Mad Eye Moody's Polyjuice Potion transfiguration), amazing calisthenics and the Tri-Wizard Tournament absorbing. There is no doubt, Mike Newell's got a Firebolt and he can ride it like a Super Seeker. However, I think, as the mood get darker and the Death Mark looms overhead, it is only fair that Harry and Ron get a haricut. :)

An ordinary life 1- Annamalai

As the cold crept up throught the wefts of his flimsy cotton dhoti, Annamalai curled up even tighter. It was drawing close on Margazhi and that explained the unusual early morning chill of Chennai.
It had been raining the whole week, the water had come into the flat, and the flattened out cardboard carton he regularly used as a mat was soaking wet and useless. He had replaced them with newspapers borrowed from the couple in the A1 flat. At his feet was a smouldering heap of used 'Good Knight' mats the teacher in B2 had given him. In his tummy, there was a quart of TASMAC brandy bought with the advance on his salary that he managed to cadge from the Association secretary.
However, nothing seemed to work against the nasty nip of an approaching margazhi: certainly not his flimsy dhoti, not the six months' old bunch of newspapers and strangely, not even the brandy. There was nothing to do but wake up and walk around the apartment complex, knocking his heavy stick on the cement floor while a death-like rattle knocked about in his chest.
Later, closer to daybreak, as he washed the red Esteem of the A1 couple, Annamalai decided to take yet another advance on his car-washing salary from the three flats. That would be about Rs.150. It would have to be more than a quart tonight.

* * *

It was yet another cold night in a city that is usually a stooge of the sun. Ponambalam was impatiently peering into the darkness. There was still no sign of Annamalai and he was afraid he would have to do double-time today. Cocksure Ponambalam was younger than Annamalai's 85 years, and did not share the old man's fondness for the bottle. For the residents of the apartment, it seemed his greatest asset.
He would dress in khakis and would'nt ask for newspapers, food, mosquito mats or better still advances on salary. He would bring a thick violet and green blanket from home that he would stretch over his head and he would be asleep even before his head hit the pillow. But today, he was awake still, watching out for Annamalai, muttering under his breath. "Why did they give him an advance. The fool will only drink it all up!"
As he muttered to himself, in the distance, he saw a lanky form waving across the road lurch over and sink like a black bundle onto the dark tar. He instinctively knew it was Annamalai. "That old drunk," he muttered under his breath, "let him lie there tonight. Serves him right for making me work overtime." He then drew the violet blanket over his head and was snoring soon.

* * *

The next morning, there was a huge crowd on the street outside the flat. Policemen, wearing garish mufflers around their head, were swinging lathis at the crowd, shooing them away. But the crowd watched, entranced, at the old man lying on the tar road, his mouth gaping, his face contorted. "Hmmmm. Looks like the poor guy had a stroke..." a doctor from the neighbouting flat commented.

* * *

The post mortem report confirmed the stroke. It did not mention any alcohol in the blood or stomach. One would imagine the forensic experts knew what they were looking at. However, they noted that the deceased's right hand was frozen, clutching a modestly bulky packet wrapped in newspaper. From a corner, peeped a bright red and black blanket, the price tag visible. "Rs. 150," it said, "After rebate".



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I have decided to serialise facto-fictional accounts of the ordinary lives of men and women, whose stories have not been told. I want to write about watchmen, maids, bus conductors and garbage men. If you have a bright idea about a really ordinary life, do let me know. I've come to believe, there must be a story everywhere.

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Alright, if this is how it has to be done, then I shall.
Go check out my photoblog, currently titled, 'You Don't Have to Say Cheese' and sub-titled 'You Have to Drop By and Leave Comments.' Currently just me and a Phantom float by.
After this stick, I think I will offer you some carrot: Most of them are rather good images, will appeal to most of your senses and there are free cookies on the site! Naahh, I'm trying too hard. Do me a favour, folks, just click here, will ya?

Aaaaaaaahhaaaaaaaaahhhhnnn!

This post is briefly about what is now known internationally among the Tamil speaking community as the Vadivelu Constant : "Aaaaaaaahhhhhaaaaaahhhnnn..."
The primary emotion this word (is it?) conveys is one of bewilderment, as Cho Ramaswamy put it recently (Trust him to sort things out for you!), BUT it could stand for everything else you want it to stand for too. When you are angry, disgusted (to be appended with Avannaaa neee), in a good mood, stumped for words, or restrained by decency when someone is cracking a nasty at you, the good word is "Aaaaaaaaahhhhhaaaaaaaahhhhhnnnn."
The most appropriate means of using the word (again, is it?) for a strategic coup d'etat is to stress the di-syllabic vowels of Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhaaaaahhhhnn, taking a prescribed seven and a half seconds longer to deliver the vowel of the second syllable. Doing it simultaneously with eyebrows raised as high as you can get them increases the bewilderment/other emotion quotient.
Then the someone who has been cracking the nasty at you either laughs, if he/she has a sense of humour (some do, you know) or even if he/she does not, he/she is stumped in reciprocation, because what CAN one say to two vowels anyway?
An amazing return, I assure you. Not bad, considering the man after whom the Vadivelu Constant has been christened, started off as 'Michael Jackson's thangachi (sister)' an under-fed, unfunny, cackling, to-be-kicked-around-stooge whose hair stylist was an angry electrician. He sure has come aaaaaaahhhhhaaannnnnn long way since then.
You don't have to believe a word of this post, but won't hurt you to say the word the next time Chief Cruel makes that not-so-funny joke again. Aye, just say "aaaaaaaaaaahhhhaaaaaahhhhnnn" and sit back to watch the response! I can already hear you thanking me for introducing you to the Vadivelu Constant. We strive to please, ladies and gentlemen, we strive to please!

Ach, Grey!

I'm not a black and white person. There are greys, shades and a zillion colours in my life. I think grey is an important shade in the spectrum of colours.
And yet, now, I am sick and tired of the grey around me. The sky is grey, the puddles grey, the sea too is a nasty grey. The sun too is grey, defeated for days now, curling up behind the grey. I think my fingernails are turning pale grey too, my mind is already a grey muddle. I don't have a thing against rains- I love a good rain, the smell of rain hitting dry earth, even getting wet, but implicit in this love is the belief that it will stop: sometime. Anytime.
But these days, as Chennai becomes Cherapunji, I have to console myself with remembered visions of a glorious sun setting on an orange ocean, in Florida, in Santa Monica, in India. And the sand pipers pecking for clams on the gorgeous glowing sands. But that is for later.
Now, I JUST WANNA SEE THE SUN !

Pleased as punch!

I've been meaning to take this test for a long while, but actually did, only today! And as a sincere fan of holocaust history, I'm pleased as punch! P-L-E-A-S-E-D!
Could not have asked for a better Classic Movie to be!

I'm tagging everyone who reads this and has not done it already, as long as you promise to come back and tell me what classic movie you are! :)

What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com