Chinna Saroja, Golu and Death

Death is a great equalizer. I do not have great memories of everyone i’ve met in life but some people stood out. They stood out because they were the different ones. Some called them weird, some called them unfortunate and some called them fools. I call them victims of culture based off religious ideologies. The example i will present is a fantastic specimen.

When you live in a Brahmin community you are never short of women named “Saroja” around you. Its one of those famous brahmin names along with “Baby”. Chinna Saroja (Chinna means Little in tamil) was a famous character from my childhood days. She and her husband were a unique couple. I guess i think his name was Kutti Raman (Kutti means small in tamil) but i really don’t remember it that well. Her husband was the silent one like teller in the Penn and Teller show. Chinna saroja ran the show pretty much and her husband nodded, always.

Chinna Saroja and her Husband were distant relatives. They were quite rich, or rather used to be. They had it all. You can imagine them to be one of the differently rich landlord Brahmin family types. They had business, they had acres of land, farms and pretty much everything going for them in life with the exception of children. They did everything they could in this world to have children. Every doctor money could buy and every type of medication.

Of course, they did perform every pooja for all the hindu gods in the text books and off the text books. I say off the text books because a nun and a father in the lourdes church conned them and made some money claiming jesus was a hindu god and he could help with child birth. So did a gentleman from the venus mosque claim some islamic fairy to be lord ayyappans daughter and made a quick buck. My grandfather put an end to these things with the help of a few other people and of course the cops and i will reserve that incident for another very long blog post. Nevertheless, they had no children.

Saroja and her husband adopted. I really love it now to think of the fact that they were liberal enough to go to an orphanage and adopt a random child. Folks from my community / family pestered them to adopt a “Brahmin” child so that i is not subject to the thought processes of a “non brahmin” child. Many a poor family had even tried to sell them a child one could not raise due to poverty. Nevertheless, they adopted a “non brahmin” child, not one but five. The children were happy. Of course they adopted into the ways of a brahmin family system as well. They were vegetarians, spoke the brahmin accent of tamil and one could hardly recognize them if not told.

Once the children grew up they returned the favour. They drugged their parents and made them write off all the property they had to these five adopted children. With mother-loads of money in their wallet the children split and fled in different directions except one. He lived in the same house as their parents brought them up. This son was the kindest of all. He did not throw the parents on the streets like one would expect. He made them household servants instead. They did all the cooking, washing and cleaning and in return were fed 3 square meals a day, without any pay or benefits.

Saroja reminds me not because of her painful state of life but because how she made merry for everyone by making fun of herself. Every year during Golu, she would go around homes in town visiting the Golu setup. As customary as it is, she would sing. Everyone loved it, not because she was fantastic a singer but she was horrible a singer yet nothing or no one stopped her. I explicitly remember the same song she sang year after year. It went something like…

“Gundu Saroja, Baby Saroja, Kulla Saroja, Chinna Saroja…”

Those were the chorus lines. It basically meant “Fatty Saroja, Childlike Saroja, Short Saroja, Small Saroja”, it was a tamil song. Her own composition, apparently. You cannot forget that face because it resembled exactly like that of this Chettichi doll in this image. Unlike today’s women even in their late 60’s, back then women did not shave, they did not use lazer or wax their lips, skin etc., Turmeric was the only option used on the face to prevent hair growth. The yellow of turmeric made her mild moustache stand out blonde and it would look so funny we kids exploded into laughter the moment we saw her. All the kids would gather around in my house from our street when she comes over for Golu.

She would take the small amount of money, the blouse bit (clothing to stitch a blouse) and the fruits and other things that were given when you visit ones house for Golu. Saroja lived her life for Golu, if you asked me. She had her moments, and it was clearly meant for those famous lines of her multi platinum local number sung at Golu, every year.

She passed away one fine day in sleep. Her husband was even more broke when she was no more. He came one fine day and said he was starving and his daughter in law feeds him no more. My aunt and my mother used to take pity on him and feed him lunch everyday. He would sit at the verandah and eat food out of a banana leaf. The hunger of a man 80 odd year old man who has not eaten for a whole day will show. I felt bad for him.

One fine day he came and he presented a neat “Pallanguzhi” instrument made of teak wood. It was a famous game back then before ludo and trump cards defeated old board games. He wanted to sell it and my aunt brought it for Rs. 20 from him. That was the last we saw of him. A few days later we heard he died during sleep on the pavements, right outside his house. Thaththa (Grandpa) went to the burial ground and offered his “vaaykkarisi” (dropping grains of rice on the dead persons mouth before setting on fire) before he was cremated.

I don’t believe in celebrating religious festivals or practices. I somehow was reminded of Chinna Saroja looking at the doll in my house Golu today. I think i will change my mind and make an exception. I will celebrate Saroja, her husband and their life history. I hope there are other people who remember them today. I really hope…

Never Can Say Goodbye!

The first ever Michael Jackson record i brought with my own money.

I explicitly remember this. I used to be a conservative goodie goodie god fearing south Indian iyengar brahmin boy who was nuts about English music, in particular Michael Jackson. I was quite famous for this eccentricity as well. I always used to win 1st prize in the school singing competition for Patel house team. It always was a Michael Jackson song, from 3rd grade to 10th grade. I still have all of those certificates and medals. When it came to the school correspondent’s funeral anniversary, it was always "Will you be there" which was the last song of the event, your guess is as good as mine as to who sang it.

I remember Michael Jackson’s history. I already had "Off the Wall", "Thriller", "Bad" and "Dangerous" on tape. I used to beg each and every cousin visiting and put up a scene, not eat food, study straight through the night to score good marks in school tests. All for that one cassette which costs Rs. 150 every 5 - 7 years when MJ releases an album. In 1995 however the scene was different. My dad’s company was liquidated and shamefully we found it hard to manage one square meal a day after me, my brother and my cousin devoured all the little family money in the name of school fees.

Grandpa did not have the usual Re. 1 he used to give me as pocket money. His pension of Rs. 350 a month was not enough to buy rations at home. That does not stop me from laying my hands on this beauty now does it? I found work. I used to pack worms in a aquarium after school for 2 hours a day. My family never knew any of this, not to this moment. I used to get paid Rs. 4 every day. I waited. The very thought of touching those worms used to make me puke everyday when I used to have dinner. I skipped meals, I suffered but it was worth the effort.

I managed Rs. 250 and I took 29 C from perambur to Gemini Flyover. Spencer Plaza was about 6 - 7 kilometers from Gemini Flyover, I think. I did not have money after spending Rs. 3 on bus ticket since the cassette was a double pack. It must cost more than Rs. 150, I knew. I decided to walk. I walked, I was almost out of breath by the time I crawled my way inside Music World. The manager knew instantly at my sight what I wanted. He asked me to wait. I did, for 3 hours. It was about 1 pm when a carton labeled "EPIC/SONY" arrived and they stashed out the cassettes on the racks. Like a hyena pouncing on a carcass I jumped on the rack, despite no one being there since it was a Monday morning. I paid Rs. 250 and I happily rushed to buy several packets of mineral water and some bovonto to put off the fire that was burning inside all of me and of course, get rid off that dehydration.

I came home, took out the AIWA walkman I had sneaked out of my dads locker the earlier night and I plugged in. What happened next was nothing short of 15 amps of electricity flow through you the next half of the day.
Every year on the midnight of the 29th of August I play "Man in the Mirror" to remind myself it all starts and ends with myself. The good, the bad and the ugly. Today is the first time in my life I will play Man in the Mirror without the man who made it all possible.

Today is a day to remember, a day to cherish this man and to thank him for his gift that has changed things for me and many people that words cannot tell. If you feel it, then be here.

Meanwhile, Happy Birthday. King of Pop!

#5, Sankara Madam St - Chapter #1 - Jason Doctor

I did a lot of things that required a doctor’s visit all of the time. Of course, being physically challenged means all the more useless doctor’s visits. Cerebral palsy is incurable, but that did not prevent my parents from trying. They tried real hard too. Yunani, Homeopathy, Allopathy and of course the ganapathy who resided on pavements all over the place.

Homeopathy docs did what they did, take the money and bullshit around. So did yunani. English medicine docs did some nice stuff. Made some considerable improvements to the way i walked and made my day better, however they did not predict the usual stuff that happens to cerebral palsy patients everyday and here i’m waiting for the d-day. Nevertheless, speaking of doctor’s reminds me of the very first doctor i saw in life.

Our family doctor, jason. Jason was the typical christian convert. Tall, dark, handsome and smart a doctor. However what made him so special was his medicines. Not only was his injections utterly painless but his medicines had something about them. I’m fairly convinced he believed that the disease must be fought from the inside. So whatever evil is inside, if it comes outside then the problem is outside of your body too?

I should have known better. His pills were usually huge. They were like the size of a jackfruit and somehow they always were stuck in your damn throat and made you throw up. Of course, the smell of it was so horrendous, you threw up even before you swallowed one. One thing though, the moment you threw up you felt better. The only drug that he prescribed often and that i liked was betnesol. Why? Because they were small tasty tablets and chewable.

You could take them to school, swallow one in front of the kids and tell them you are sick. Every enthu pattani kids will yell to the teacher, “miss, dilip is sick miss…!!!!” and the teacher would send me to the biology lab to take rest.

I would then lie in the biology lab and peep through holes in my hands/fingers that cover my face and live in the fantasy land of science and anatomy for the rest of the day. All class bunked, excused from homework, what else would one want as a school kid?

Dr. Jason unfortunately went to the United States. I assume his excellent interaction skills and wonderful professionalism took him places. Sometimes i just wonder what would have happened to me without Dr. Jason’s betnesol. Wherever you’re doctor, my well wishes are with you. Anything to escape that bloody math class. Who gives a shit about least common multiplier and highest common factor? yuck!!!

#5, Sankara Madam St - Chapter #1

Memoirs of Desikachari Thaaththa and Kanakavalli Paatty

Continuing off the last post i start the story of my life with the first chapter.

As vaguely as i remember, my kollu paatty considered me as a re-incarnation of kollu thaaththa. Why? because i was born on the same thidhi as his thavasam comes, same natchathram and of course it seems apparently i had a line on my forehead like a thirunaamam that kollu thaththa would wear. Desikachari thaatha was my fathers, grandfather. His wife died and he re-married my kollu patty who did not have any kids with him. Possibly why kanakavalli paatty considered me to be more like her son than a grandson.

Desikachari thaththa was notoriously famous for his temper and arrogance and charisma, so was i, doubting the charisma part alone. I’ve never seen kollu thaththa but only kollu paatty. I’ve been told stories about kollu thaththa so much by family members i dont miss not seeing him, i have his picture and every event engraved in the form of stories in my mind for eternity. I was told how rich a family we were and the palace like house we owned in sabapathi street next to sembithamman kovil, before we sold it to marry out aunt’s. Thaaththa owned a bus service in ooty and our family people would arrogantly get on it and not buy a ticket and quarrel with the bus conductor. After 30 minutes of hassling they would reveal they were "owners" of the transport company to make the conductor pee his pants and salute adchify with a "saari saaar!" dialogue.

I was also told how thaatha knew every mesthiri and carpenter in town and addressed them derogatorily as "sudran" and called them as "dei thevdiya maa, inga va da, idha pannu da" kind of authority and they would tremble in fear at kollu thaaththa. I was also told after all the work done how kollu thaaththa would give the mesthiri or the carpenter twice the money he asked for or deserved, also buy him tiffin and tea/coffee from a nearby iyengar’s hotel. I was told how big a turban kollu thaaththa wore and how he was 7 foot tall and commanded respect from every person on the street and folks hushed "periya iyer’u varaaru" and wished him good morning/afternoon/evening when he walked by. He always walked, he never drove a vehicle and he always used the bus, railways and tram.

Kollu paatty considered me to be her world, probably. She could not call me ‘Dilip’ and she called me ‘dilli’ which sounded more like ‘delhi’ with a i instead of the e. She was very aachaaram and cooked for herself in her small kitchen and room dedicated to her which had a separate door too perpendicular to the main entrance door. She would ask me every morning which i distinctly remember "dilli, enna da samayal pannattum?" and i would blurt off random things from my cherished desires and i would have it in front of me in flat 60 minutes. Kollu patties thaval adai’s were an extacy. I swallow a lump down the throat as i think of her, she really made life so much worth living for and how a kid i was and never realized what i had in life. Of course, for evening tiffin again i would command "poori", "chappathi", "dosai" and every possible permutation and combination and i would have it. My brothers plea and my cousin (my widowed aunt’s son who lived with us) would sometimes try to intervene and ask for stuff but they never made the promised land to the best of my knowledge.

Finally, i distinctly remember this. All 3 of us, after every nights meal would go to kollu paatty and i was always first to be served in the line. Paatty would have a huge, yellow colour green leave’s designed "Dabur Chavanyaprash" bottle. She would take some ayurvedic white powder which tastes like menthol. This powder she purchased for herself and just for me. It was some sort of protien or immunity booster or whatever. My bro and cousin got just the teaspoonful of chavanyaprash while i got the nice tasting powder along with it too and vayathu yerichchala kottified for the other two, every day.

Kanakavalli paaty also had a wonderful bench cum bed which was cool to lay down on. After her demise this was used by the kids in the house as a place to sit and study. Kanakavalli paatty is no more, the house is no more. Dabur chavanyaprash brings them back to life for a brief few seconds every time i see one.

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Immanuel is a Pundai

No, we are not swearing at somebody here. Not certainly me. This post is merely an inspiration from this post. I was tempted to write. Immanuel was our School math teacher during 9th and 10th grade. Immanuel master was special. Why? Because the kids knew how to pass a math exam. He taught tuition classes that costs you Rs. 80 per month and if you went for those classes it means you get a guaranteed 40% and pass the math exam. Not just that, he was sight adchifying the cute 18 year old french teacher, whom most of the kids in the class were sight adchifying too.

Nevertheless the point of this post is not about Mr. Immanuel our math teacher or his sex somersaults but its about toilets. Yes, toilets in the school. Wait, i know you wan’t to know what it has to do with the title. Allow me to explain.

"Immanuel is a Pundai" was the most scribbled text in all toilet wall’s in the school. Of course, other teachers having sex with weird unexplainable things and being castrated or crucified in horrendous ways were also a vital part of the loo art that you would find in these toilets but Immanuel master topped the hate list followed by our biology teacher susan rajan who was precariously described as slime. Why? Because she was the only person on earth who would eat with her right hand and dissect a cockroach off the left, peel things off it and explain things to students will she munched food in her mouth. Brilliant! Yes, she was!

Of course, we had Miss Sheela Christopher who was our Chemistry teacher. I’m not sure how good her chemistry was but her language was pathetic. She always used to point out to our unruly class leader and yell "munnadi pora yeruma maadu ozhunga ner kodula pona than, pinnadi vara yeruma maadu ellam ozhunga ner kottula nadakkum" and she added "munnala pora yeruma maede seri illa, pinnala vara erumaigalellam enna pannum?". Of course, she was promptly rewarded with fantastic  pictures of her riding yeruma maadu’s in the nude and also giving birth to a yeruma kannu kutti. Utter genius in artistic expression. I remember winning 4 rangoli competitions in school successively from 7th - 10th grade during the childrens day festival and project days/exhibition. If only the judges visited the toilets to see the art on the wall, i swear i would not have had a chance in the remote possibilities of planet earth.

I studied in a "All Boys" school till 10th grade. The world famous in perambur "St. Mary’s Matriculation Boys Higher Secondary School" and all of our school toilets were famous and had so much culture and history as much as our school did. Everyday we failed to do homework and we had to kneel down outside class and the cute french miss walked by laughing at us we would rush to the toilet to draw such weird things of the oppressing teacher of that particular period, what awesome a way it was to take it out on them. It was a fantastic channel because the staff toilet which was close to the staff room was cleaned on an hourly basis and kept well compared to the students toilet which was cleaned only when there was a cholera break out amongst school kids, housed in the classes close to the toilet.

To start with, none of the toilets had doors. Yes, no kidding! Im not talking about urinals where you stand and take a piss, im talking about toilets where you squat. No doors, the school management believed doors were too much of an expense and we were "just kids" and deserved no privacy even while taking a shit. Nevertheless, no sane person in their realistic senses would ever go shit there and most of us never did with one or two of those weirdo kids who found these places habitable. We stayed away from those folks all the time, we knew they were of an elite kind. In fact when a kid goes to the toilet we know of what hard bound stuff they are made of and finally they get elected to be School Pupil Leader (SPL) and Assistant SPL. That was our test, the ultimate one that makes you SPL.

To conclude, i would kindly request we relocate all teaching activity in toilets because i think that is the only place where young boys have the utmost concentration and intense dedication when it comes to doing some work. Look at those drawings, breathtaking! I mean, sometimes i used to see women with so many tits, i could not even count them with my poor math skills. Some sex positions were so impossible, if not innovative, they would beat the crap out of kama sutra. I think what we should have is a public addressable system with isolated toilets with walls to separate each kid. This teacher can speak over the mic and deliver the lecture material via the speakers installed in each kuckoose and you will see the artistic potential of each and every kid revealed to the best possible extent.

I also suggest we fire all these useless old blokes and hire chick 18 year olds as teachers (like our french teacher) and ensure that in this way the students behave themselves and look their best and the teacher has the complete attention and control of the class. I think this is the best formula for any boys school. I hope St. Mary’s school is listening.

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A handbook of exceptional quick lies

Yes, exclusively for the Indian family as well. Are you anything post 13 and below 30? Are you Single? Are you the one who happens to have girl friends? Are you the one that happens to be from a conservative tambram, catholic or muslim family? Do you find it painful to find explanations everytime you step out of the house?

Well if you have been answering yes to atleast 2 of the above questions then you are in deep shit?

Does it take impossible amounts of convincing to get your girl friend out of the house and in the last minute she banks out and excuse’s herself "parents won’t allow me to go out in weekends" sort of unbelievable shit!

Well wonder no more. The answers to your prayers are right here. I shall soon come up with a paperback book called "A handbook of exceptional quick lies". 20000 right lies you can fling right out of your pocket and not only get out of your house post 7 PM. Not only that, this WILL get your girl friends out too! Yes, its true and its time tested and it hardly fails.

For example, you plan a night show movie with a gang of friends at work. Living in chennai or any city for that matter you know how hard it is to get evening show or matinee tickets. Now your gal friends wont come out of the home because anything post 7 PM is taboo.

Well here is the deal. Call your girl friends Landline number. As always her dad, the bloody villain will pick up the phone. Now quickly tell her dad "Hello uncle, how are you? I’m fine. I could not reach sheetals mobile so called the land line. Can you take a message?"

At this point of time the curious bastard will be more than happy to know what the hell you are going to tell his beautiful daughter. Now comes your nuke…

"Please ask sheetal to get the Black Mamba Project report for the meeting with Vice president we have tonight at 9 AM PST"

Now her dad is like "What meeting? She never told me?"

"Oh yes uncle, we have a performance review meeting and our team has won the award for the best performance for this quarter. We may probably get a pay hike if we impress the VP in the meeting with our presentation and sheetal has done all the ground work."

Two things. Daughter will probably get a pay hike, daughter may get an award. This sucker will do anything to get his daughter to go to office.

Infact you can also use this opportunity to go pick up your girl friend from her house since it will be late in the night.

Imagine this, 8 pm pick-up from home. Dinner + movie at 10.45 pm and then go clubbing at 3 AM after the movie and back home by 6 am next morning.

The only small downside is you need to wear formal clothes when you start out of the house. That’s okay. We are all used to carrying different set of clothes and changing in the restroom. Women are experts at this and you can take advise from your girl friend.

This is just ONE EXAMPLE, one of the more inefficient ways to get the girl friend out and you out of the house. Imagine how the super efficient ones that are available only when you buy the book, would sound like. Buy my book and you have 19,999 more of this wonderful treasure of knowledge.

So hang tight and watch this space. Arriving in a blog near you….

As for NRI folks, dont worry. Amazon deals are underway to sell atleast 87 million copies in the USA and Europe alone.

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Barrack, before & after the Debate

Awesome Video. If Obama wins then this guy will have an awesome career.

This guy is just awesome.

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The Excuse

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Monkey Business

The question is how are the animals treated. Looks like they love the soya beam tip and the 2 hour work time but then is this only in front of the camera? Do these monkeys work for more hours?

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#5, Sankara Madam St - Preface

There once lived a boy who was born into a lower middle class iyengar family that lived in a lowly place called perambur. He lived in an old house that had a tiled roof, the famous "ottu veedu" of those times in the early 80’s. The boy unfortunately had a condition called cerebral palsy which devoid him from walking normally. He did not care, he ran.

Once during a weekend most assumingly the boy carefully tip toed via the gate-less house of his and stood under the cool jasmine creeper. He was shrewd enough not to put his foot back or forward and was devising his plan of edging along the 1 foot wide platform that kissed the dirty 4 foot compound wall. There was sewer all around him and his house had a very small drainage system, which meant the first house to explode and leak sewer into small road in case of a drainage block, would be his.

As he excitedly looked at the ugly masses of human feces and other unknown and unidentified objects. His dad, a usual overtly strict iyengar fellow yelled "peeyila uzhundhu vaaranumnu kanganam kattindu irukka nee!" (you are determined to fall and wrap yourself in crap).

As the young boy moved along the platform his dad caught hold of his hands tightly and yelled again "odaadha" (don’t run), suddenly his eyes shifted to the other side of the road where he found another young boy, though much older than himself, devouring a packet of ‘biscuit thool’, something that he was denied moments ago before he left the house because he was about to visit the doctor. Biscuit thool is nothing but left over crumbles of biscuit, cake and cream in a bakery that is packed and was sold for less than Rs. 2 in those days.

The boy looked at the other kid, his legs were thin like as if the entire life juice had been sucked out of it with a straw, by the Devil. He had polio. The young boy smiled and said "nondi" (lame) and before he could realize "THHWAACK!" came a blow on his head.

Before he could lift his hand to rub his head that hurt if had been smashed with a rock, his dad retorted. "Nee maththrum enna?" (what are you?)

That moment, it dawned upon him, he was different.