THAT happened...

I deleted my old wordpress blog by accident. I loved that blog. But anyway, having dispensed off with some extremely pressing duties, I am back. I probably shouldn't have been so stupid in the first place, but I like the new look. On to new beginnings....and this one will stay. PLEASE GOD :-)

I am going to put up my old posts here in the order that they were last published..

Love on a hard disk

It is a small item, of no particular significance to most people who come in contact with it. People use it, are entertained by its contents, derive pleasure from it. And occasionally, sigh over love, larger than life as it always is portrayed by its contents.

The size of this thing is maybe that of a girl’s hand. Black in color and somewhat scratched by the many hands that come in contact with it and with a vengeance by the house cat. He after all, holds a grudge. Too much time is spent on it, cat time.

To her though, she who keeps it in a little scarred leather pouch, this black thing is a key. A key to worlds and things she reads of, dreams of and longs to be a part of. She has a name for it, although of that, nobody knows. She is somewhat whimsical that way. She is by no means an only child, or the quintessential middle child in a large brood. Nevertheless, she has spent quite a chunk of her life among invisible and imaginary friends. In her childhood, there has been, the usual posse of friendly dragons, Barney-like dinosaurs, talking cats and dogs, various farm animals and when she had been old enough to read Harry Potter, the odd owl or two. A string of handsome, dashing men and boys followed her teen years, imaginary suitors, if you will. Each, far more chivalrous than the other. All of them, quite stupendously successful. There have been Harvard law graduates, heirs of princely states, a duke or two, secret service agents, dashing Italians and tall dark and handsome Indians. This girl, quite insulated from the outside world, thus lives vicariously. Dreaming of love and of what lies beyond. She hopes that one day, she is able to savor all of it. Life thus far, begs practicality but the romantic in her never gives up.

Nineteen and quite shy really, in the meanwhile, she holds the key to her secret kingdom. A place, where she can be anything she wants to be, its contents giving her a wonderfully wide range of selection.

This key of hers, this palm length scratched black thing that goes by the name Toby, is a hard disk. A very unremarkable looking one but nevertheless, it is one of the essentials in our girl’s life.

Toby has many many many movies in him and with their help she has traversed around the world. She has gone on gondola rides in the Venetian sunset, stood along side Aragorn in the battle of Gondor, when she watches Father of the Bride, she dreams of the simple life too, of living in a pretty honeysuckle colored house with ivy growing all over it, of tables groaning under the weight of holiday food. She dreams of bays looking sapphire in the sunshine and pristine white beaches, she dreams of pretty white wooden sail boats and of a certain dolphin named Flipper.She imagines he will listen to her whistle as well.

And of love. Love bountiful. More than anything, she dreams of love.

She is Rapunzel and she dreams of swashbuckling princes. She is a star and she dreams of unicorns and villains and a dashing young man who comes to rescue her. She dreams of falling in love with him. At other times she dreams simply of being just another girl, in love with just another boy and taking him home to meet her folks. She dreams of seeing the beauty of Europe with him, rustic Indian villages, monasteries in Ladhak, campfires and fried fish, she dreams of going for an afternoon walk in the fall with rust and orange leaves swirling all around. She dreams of making snow angels with him. She dreams of taking him home to the little village her parents come from.

Love bountiful, never experienced thus far, nevertheless, this novice dreams big big dreams.

And sometimes, she has to leave the comfort of her swively chair and beanbag, unplug Toby, shut off her laptop and join the real world that exists beyond the door of her room. Then, all the heroes and the fairy lands fade into the background. But only for a time. Toby is always around when she wants him and needs him. Love on a hard disk.

Cuore Rossonero

I love the colour blue. Love, is an understatement because I am just SLIGHTLY obsessed with it. In my previous life I must have been a Munchkin. Blue, blue, blue. I could say it over and over again and still not express just how much I love it. But more than this, more than wanting pretty blue shutters for the house I might own one day, more than owning luggage in different shades of blue, barbie dolls dressed up as blue ballerinas, blue curtains, blue quilts, more than any of this, I pay my allegiance to two hues of the colour family.

One of the things by which I define myself is my love for football. Hailing, as I do from a nation caught up in perpetual cricketing frenzy, I, nevertheless, fell heads over heels in love with footy. If I have worshiped Maradona as a kid and still support the Argentine football team staunchly and blindly, when it comes to the more glamorous and the more exciting world of club football, there is only one club I ever have loved and ever can love. And its colours more often than not, over take my obsession for blue. So this post is an AC Milan rant. Because, in accordance with the popular adage, some of us see only in red and black.

I could of course, run quickly through the history of the club but emotions dictate otherwise. After a considerable amount of time, I have regained my sense of oneness with Milan and it begs for an outlet.

For the past couple of months, I studiously avoided Milan’s homepage, other football websites, shied away from football news, anything that reminded me of the major changes, the squad and management underwent. After twenty five years our captain, Milan’s legend, retired and at forty one, Paolo Maldini was still a warhorse on the pitch. At that point, it seemed inconceivable that Milan could exist without it’s No.3 because as far back as I can remember, Maldini has been Milan, Milan has been Maldini. Then came Carlo Ancelotti’s departure and that too hurt because I had come to truly love and respect the robust, red faced Italian. We after all, won two European championships under him, became the first European club to lift the Club world cup trophy, he was the puppet master and force behind some of the best footballing Milan has enjoyed. More than anything else, he coached Ricardo Kaka when he came over to Europe for the first time from Sao Paolo.

I saw and rejoiced over Kaka’s meteorical rise in the world of football, saw the magician that he was with the ball, saw the kind of mercurial power he has on the pitch and saw San Siro fall absolutely and irrevocably in love with him. As did millions of Milan fans around the world, so did I. After the painful departure of Sheva to Chelsea in 2006, Milan seemed to focus all of its love and adoration on its No.22. Kaka, won over the Milan family long before that but I am not too off the mark when I say that from then on, he became Milan’s golden boy. Many, including me, believed that he would go on to wear the captain’s armband someday. The prodigy who blossomed into a lethal and powerful footballer with a beautiful foot. His game is not overbearing and full of tricks like Christiano Ronaldo’s, he has never showed off, he has never had to show off. And to watch him dodge the opposition almost as if he is dancing his way across the pitch, to watch his feet at work, to watch him score is a delight to every footy fan’s eyes.

So when Maldini left I was sad but also full of pride, after a career spanning twenty five years, it is a well deserved retirement. When Ancelotti left, it felt weird because after a long long time another would come to the helm but I was happy for him, he has after all, done all he could with and for Milan. It’s time he moved on. Because the rest of the squad was there. Kaka was there. I didn’t take the Real rumours very seriously in the beginning, after some heart stopping moments last summer when Abramovich tried to acquire him and early this year when Manchester City almost signed him, I felt there was no need to fear that he would leave. Kaka after all, emerged from his balcony in January waving the Milan jersey to the cheers of hundreds of fans gathered outside his window to oppose his supposed move to Man city. But leave he did, I will not attempt to analyze the reasons why but leave he did and I watched in some sort of passive horror as the transfer saga unfolded. From Milan’s much loved much celebrated and much revered 22 he went to Real’s Galactico 8. It hurt. It still hurts. This is not an understatement because any Arsenal fan would have felt the same when Henry left for Barcelona, every Juventus fan would have felt this when Zidane left for Real. Will Real’s fans ever love him and cherish him the way Milan has? I do not know, but truthfully I do not think so. Being a rich club, they are used to “Galcacticos”. Ricky Kaka will be just another galactico who plays exceedingly well. He will never, I believe, become a symbol for the club.

Every club invariably has one player who rises above all the others and eclipses everyone else in terms of sheer love and admiration from fans. For Arsenal, in spite of greats like Bergkamp and Tony Adams, in spite of fresh stars like Fabregas it can only be Thierry Henry I am sure, and for Milan, in spite of Marco Van Basten, Franco Baresi, in spite of Andres Pirlo, Shevchenko, yes, in spite of even Maldini, that player can only be Ricardo Kaka.

If someone had told me that the last time I would actually watch Kaka play in Milan’s red and black would be the Champions league match against Arsenal two seasons ago I would have phoo phooed them, but living in India, I do not get to watch Serie A all that often and the rare times they broadcast Milan matches last season, it was my luck that it was during Kaka’s injury phase. I am immeasurably sad that I will never get to watch him play for Milan again. But hope kind of remains, that one day, he will come back.

So, because I could not bear to see photos of Kaka’s official presentation at Bernabeu or hear any sort of news where the words Milan, Kaka and Real Madrid would all come in the same sentence, I avoided all things football like the plague.

But, life goes on, the world of football is too beautiful, too fast paced to ever stop for one player or one fan and eventually I have come to accept these changes in our squad. To rejoice in the fact that Chelsea failed to pry Pirlo away from us, we still have our veterans in players like Ambrosini, Seedorf and the seemingly ageless Inzaghi. We have Pato and like the article on goal.com mentioned, he is the prince and with Kaka’s absence, he must become the king. We still have a good defence, Milan’s famous defence will still hold. We have Jankulovski doing his bit faithfully in every match in the left, we have Zambrotta, one of Milan’s recent acquisitions, we have Thiago Silva who has some big shoes to fill and we have Alessandro Nesta back! In my opinion, the greatest defender of all time. We have Ronaldinho who is arguably one the most talented footballers the world has seen and I hope and pray he will regain his form. This is his moment, he is not in Kaka’s shadow or Messi’s shadow any more. We have, most importantly, Milan’s pitbull, warhorse, a regular dog of war, Rino Gattuso, the heart and soul of the feeling that is unique to the Milan family around the world. Who can forget the ruthless way in which he marked Christiano Ronaldo in the semi finals of Uefa’s 2006-07 Champion’s league season? On Saturday, at the start of the new season, he starred in his 400th match for Milan with the captain’s armband. Milan won. But irrespective of that, what restored me was the spirit, the Milan spirit, all it took was one snap shot of the new coach Leonardo hugging Pato after one of his goals. Coaches may come and go, legends may retire and yes, even loved players like Kaka might leave but Milan is Milan and the ones who stay behind remind me that it is seldom that anyone leaves Milan.

In the end, the club matters more than any individual. Kaka will always be my favourite player even though he is in the enemy camp now so to speak, it will be a long while before I stop grieving his departure from the club. I do not call myself a football expert and I accept that my love for the game and for the club exceeds common sense sometimes. But that is what football has taught me. Passion and I am not sorry. In a sense, I will always watch Kaka play from now on, with a sense of longing to see him play for Milan again, but the football world stops and waits for none. Another world cup is on the way. The new Serie A season has started and we have the derby next Saturday, we are the home team and Huntelaar will be back for the derby. The new Uefa season will start very soon and I am excited. Inspite of all criticism, Milan has always been a team that wins. So, if we happen to meet a certain team from Madrid in our quest for the trophy, then so be it. Because once a Milanista, always a Milanista.

Friday evening at B Whatever

The place is an apartment in Chennai. A typical two bedroom in one of those newly erected buildings whatsitnots. The apartment itself speaks swanky nouveau riche. The drawing room, or in Chennai parlance, the hall, is a small space by any standards, enough perhaps for a coffee table and some cane furniture or wooden framed sofa chairs that are slight of appearance. That is, if one wanted to move about. But if one did not mind cramped spaces where people are more often than not jammed together, then perhaps one would consider furnishing the hall in big leather couches that have more muscle than seating space. There would be crocheted doilies on every available flat surface and also on the arms and head rests of the sofas. The piece de resistance would be the huge plasma screen (or something to that effect) TV jammed into an entertainment center along one side (the only free side) of the wall. One would perhaps, notice the Bose speakers of the home theater. We will not go into a detailed description of the rest of the house for the simple reason that it does not concern us as regards to our story.

The people concerned with this particular story live in just such a place, apartment B whatever in building whatsitnot. It is a Friday evening and to any passer by on the road next to the building, there would waft from the windows a beautiful smell that will hasten footsteps towards the nearest teashops or to their own homes and kitchens. A passerby with a particularly discerning nose perhaps, will note that the smell comes out of a particular flower curtained window. From apartment B whatever. The smell of course is one very close to a Chennaite’s heart. Of onions and besan dal batter, of frying oil. If any passerby was desperate enough to cling to the wall and sniff with canine passion, then that person would detect the smell of coconut and peanut chutneys and would hear the very satisfying sound, that is the opening of a bottle of Maggi’s tomato ketchup.

Guests are expected for evening tiffin and the house is a buzz with preparations. The hall has been swept once and then once again when the memsahib or Amma (as servant maids in Chennai are wont to call the lady of the house) notices certain imaginary specks of dirt and dust. The other occupants of the house are Iyya(Amma’s husband) and Thambi and Pappa (the son and the daughter). Thus addressed by the servants and the driver, Thambi and Pappa live on the fat of the land and do not do much else except lounge about, shop for hideously expensive clothes, drink lattes whether like it or not and put to good use their mobile phones and various other gadgets in the house. They are also known to study and do homework occasionally.

Shouts, curses and tantrums can be heard in various parts of the house. Thambi it seems, has done a bunk and raced off to his friends. Pappa refuses flatly to put on the salwar kameez her mother is trying to wrestle her into. She hates the idea of social visits just now and wants to get back to google talk and googoo eyes with her (secret) boyfriend. Iyya of course is grinning as the visit is a reason to unlock the liquor cabinet and have a heart to heart with the other Mr.Nouveau Riche. Amma wants to gossip and show off the reupholstered sofa. And the trip to Europe photo albums.

The door bell sends the maid and the dust pan scurrying for cover. Iyya, portly and sweating in linen trousers and a starched shirt smooths down his well-oiled pate one last time and opens the door. Amma in her chiffon sari is standing by with her smile a mile wide. For us, passive lookers on, the family that has come for tiffin looks uncannily like the inhabitants of B Whatever. They are also an Iyya and Amma and a very similar looking Pappa with a barely perceptible scowl at the waste of a Friday evening.

Our people usher them in, everyone talking at once. The guests are made comfortable and are offered tall glasses of chilled Kisan Juice. The guest Pappa shuffles to her seat, mumbles out a hello Aunty and a hello Uncle with a watery smile and keeps her hands tucked underneath her. Her own parents after all are here for the gossip and the booze. To brag a little along the way. Quid pro quo.

Amma turns in the general direction of the rest of the house and hollers out Pappa’s name with falsetto cheer. A few minutes later of this and that, our Pappa shuffles in wearing the detested salwar kameez. Round one to Amma. The guest Iyya and guest Amma ooh and ahhh over how tall she has grown since they last saw her and bunch up so as to let the ‘young ones’ sit together and talk. Our Pappa gives her fellow sufferer a weak smile and attempts a conversation. They don’t get much beyond, what do you do, where do you study?

The onion bajjis are brought out by the maid and vanish with rapidity. Conversation, forced or otherwise flows and filters out through the windows. The ‘men’ mumble a somewhat vague excuse about needing some air and move towards their weekend quota. A brief lull follows and for a few seconds the two Ammas and the Pappas all just sit looking at each other. And then,

“Maybe you would like to see our Europe trip photos?”

Good boy Hunter

I purge to write, I write to purge. This time, I am doing a bit of both. I just sat down, in my chair, sort of spinning around on the wheels. Maybe my subconscious wants to convey the fact that I may be feeling calm. Calmer. Or maybe, it wants to be. I don’t know. We shall see.

The past half hour, I was on the floor, crying. I was hugging my dog Jimmy, for comfort, because like Mia Thermopolis says (for her pet cat though), if you can’t look to your dog for comfort, what good is even having a dog? Well, actually scratch that. I do not mean that. I do not mean to be….so ungenerous if you will, when this post is going to be, or rather, is an urgent desperate need to write about my dog Hunter. To connect with him. He passed away on the 8th of May this year.

Hunter was a German Shepherd, and we got him in 2001, in the early summer. He was an ugly puppy. Hard to visualize, I know, but he really was. He looked like a cross between a puppy and a bear cub. Jerry, our much loved Australian Terrier who passed away April of 2005, had been with us for sometime and had gotten used to having the run of the house. Lord and master so to speak. We worshiped him. My mother has always said that no dog can ever beat Jerry for being Gentlemanly, Hunter was a close second. I named Jerry and my brother named Hunter.

Jerry used to have a beautiful smile, like a Dolphin’s. Hunter rarely smiled, he rarely got angry or excited. He rarely jumped on people and rarely woke anyone up by licking their hair in the morning (my boy Jimmy’s highlight of every day). Hunter was so like his name for his looks, he was SUCH a handsome fellow, he had the ability to scare people by just looking at them. I guess, it always took someone, who knew him well, to understand that his “stares” weren’t so much stares as puzzled glances. Hunter was the dopey good guy, who always forgot to smile, because he was too shy. Hunter was the guy who just stood by, tail slowly wagging waiting for his turn to get his ears scratched while our other dogs swarmed around us clamoring for attention. Hunter never sought attention. I am not sure he knew how to. Maybe for that specific reason alone, my brother just showered love on him. They were great pals, Hunter and my brother, the way he used to roll on the ground wrestling with that dopey dog still makes me smile.

Hunter and Jerry became best friends too, Jerry was sort of, the older brother, in spite of the fact that he was less than quarter of Hunter’s size. They became fast friends right after they got over the phase when jealous Jerry (after making sure no one was around) would pee on puppy Hunter. Or steal his food. Mr.Puppy used to eat a little, become full, but the greedy puppy that he was, he used to amble off for a walk around the house, burn off the calories and then come back to his food. To find it gone. EVERY time. It took a long time for us to get Jerry to be friends with Hunter and to stop stealing his food. And to get over the pee problem.

Jerry died four years ago and I took it very hard because it wasn’t supposed to be his time. It was a freak accident and he wasn’t supposed to die. It took me the better part of a year to get over him, I suspect it was the same for my brother, although we have never really spoken about it. I have long since made my peace with that. The one place I know where I can completely connect with him again is the Hunt Club in Ooty. The two dozen or so fox hounds that they breed there, remind me of him. Even though Jerry has never known that place, I can feel him there. I have felt him there.

Hunter passed away four years later. I had graduated from high school when his brother passed away and I was about to graduate from College when he followed. It is funny isn’t it? How things happen like that? I have the book, John Grogan’s Marley and Me, I read it some years ago but I am yet to watch the movie, it coincided with Hunter’s ill health and struck too close to home for comfort.

What can I say about Hunter. If I had to write a book on him like Mr.Grogan did on Marley, I probably wouldn’t have anything very interesting or side splitting to write about. Hunter was just an ordinary dog. He never did anything extraordinary, good or otherwise. He was a quiet sort of fellow, perfectly house broke, a little sensitive (it took him a long while to get over Jerry’s death). He mostly liked to deck down under the beds for the cool of the marble floors during the summer months, I know he liked to lie on the porch and snooze in the sunshine. Hunter never showed any aggression. Almost never. The only living beings Hunter ever got pissed with (for God knows what reason), were the stray cows or buffalos that sometimes used to wander past our gate. He never did anything remotely clever or naughty. He did not know any tricks. He wasn’t the world’s best guard dog. That honor would surely have to go to Jerry.

So, if I were to write about my boy Hunter, it would never be a bestseller. I doubt if it would attract any readers at all. He was just another dog. But that’s okay, because what Hunter was, was the original Good Dog, I have patted his head and said “Good dog” or “Good boy Hunter” than I have, for all of my other dogs put together. And he ALWAYS answered to my whistle and “Hunter come here boy” till he got too old and couldn’t stand. And it became too painful to watch him.

We were given the option of putting him to sleep. It was indeed too too, much too painful to watch his pain but none of us would hear of it. He deserved to die in his own house, in his own time, among his family. He died right outside my bedroom window and I know it will take me a while to look out and not see him.

So Hunter. He was just an ordinary dog dog. Full of love. Chock full of love. That I guess, in the end is the only thing that matters. He was, is, family.

I have gotten over his death in a sense, because he was old and lived a good life. Sometimes at night, I lie on my bed and peep down at Jimmy, sleeping. I always hope Jimmy gets just how much I love him. When I look at him, I am always drawn to his ears. I used to love stroking Hunter’s ears.

I graduated College and I am happy, I am very happy. I hope I make good use of the opportunity and the freedom that I have, to beat my own path. So this summer, with all of its possibilities and promises for the future, is exciting. But sometimes, in the dead of the night, it comes to me, that I buried my dog this summer and I am heartsick. Maybe I have a pilgrimage to make, to Ooty.

Musings on a July evening

It is just an average July evening. The kind of an evening for early dinners, the kind of an evening when the dogs miraculously act like their house broke, rather than being their usual demonic selves that lift their legs at the drawing room sofas. Precisely the expensive ones. It is the kind of an evening that is pleasantly warm without making your clothes stick slickly to your back. The sky is dark. Inky black, a romantic would say perhaps, a dark kindly magician who twinkles a thousand twinkles, designed to dazzle on just such an evening as this.

The kind of an evening with its share of arguments during dinner, of this that and the other. Of companionable silences after. When you tend to put your various worries, niggles behind you for the moment and just simply be. Enjoy being. The kind of an evening, for sitting out on the porch under the over bright tube light after dinner. When the silence carries the various television sounds across the house. A loud abrasive reality television show one moment and the matriarchs of the Indian soap operas sobbing on screen the next. Inevitable squabbling over the remote breaks out. An older sibling saunters out and pushes you out of your favourite chair. It doesn’t even occur to you to mind. Such family dynamics that would have brought a quick retort to your lips any other night, does not make you smile, but makes you take comfort in its sheer familiarity. The other chair in front of the light is good as well, if a little blinding. But you keep up the routine anyway, for the heck of it. Your smart mouth shoots off some retort or the other, but without the sting. Not tonight. What does make you smile, is your sibling’s leer while telling you, that you are ousted out of your chair simply because you can be.

The house with the green trim, the griffin shaped lamps at the gate, spilling their light out on to the street, the various money plants, the bougainvilleas forming a pretty arch over the gate, all of these things seem new to your eyes somehow. Comforting, because they have been there ever since you can remember and they will continue to be. The driveway has held tricycles, skate boards, roller blades, various snazzy Hero bicycles, the various cars that have been in the family. Occasionally it has held shoe boxes for rabbits, a forgotten doll or truck toy.

You remember hosing the car down and polishing it with wax countless times as a kid. At some point of time, you outgrew the fun of it and it became just another irritating chore. It leaves you with a vague sense of regret now. You remember countless trips to the pet store to buy bottles of doggy shampoo, dog food, play bones, collars, brushes. Remember messy Saturday mornings as a kid when giving your dog a bath was one of the highlights of the week. When you wouldn’t think twice about rolling in the dirt with it, your favourite 101 Dalmations tee shirt smeared with equal parts water and doggy hair.

Remember various simple pleasures, the little nook under the stairs when at age thirteen you scribbled the name of your favourite crush and quickly erased it out with an eraser. You remember out growing that crush, remember the pain the eventual inevitable demise of your first ever fledgling relationship gave you.

As you sit there, thinking all these things, a sense of urgency replaces the calm. Because in your mind’s eye, you mostly see the house, the various rooms, the site of your childhood, your whole life until now. All your joys and sorrows, hopes, confusions, anger, this place has borne witness to every moment of your life. And you are filled with an urgency to soak up all those memories, to feel all those things again, to tuck them into a corner of your mind so that you can take them out again when you want to. Some day soon, you will have to leave. Make a life and a family of your own, life will follow, exciting, happy with its share of sorrows too. You know that, your mind knows that. But it hurts. The thought of leaving home hurts. You put out your hand and trace the walls, make a silent pact with the house to always love and remember the times. You aim a kick at your sibling, miss the leg, hit the chair. Your ankle sings, but you grin anyway. How much longer will it last? You make one more smart assed comment and go off to bed, all the while fervently hoping that your sibling knows just how huge your love is and that you miss living in the same house already.

Possibilities

Possibilities. Funny word. Loaded. For most, possibilities are a way of life. The means to gain the pit stops. To achieve the end. To some others, possibilities are a luxury. They are those that are crippled by some circumstance or the other. The ones who know just how hard it might be in life sometimes to come across possibilities. The freedom to choose. Heady, addictive. Not an option for everyone.

She knows all about possibilities. Knows the power of them. The yearning one has sometimes, for an opening somewhere. It might be a picket fence, it might be a high security concrete wall, it might be just a few yards of barbed wire. Whatever the boundaries might be, someone somewhere is always looking for an opening. Some get the rabbit sized hole when it is the deer wanting to escape. Or maybe not to escape. Maybe, to just stretch its legs, find its bearings, put out little roots of its own. For some others it is the other way around.

Maybe it is like a poker game. You win and sometimes you lose. You might hit full house even thrice in an evening, the chances of a royal flush are slim. But you keep playing because of the possibilities.

She hides her face behind her hair. She ducks her head often as if to avoid eye contact. She lives comfortably. She has never known hunger, has never had to think twice about money. In her case the boundaries are a simple compound wall enclosing the 3000 odd square feet of her home. Sometimes, a wall is just a wall that has a creaky gate. Sometimes it is an insurmountable odd with someone constantly around to plug any opening. She searches for possibilities too.

Phantoms of the past

The usually sunny porch of the little house looked gloomy, absurdly gloomy, given the pool of sunshine just surrounding it but never closing in. She wondered at the gloom as at the sudden goose flesh on her arms. She shook her head, partly to reassure herself and partly to clear the fogginess that seemed to settle on her brain.

She slowly walked back into the house, her steps seemed laden, in the eerie quiet, her slippers seemed to be making noise akin to wooden clogs. Every instinct in her head screamed at her not to walk towards the TV room, but walk she did. She couldn’t help it. She thought dully, of the countless novels where, she had read of feet dragging themselves, of their own accord, to a place where one simple did not want to go. That’s what this felt like.

She stared at the door, it was slightly open just like she had left it. Then why was it giving her such an ominous feeling? She absent-mindedly took in the little pencil squiggle on the polished wood. Her doing, some ten years ago. She could walk through that door and banish all silly thoughts of ghosts and aggravators. She could just as well walk away, out of the gloom and drive somewhere out till the trysting ghosts were gone. Go where? Dad had taken the Scorpio. Mom had taken the Alto.

She pushed through the door, there seemed to be a sudden chill. She screwed her eyes up until they were mere slits. As if she was afraid of what or whom she might see in the room.

She slowly eased herself in through the crack and stood just inside, looking around. Her eyes needed to adjust to the sudden darkness that seemed to descend upon the room. Even while fear was clutching at her throat, she half-groped her way along the wall for the light switch.

The 0W bulb did little to dissipate the gloom. Or the fear. A quick scan around the room revealed nothing. She knew she should turn around and walk out before she spooked herself even more. Yet she stood there. Watching. Waiting.

And then she saw them. In the far corner, in the little nook where the CD collection was. There were eyes piercing blue, eyes the hazel she had once googled on, eyes a luminous almost cat like brown. There was just one pair of eyes, but they seemed to change colour dizzingly fast. They weren’t friendly, they weren’t ghostly. They simply mocked at her. At that instant she felt like everything her life stood for was a sham. Such was the derision. Their animosity filled the room. She was strangely exhausted. Her ears hurt from the roaring noise in them. Her jaws were clenched tight. That hurt too.

Then she looked on in a sort of fascinated horror as the bracelet she wore on her wrist was in the creature’s (or was it just a devastatingly handsome mocking man? Or was it her past?) hands. He…..it…..turned the bracelet around and studied the inscription on the inside. The mocking smile spread till she was dimly reminded of the Grinch. Then in one smooth move, he broke it into half even as the roaring in her ears became unbearable and her head ached migraine-like. She remembered screaming.

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A dream. Or a nightmare. Her fingers trembled as they groped for her cellphone somewhere behind her pillows. When her fist closed around it, she let out an unconscious sigh of relief. It was warm, almost like human contact. As the bright light pulsated in the dark, her mind had only one thought. The photo in the pictures folder. She looked down at the smiling face as a modicum of calm returned. She felt her wrist for the bracelet, to reassure herself. It was fine. She was fine. She was with someone better. Someone real. She closed her eyes and slept easy.

The Yellow Flower

It was a bright yellow. What kind of flower it was is not important. The texture of the petals seemed soft and rubbery. It had delicate brown vein – like lines along the inside, that would maybe remind a man of a brunette’s tendrils. She could compare the colour and feel of that flower to a lot of things; the sunflower fields she kept seeing on television but was yet to encounter in real life; that particular, hard blaze of the sun that made a person squint automatically even behind sun glasses; maybe it was the colour of that gorgeous Gucci dress she saw on Vogue. She could maybe compare the feel of it to those yellow duck bath toys: soft. Waxy. Water would run off its back like on a real duck.

She could spin wonderful little stories about that flower; the magic flower; an enchanted flower that would turn into a princess, not unlike Grimm’s fairy tales; a flower that would never wilt; one that tended to multiply by the dozen and create a whole field of happy yellow faces. A flower that gave off such a delicate scent, that one wasn’t quite as intoxicated as when smelling a rose or a poppy, but a scent that was at once both woodsy and flowery: All a man had to do was give it to his lady and she would be his forever. She could describe the smell of that flower as something that reminded one of fresh green apples.

Perhaps she would describe it as being none of those things. Perhaps, it was just an ordinary flower, picked from an ordinary bush in an ordinary garden. But maybe, that flower brightened up someone’s day and her living room. Maybe it was a flower picked by sticky little hands for a sick grandma. Maybe a boy gave it to a girl he liked, and the girl forgot all her practiced scorn at the “corniness” of being given a flower and agreed to go out with him. Maybe a husband, gave it to his wife as a peace offering after a fight.

Perhaps it was a flower that an old gentleman plucked, to place at his wife’s grave. But it couldn’t be that. The gentleman placing the flower at the wife’s grave was done to death. Everyone invented this particular tableau sooner or later. Perhaps, it was just a flower that someone picked up for herself at the local florist’s because it looked nice, smelt good and she needed some cheering up.

That yellow flower could have been any of these things. It could have been a thousand others. In the end all that yellow flower was, was a pattern on a sari. Near the right shoulder to be exact. It was her mother’s. That is where she found it. That is what she chose to train her eyes on, while getting yelled at. And those were the things she chose to imagine that the yellow flower was.

The mesmerizer of Mandaveli

To the people residing in Mandaveli, that almost sister area to Mylapore, their home addresses gave them the distinct advantage of living in an exclusively homely neighborhood, quietly quaintly personal without smothering, while living within striking reach of RA Puram and Adyar. They could reach the famous Kapaleeshwarar temple with relative ease, pay their respects to Him, feed the fishes in the Theppa Kolam. Morning pilgrimages to the Marina, for power walking seemed warranted because of their blessed closeness to the beach. If one was lucky, one could catch the Lamborghinis of the city zipping past on the beach road in the morning hours. The early morning smells of filter kappi, the amiable pujaris on their TVS 50s, the Madisar maamis, all of this had become synonymous with the area.

To the children of Mandaveli, there was beach volleyball, there were the gilli, pandi, hide and seek games, there was sha boo three and the youngest of the group ending up inevitably as oppukkuchappans. There were shiny morning pates slicked with Parachute coconut oil and stiff starched white uniforms. There was bicycling and street cricket in the winding by lanes. And to a small group of them living in one such Mandaveli by lane, there was Ramakrishnan Iyer, Kicha Thatha.

Ramakrishnan Iyer, an amiable gentleman in his late sixties lived in a two bedroom apartment with his wife. In one of those new apartment buildings that seemed to be springing up everywhere, with names like the English Primrose and the Golden Iris. Not that many of them had ever seen or had an inkling of what English primroses and golden irises were. He had retired as the senior telecom officer at BSNL and his two daughters were married to green card holders in the Silicon valley. He had planned to spend his retirement in quiet solitude with his wife, surrounded by his beloved books, daily visits to the temple, long distance calls to his daughters, crooning to their toddlers on the Trans Atlantic calls. But he had, quite by accident one day, befriended the kids of the building, had been as drawn to them, as they had been to him and his million fascinating stories. From Ramakrishnan Sir, or uncle, he had invariably ended up, fondly, as Kicha thatha.

Everyday Kicha Thatha had a gaggle of eager kids at his door after school hours, clamoring for more of his stories. He always had alpen liebes and kadala mittais ready for them. He would tell them stories of distant lands, elfin kings and fairy queens, demon lords. Of his own childhood, his escapades as a school boy. He would teach them about the splendors of Madurai, the Bombay and Calcutta of yester-years, of the glory of Europe, of old portly gentlemen who wore cravats and smoked cigars, of our own less intimidating patrons. He let them view life through his own kaleidoscopic eyes, where everything was a plethora of magic and adventure. Kicha thatha, was a man growing old, weary of body, who wanted more than anything, to be surrounded by his children and their families, to hear everyday, the cries of “Thatha!”, instead of just on the weekly overseas phone calls. Perhaps he was living his dream vicariously through the chinnu munnus of the building, but he had grown fond of them in his own way.

Whoever he might be to the world in general, when four PM came, to a small bunch of starry eyed affectionate kids, he became the mesmerizer of Mandaveli.

Dreams in black and white

The soft white of the curtain fluttered in the light breeze. Sometimes fluttering, sometimes framing the black of the window grill. Through the diamond shaped iron grill, the sky looked like blue kajju katlis, with the white wispy clouds for a garnish. The Thiruvanmiyur flat that day, was cool and airy. The balcony door was open, and every where she looked, there was space and light. Her husband had already furnished the flat by the time they had gotten married. To Ashwini, coming from a house filled with knick knacks, brick – a – brack, collectibles that her parents had collected on their various travels around the world, a house that all at once, had seemed both cluttered and ordered, the minimalist flat had been a bit of a shock. Her husband was no pretentious Picasso lover, but he did tend to lean towards chrome and steel more than the polished wood and squishy comfortable furniture she preferred. But whatever Suresh Rangarajan had done, he had done it with a lot of love and had obviously been very proud when he had first showed her around the flat. Now some months later, the twenty something girl who shared his surname had also grown to love the chrome and steel. The space and the light. Infused with colors, here and there, the white leather of the sofa brightened with soft silk cushions in deep blues and greens, the house plants in bright terracotta pots, the photos of the two of them and their families scattered here and there in no apparent order, the little bronze statue of the crawling baby Krishna that stood on the coffee table, the books on gardening and other eclectic topics that graced it. The small extremely naughty Labrador puppy with an agonizingly small bladder and a bright red collar. The house had become a home. Her touch. When one stood in the balcony or at some of the windows, one could catch the Bay of Bengal, on the horizon, in all it’s glory. She loved living so close to the sea, being privy to its myriad moods.

There was this one window in their room, next to it was a rocking chair. There Ashwini loved to sit, gaze out of the window when she was free and had nothing to do. Dream dreams, sometimes in colour, most of the time in black and white.

Of the religious thread talisman in black, that her husband had around his right wrist. The way it looked against the white of his skin. The way she loved to trace her fingers along the wrist.

Of his premature salt and pepper hair, that wasn’t soft or anything by far, but so familiarly endearingly his. His.

Of the black knocker against the white of their front door, the shape of a grinning Griffin’s head. Because the sight of that knocker meant home. Just beyond.

The way the black name plate looked on their door. The Rangarajans.

Of the way her mother’s curly hair framed her face. The softness of it. The way that it was so mom. Of her dad’s crisp white dhoties, on Sunday mornings. Always with the newspaper in his hand, with his black rimmed spectacles. When she missed her childhood home, she loved to think of that. Of the routine. Ashwini was a great one for routine.

Of the way Suresh’s eyes seemed, when he was looking at her, piercing, always accompanied by that small quizzical smile that seemed to tell her that he knew a lot more about her than she herself did. True. Soul mates.

Of the way he took such good care of the black leather watch his grandparents had given him for his thirtieth birthday.

Of the sight of his black briefcase standing in the hall when he was back home.

Maybe, of her daily mug of tea, the way the greeny mellow colour contrasted with the white of the inside. Of its smooth blackness on the outside with thin horizontal white lines and the words Caffe Latte across it. Tea in a coffee mug. That meant more tea. Suresh had bought it for her.

Picture Frames

The weather bitch was out in full force that evening. It was hot, humid and the heat hung heavy in the air, like a beast waiting to devour. She sat slumped at her desk. The wooosh of the fan did little to alleviate the heat and the old assembled AC machine in her room had finally croaked its last. The teak of the chair felt sticky beneath her body. Her arms and legs were covered with a fine sheen of sweat. She put a finger and slowly made a trace on her sweat covered arm when a tear rolled down her cheek. In an identical motion she swiped at it. And then another drop. And then another. Giving into the feeling, she wept a few quick hot tears. The kind that made a person feel as if her eyes were getting squeezed out. The headache came swiftly and without mercy. Before long, it would take over and pound away at her head until she went in search of the Kingfisher’s in flight complimentary plastic kit in which the paracetamols were kept. A Dolo 650 and one night’s sleep later, it would go away. For how long?

She wiped away the remaining tears with the back of her hand as she scraped back her chair to take a look at herself in the mirror. She could not, would not go out of her room with red eyes. That hit her ego and pride where it hurt the most. She would not give anyone the privilege of knowing that the shit got to her.

As she took calming breaths to steady herself, she became aware of the fact that her hair was sticking to the back of her neck and parts of her T Shirt were sticking to her back with patches of sweat. She neither looked cool and composed nor felt it. The heat gave no room for it. What is it about books and movies where girls cried elegantly while smelling fruity and perfumey and looking tidy, not a hair out of place all the while? She wondered. No matter what bullshit a Nora Roberts’ heroine had to take, she would always go through the motions and emotions of life looking like a million dollars.

It was escapist shit. The concept behind all those la-la-la movies and books. But pretty fantastic escapist shit that she relied on usually, to take her mind off her problems. Scary, her problems seemed to her. Reality on screen or on paper scared her. Didn’t she even start avoiding the news channels because of it?It wasn’t that she was weak or a pansy. Far from it. But of late, every report of violence on TV disturbed her more than it should. So she avoided it all. All around her room there were picture frames. Picture frames blue, picture frames red, wooden, sparkling with glitter. Each showing photos of various moments of her life, that seemed to her, to have happened, in another lifetime. If only all of life was like snapshots in picture frames. Each moment sunk in some kind of a happiness small or big. Self pity might not linger but it will come inevitably and it did. The vagaries of a teenager’s mind.

What she could do was give into the petty urge, send the PET bottle of water smashing into the wall and brood in her room till morning. Maybe sneak out in the dead of the night when everyone was sleep, to snatch a packet of the much hated Milk Bikis. What she did instead was, wash her face and go outside.

Caramel Custard in a Cup

A plastic cup. About three and a quarter centimeters in diameter. I found one of those in one of the supermarkets in Adyar. It was a sultry, humid evening, maybe a couple of days before those summer showers we had. I was returning from the Eco Cafe on Chamiers road, I didn’t like the food that much, the feta cheese tasted dry against the rough brown bread, the price didn’t do much for my pocket and the day was just too damn hot. I got out of there and ducked into Ammanaana for some of those God amazing brownies that they have. Those brownies come in long strips and they are the best to be had in the city, being extremely moist and gooey. The only other place I have found those brownies are in Fab India outlets. But I digress.

Caramel custard in a plastic cup. I remember the first time I ate Caramel Custard. I was eight years old and we were at the old Residency hotel on G.N Chetty road. We were at the Chin Chin restaurant and it was also my first experience with chop sticks. Anyway, Caramel custards those days were a novelty, I might be wrong but I don’t really remember any stores selling them across the counter. This was before Nilgiris supermarket really hit Chennai, maybe just shortly before or after Food World came. I remember the waitress smilingly place a beautifully shaped caramel custard before me. I remember whacking at it with my spoon and watching it wobble like jelly. I love its subtle burnt sugary slightly eggy taste and I love swirling it in my mouth and just letting the flavours mingle and explode.

Those were the days when the famous bakeries in the city were McRennett’s and Adyar Bakery. Of course by that time, Hot Breads had begun to make its presence felt in various branches in the city, bringing with it, pies and french croissants to be sold across the counter. Years four and five of my life were filled with visits to the Cake Shop of the Taj in Chintamani. That was where I had my first burger and pizza. It was later closed down. Does anyone who used to eat there still remember the birthday cakes they used to make??

Those were the days when Kwality Walls had just made their foray into the Chennai ice cream scene. Nay, those were the days when Madras had just turned into Chennai and it was difficult to use the new name. The days when summer vacations were spent battling in front of the TV playing Super Mario. Sega was an upgrade, play stations and x-boxes, unheard of. That was when cricket was still wholly only street cricket and not the Ashes series or the Brian Lara series on video games :) That was when the Indian cricket team was largely built around one man only. Those days, the Taj Corammandel on Nungambakkam High Road and the Chola Shereton on Cathedral Road were the only super – duper major hotels in the city (discounting the Fisherman’s Cove in Covalam). When Basha was not a legend but an as yet running-in-theaters super hit. The days when movies like Jurassic park, Home Alone, Anjali, Roja and all were relatively recent. When A R Rahman was the new kid on the block and his song Kalloori Salai from Kadhal Desam was the heights of modernity (according to my then teenaged big brother at least). When book worm kids like me lived on Enid Blyton, Goosebumps and the Hardy Boys. And when my mom wasn’t looking I also used to sneak and read Sweet Valley. Hmmm. Shh. The days of Oliyum Oliyum, soaps like Santa Barbara that made our parents crazy and Hannah Barbara cartoons and power zone on cartoon network that made kids like me crazy. When Ford’s Escort and Daewoo’s Cielo where the first glamorous sedans to be found on the roads but Contessa still had its pride of place as the Bridal car at weddings. We won’t count the Mercs. Actually when Mercs were called Benzu, with just the slight emphasis on the zu :-D

The nineties. The beautiful infinitely enjoyable nineties. I might have been a teenager of the first decade of the new millennium but I was a nineties kid. Watching crystal maze on weekends and eating dollops vanilla ice cream out of those plastic balls was what we did. The kids of the 2000s have access to so many more things than we did perhaps, but i still say we had a better time of it. Ah, but that’s just the essential rambling every person must do praising his/her kiddie days to the skies and swearing on all the Gods that, that theirs was the most enjoyable ;) We may not have had caramel custards in plastic cups sold across the counter at a supermarket but the nineties did and will always have the much coveted X – factor ;)

The caramel custard wasn’t even good. Much. It DIDN’T wobble, it was over sweet and it gave me a tummy ache. Also, Basha really is a legend, noone arguing otherwise will be able to do any good ;)

Chick flick Monday

I love chick flicks. There, I said it. Something I never admitted even to myself for a very long time(much less anyone else). After a month of procrastination and staying away from my blog, during which time my friends and I visited the British Council library several times and I found myself in the sole possession of a MacBook *at this point the author goes EEEEEEEEEEE*, I am now going to write about my supposed love for chick flicks. I logged into my wordpress account several times, almost writing. But somehow never actually down to it. That buzzy buzzy feeling in my brain was just not there. I suppose most of my ideas for posts were off shoots from my “self-improvement” period. At the suggestion of my mother, I decided to put aside my addiction for pulp fiction(READ : Chick Lit.) for a while and take up some serious reading. O Jerusalem! and all that. But I kind of snapped, (and promising to myself) that I would stop as soon as my mini vacation from college was over, I just let the reading slide for a while and I have ever since, been watching a couple of movies a day, most of them chick flicks. So, the inspiration for my post. I have no doubt certain friends are going to rag me about this; I can imagine them saying that this is almost as bad as my acceptance of Becks into the great Milan family. Almost :-)

So, chick flicks. I had never been a big fan during my teen years or even before that. The perfect weekend movie choice for school going me would have been Speed or Die Hard. Maybe a Sean Connery Bond film over and over again. Mostly it would have been what I still consider one of the greatest trilogies EVER MADE, the original three Star Wars. Even back then, I was a huge fan of old Hollywood, the musicals and the like. My absolutest favouritest movie of all time, surpassing even Star Wars and The Godfather, is The Sound of Music. I just never associated the old movies that I watched with the chick flick genre. Sure, I watched the odd Nora Ephron, I remember that clammy day when my brother left for the US of A for B school, I tried to watch You’ve got Mail and tried desperately to feel better. And I suppose even in the most action addicted phase, nobody can deny the charm of a movie like When Harry Met Sally. But these were few and far in between, and I mostly thrived on car explosions and spandex wearing super heroes and battles between space ships in a “galaxy far far away”.

I don’t remember when exactly it was that I started watching chick flicks. I think the first ever chick flick I enjoyed was Hitch. Maybe it all started from there, I am not sure at all. But by the time I realized that the Rom-Com folder of my external hard disk for filling up fast, I was filled with a faint sense of terror. Was I morphing into a GIRL GIRL?? I had never been one of those. I kept my nails short short. I did not even know how to use lip-liner and hated mascara because it always seemed to gunk my lashes up. I HATED THE COLOUR PINK. I was the girl that still craved after GI-Joes and Star Wars action figures. I would choose a football match over any TV programme anytime. I love cars and desperately want to own a Mustang Shelby and a Hummer. I am the girl who agrees with Tom Hanks and most other guys that The Godfather IS the “I-ching”. In short, I was the buddy buddy types of the group, not the girly types who has flawless nails and flicks her hair over her shoulder. But I was fine with that, no problem, it was me and I was absolutely comfortable with it. So it was a little discomfiting to realize that I had become a slow but sure fan of chick flicks.

Some people might think that it is not that big a deal to have varied favourites and they are right. Its is not. Be it anything in life. Its just that, it took me a while to break out of the stereotype I had put myself in. Took me quite a while to get used to this helter – skelter process of growing up and realizing that it is perfectly normal for a person’s tastes to morph and change. Isn’t that funny? Growing up and changing one’s likes and dislikes is one of the most natural things in the world, instead most of us seem to be sub consciously fighting against change of any sort. I certainly have.

Writing this post now, I have realized that what I really want to convey is perhaps, that inherent confusion that accompanies most people in the “school to college phase” and the “beyond college phase”. I didn’t handle one well. I am on the threshold of another and I hope to God that I don’t make the same mistakes again. I like to think and believe that I have sort of come into my own as a person, that I have learnt to let go of my prejudices, give people a second chance. I have learnt that the whole concept of “first impression being the best impression” is a sham. Important yes, but hardly the last shot a person gets or deserves. Being in a self reflective mood, I want to make a promise to myself that I will no more fight against change of the good sort. To remember that I still am essentially the same person. Chick flicks or not, Han Solo and Michael Corleone would still win the day so to speak :-)

That said, I want to tell everyone out there (because I have sort of come to believe that beneath the surface there just might be a chick-flick lover lurking in everyone :-D ), that chick flicks rock. They do! What’s not to love?? What’s tripping you up??? The good looking girls?? The awesomely hunky guys ??(from a girl’s perspective), the easy on the eyes sets?? the pleasant storyline or the GUARANTEED happy ending?? Maybe you should buy weekend tickets at the Inox for High School Musical 3. Chances are, you might just (secretly) love it ;)

TOP SIXTEEN CHICK FLICKS (ACCORDING TO ME, MIA THERMAPOLIS STYLE)

1. PRIDE AND PREJUDICE – The ultimate chick flick. The original rags to riches with oozes of charm and Austen’s adorably cutting style. Plus the ego wars between Mr.Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet?? As good as the tension between Princess Leia and Han Solo.

2. SWEET HOME ALABAMA – What’s not to love?? Romance – check. Good plot – check. Good looking actors – check. The aforementioned guaranteed happy ending – check. Acting finesse – reasonable check. Altogether high on the cuteness meter and a wholesome fare that is incredibly light hearted.

3. DIRTY DANCING – I have to agree with Mia. NOBODY puts Baby in the corner. It’s summer. The time is the sixties. The place is Kellerman’s and everyone’s invited.

4. UNDER THE TUSCAN SUN – A little unconventional perhaps, but this movie works for my disgruntled self every time. Maybe it is my love for Italy and all things Italian. Maybe it is the hope that it conveys, however filmy the package may be.

5. BRIDGET JONES’ DIARY – There is a Daniel Cleaver in every girl’s life. Perfect for post break-up ex boyfriend bashing get togethers and generic Saturday nights. Preferably with pizza and ice cream ;-)

6. FATHER OF THE BRIDE 1&2 – How can you not love these movies??

7. HOLIDAY – Perfect Christmas movie. Interaction between the two protagonist couples is beautiful. Wonderful music. Jude Law is extremely easy on the eyes. Makes me wish for my own meet cute ;)

8. FOUR WEDDINGS AND A FUNERAL, NOTTING HILL, LOVE ACTUALLY – Hugh Grant makes it work every time, the last one is a delightful medley of actors. Even the use of blasphemy in Four Weddings is endearing :-)

9. THE PRINCESS DIARIES – I am a Meg Cabot fan and love Mia. Even though the books are better the movie is good candyfloss entertainment.

10. FOOLS RUSH IN – At last a movie set in Vegas that does NOT involve casinos. Fools rush in is fresh and funny and extremely feel good. Plus that small kitchen dance scene with Salma Hayek. Hot huh guys.

11. THE FAMILY STONE – Makes me tear up a bit but the family dynamics are too endearing. Perfect for Christmas again.

12. GREASE – It has everything, plus it actually has EVERYTHING. Goodbye to Sandra Dee ;)

13.WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING – Sandra Bullock is adorable. Again the family dynamics at Christmas : Irresistible.

14. CHARLIE’S ANGELS – Girl power. Think Buffy, think Powerpuff girls, need I say more??

15. SERENDIPITY – Catch your falling star and put it in your pocket never let it fade away :-) Makes you feel like your share of luck is right around the corner.

16. LEGALLY BLONDE 1 – Pink never looked better.

TOP TEN OLD HOLLYWOOD CLASSICS THAT YOU COULD CLASSIFY IN THIS GENRE

1. MEET ME IN ST.LOUIS – Perhaps after all the greatest Christmas movie EVER.

2. WIZARD OF OZ – Dorothy, the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman on the yellow brick road?? It rocks.

3. COME SEPTEMBER – An absolutely ravishing Gina Lollobrigida and a dapper Rock Hudson and a beautiful villa in the Amalfi coast the scene of crime. Romance all the way. In the best way possible.

4. AN AMERICAN IN PARIS – Gene Kelley. Tap Dancing. Paris.

5. SINGING IN THE RAIN – Gene Kelley. Tap Dancing. Hollywood. Plus the inspiration behind Vadivel’s shhhwwwwiiinnng in the rain :-p

6. ALFRED HITCHCOCK’S MR. & MRS.SMITH – Always puts me in a good mood :-)

7. SEVEN BRIDES FOR SEVEN BROTHERS – Love it.

8. BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY’S – Refreshingly Hepburn.

9. THE SHOP AROUND THE CORNER – An old TNT favourite. James Stewart is adorable.

10. BELL, BOOK AND CANDLE – Kim Novak and James Stewart! Surprisingly good!

Homecoming

I went back to the Marina Beach after sixteen years last Sunday. Over the years I have developed the habit of driving out to the East Coast Road if I feel the need for sand under my feet. The ones that I have easier access to, The Marina, The Santhome Beach and The Beasant Nagar beach, I have sort of ignored all these years. It was the typical reaction of a so – called seasoned Chennaite I suppose. The city beaches were too crowded, too dirty and not worth the trouble. Why crib when you have the coastline and wild beaches, the whole way to Pondicherry. Any number of small fishing hamlets to stop at for a catamaran ride. What I had really forgotten was the joy of going to The Marina as a child, with my beach shovel and bucket, all those sand castles that I had built. Actually, they were like higgly piggly mole hills. I remember the pony rides and the balloon shooting. I remember “kuchi ice “being sold that we weren’t allowed to eat, hot mirchi bajjis that have that special zing only the beach bajjis seem to have. I remember people even back then turning their noses up at The Marina. I remember my mother reminiscing about the Marina of her generation and her sadness at the beach’s deterioration.Why does one tend to forget one’s childhood pursuits while growing up? I guess it shouldn’t be that way. Most of us miss an awful lot along the way. When I sat down to write, I was prepared to give a long glowing account of the world’s second longest beach with some snazzy pictures thrown in for good measure. But this all that I can come up with. I am a stranger to her myself, an acquaintance long since forgotten. In a sad way The Marina seems to have played second fiddle to her sister, the “Bessie” beach for most of my generation.

After sixteen years, I have realized that the old mother that hugs Chennai’s northern and eastern coastline is still there, as ever patiently, even lovingly playing host to the crowd. A little more soberly, she will never forget the blood loss of December 26,2004, but she is perhaps a symbol of the resilience of her people. She is the best symbol of the faith Chennai continues to have on the Gods and its coastline. On Sunday I saw people thronging her sands much the same way as I remember. I saw families with huge carriers of food, couples having romantic trysts, kids, pets, horses, the shops that have now been pushed to the edge of the sands. Everyone looked their Sunday’s best. And joining them I felt happy, like slipping on a pair of old jim-jams that have been lying ignored in the wardrobe and seeing that they still fit perfectly.

I wish I could describe her more but I will hold back until I get to know her well again. I seem to have grown up with large gaping holes here and there and I have changed a lot. She is still the same. She feels the same, even the tangy, salty, slightly fishy air around her feels the same. I ate kuchi ice that day (my mother not being around to stop me), tried shooting those balloons. Maybe next time I will fly a kite and someday take a shovel and a bucket. And for good measure, I will visit her sisters Santhome and Bessie. These girls ARE Chennai :-)