Deepavali

I wrote this sometime in 2015 around this time of the year. Time embellishes a lot of things. I was probably bored witless during every Deepavali back home but here I am several thousand miles away from what seems to be an unusual amount of rain, even for Deepavali week, and thinking those days were the best of times. May be they were. I have strong reasons to believe they were.

I don’t know if I’ve ever imagined a background score for different time periods in my life, but if there was one, the months of October and November every year would feature symphonies carefully constructed to match the sound of firecrackers. I was pretty crazy about those - I’d usually ask for more crackers instead of clothes, or something like that. Now I’m smart with money and would probably not settle for a Rs.10 packet of bijili.

My Deepavali had a routine. Every year I spend the previous night at my grandmother’s place, wake up before the sunrises, brush, light a firecracker (because it is the rule), wait for my turn to get oil applied in my hair by my grandmother(without it getting into my eyes - she was particular about that), shower, have some sweets, and back to my earnest mission of elevating the world’s noise pollution levels. Before that paati will force me to have a small sample of deepavali lehyam - a concoction which is probably the greatest enemy my taste buds have battled. It is sweet and sour at the same time and extra spicy. She will bait me with the wide variety of sweets and of course, crackers. I would have no choice but to fall for it.

That was my routine till 2009, after which there was a significant deviation from the usual - most important of which was the fact that it was no longer my grandmother’s place. And I no longer was interested in firecrackers. May be it was the routine, or god forbid it was my antics to unsuccessfully avoid the devil’s concoction, or may be it was just paati, that made Deepavali what it was. In a few days, it will be six years since Deepavali stopped being any of these. It became just another holiday when more time was spent watching meaningless advertisements on TV with an occasional bout of Solomon Pappaiyya.

So many things have changed in the 6 years that passed. And, for some reason, for the past few weeks I’ve felt like I should write something about her. May be it is the season.

Come Tuesday it will be Deepavali, and as I’ve been doing so, out of routine, for the past 6 years, I’ll carry on with my life, only I won’t do the things that made Deepavali what it used to be.

May be this year I’ll take that oil bath, remembering to ensure the oil doesn’t get into my eyes.

What is all the fuss about Independence Day, anyway?

I'm unsure if it was 2005 or 2006. A childhood friend and I were going to attend some quiz competition we'd heard about from someone. We were refreshing our trivia prowess by asking each other questions. We came across what was an obscure fact to a bunch of 13-year-olds - "Adolf Hitler, son of a cobbler, tried to be a painter but was turned down by the Vienna art institute." A few hours later, inside Madras' very own Music Academy, a picture with two paintings was shown and the crowd was asked to guess the painter. Cheeky teenagers that we were, decided to let our newly acquired knowledge on the field. "Let's guess Hitler for this one!"

We were right. Still proud of that one, 11-12 years later.

---

Every year that followed, 2 pm on the 15th of August marked the moment when the Indian National Anthem reverberated around the majestic Music Academy main halls; brimming with people full of energy -- six-year-olds and sixty-year-olds alike - fiercely competing for the coveted stage at the Landmark Quiz.

The first year I attended it was my introduction to the bigwigs of the Indian quizzing circle. As a budding quizzer (who would remain a budding quizzer till retirement from all forms of quizzing...), my pride laid in identifying and identifying with the bigwigs. Swami, Samanth, Udupa, Arul, all of these became household names. This was followed by a decade and some years of being nearly good, and almost qualifying. But all the fun was in just being there, among that crowd. That was my crowd. I still remember one of those times when Kabbalah introduced himself as having come "all the way from Alwarpet" when there were people sitting next to him who'd come all the way from Mumbai and Delhi.

---

I'd grown from middle school to high school. First few facial hairs popped their heads out. First board exams. Plus one and plus two - senior years in school that went by as quickly as summer in Seattle. I started shaving. I entered college. I mixed and matched teams. I quizzed with a girl I liked. I progressed from taking the bus and train to taking a two-wheeler to Mylapore. I progressed from going back home and getting dinner to getting dinner on the way back. Progressed from "I should leave at 8 pm to get home on time", to, "It's only 10 pm and the quiz is nearly done?".

So many changes. So many faces. So many new teams, new people, but a few faces remained constant. My friends and I, those that were always only nearly qualified, we were the Barmy Army of Madras quizzing. Though we didn't go all the way to Lords to cheer for a cover drive, we traveled all the way from Madipakkam, and Guindy, and Nungambakkam to cheer for our teams.

All these changes, but what remained constant was the adrenalin rush that kicked in after the National Anthem was done echoing through the hall. The giant clock slides just past 2 pm and Dr. Navin would ask all the first timers to stand up. That rush, that never went away.

Landmark Quiz of my childhood is no more. But I have a lifetime of memories that I would keep revisiting; at least once every year, on the 15th of August at 2 pm.

Sunday

It's a Sunday. There's nothing remarkable about it because it is a Sunday far away from home. How far away you ask? About a decade away from the Sundays I remember. I don't want to use the clichéd "Those were the days.." here, but those indeed were the days. I remember reading somewhere that the strongest memories are those that were made using all five senses. Sundays were typical back then, and when someone says Sunday, those are the days I remember. Sunday meant waking up at 8 as the headlines were being read out.

Sunday meant going back to sleep after the 8 am bed coffee.

Sunday meant waking up 2 hours later to the smell of keerai, chowchow or whatever kozhambu of the day.

Sunday meant the smell and sound of potatoes being being fried because said keerai and chowchow were not considered edible by 25% of my four member family.

Sunday meant wondering how the kid sister could eat spinach.

Sunday meant exiting the shower and being fed hot paruppu sadham and fried potatoes while Sun TV was still on; either showing James Vasanthan hosting some family show, or a movie that did not have less run time than the ads that it was interspersed with.

Sunday meant appa battling against the ants in the house with erumbu powder in an old shower to shower dabba.

Sunday meant coffee again at 3:30 or whenever TV ran out of interesting things resulting in us waking up the parents.

Sunday meant homework after two nights of procrastination.

Sunday meant calling friends on the landline to remind each other to avoid missing stuff for school.

Sunday meant going back with excitement because Monday meant new lessons and no 'reading' of old lessons in class.

Sunday meant sitting on the hot blanket after appa ironed uniform for the next day.

Sunday meant searching for the school belt.

Sunday meant remembering that I forgot to cover the text book  ask appa to cover the text book which was only covered a couple of weeks back.

---

Sundays do not have that familiar aura anymore. Nor do they stand out from the rest of the week. Sunday has become yet another day of waking up to spending another day with the laptop and phone. Those Sundays will be the Sundays I remember.

Do you know how I got these scars?

Last night, a friend and I were discussing some disastrous things that happened to us and those around us. And not unlike the Joker, I began telling stories that started with "Do you know how I got these scars?". I thought I should share those stories (yes, plural). This will be really helpful for parents who don't know what horror stories to tell their children about kids who don't listen to their parents. Also, Game of Thrones is over so I'm trying to keep the violence content on the internet up and about. Do not continue reading if

• Seemingly humorous accounts of injuries are not your thing.
• You don't like Javagal Srinath.
• You hate me.

Steve Jobs had three stories to tell in his Stanford commencement address of 2005. I am one-upping him because I have not three, but four stories to tell.

Strike 1:

It was one summer back in the early 90s. I had just graduated from Pre.KG and was moving into LKG. I was at the doctor's place for a routine check up and we were sitting in the waiting hall. I was quite active as a kid and since it was known that I liked to play with the syringe, I was given one to play with so that I wouldn't traumatize the other kids who were waiting. I was running around with the syringe in hand imagining myself to be a superhero doctor who went around and saved lives. At one point of time, I had dropped the syringe between two rows of chairs. Now, the chairs were made of metal and were connected using rods in sets of four or five. Like any responsible kid, I did not call my parents for help but decided to go on all fours searching for the syringe and I found it without going through any trouble. But the tragic moment occurred when in the spur of victory, I got up without realizing that I was under the chair. I incurred quite a bit of damage in the middle of my head, resulting in stitches. I was the boy who lived.

Strike 2:

I used to watch a lot of cricket back when there was no IPL. After IPL, I stopped watching cricket because IPL keeps me busy enough. I was a huge fan of the previous generation Indian cricket team. When it came to pace bowling, one had to pick between Javagal Srinath and Venkatesh Prasad. I picked Javagal Srinath because whenever Venkatesh Prasad was bowling I was distracted by his watch. I used to wonder whether it would fall off his wrists so I never really noticed his bowling. I was a big fan of Srinath and used to try and imitate his bowling action. One fine day when a match was going on, I was simultaneously bowling inside the house, trying to imitate Javagal Srinath. I kept throwing the ball against the wall and diving on the cot to catch it. At one point, the ball was going to land quite far from me but I did not deter. I jumped to take the catch and I did take it, but I crashed chin first on the steel cot. I rolled down and continued playing till a couple of minutes later my dad who was in the hall noticed that I was bleeding. I still have the stitch marks on my chin, so whenever I am rubbing my chin thinking about a particular situation, it would seem like I am asking myself, "What would Javagal Srinath do?".

Strike 3:

WWE was the cool thing back then. Rebellious kids used to religiously follow WWE because some parents did not allow them to watch it. One evening while I, along with a bunch of kids, was playing hide and seek it turned into an argument about how we are grown ups now and we shouldn't play silly games like hide and seek. So we ended up playing WWE. We slotted ourselves into pairs and started fighting. I was a feather weight wrestler and was at least three times lighter than anyone around. One of them guys took it too seriously and we ended up playing the first ever 'first blood' match of our lifetime. (For those who are not familiar, 'first blood' matches are those in which the person to bleed first loses). I had injured my right indicator, just above my eye. Such was life in Madipakkam.

Strike 4:

This is my most favorite of all. When I was in class eight I was taking the final exam of the Hindi exam series which every kid back then used to write because there was nothing else to do in the evenings but to attend Hindi class. If you were a girl you went to paatu class in addition to that. If you were a boy with an unbearable voice, you could spend more time watching cartoons. I digress.

So, I had to bunk school for revision purposes as the exam was on the next day. I had come home early from Hindi class and nobody was home. I didn't have the key to the house so I resorted to roaming around my own apartment. That was when I was going through growth spurts and I prided my ability to climb walls. Every evening I used to climb the wall and walk a few feet on the wall just to see if my mother loved me enough, turns out she did as she would start yelling 20 seconds before I could even think of climbing the wall.

Since nobody was home I was free to do some wall-walking so I decided to navigate around my apartment but all the while walking on the wall. I kept walking and after a few rounds I pulled off a Humpty Dumpty (I fell off the wall).  Nature loves symmetry, and my left indicator got damaged as well.

It has been 9 years since I walked on a wall.

Forty days of filter coffee

After talking about it, blogging about it, dreaming about it, and tweeting about it for so many years, it is finally here. I am moving to a new place. I have been living in this city for 22 years, 1 month and 14 days. I will be here for another 42 days and I don't know when I will be coming back  again, hopefully soon. I write this not to evoke emotions about the city or appreciate Madras. If that was my intention I would go ahead and link the several wonderful pieces on/about Madras that people have written over the years, accompanied by photos on Polaroid and 2mp vga cameras of Madras to DSLR and Instagram photos of Chennai. My intention is to write, as it seems like forever since I wrote anything meaningful or anything I would go back and read again, for my own satisfaction. Apologies in advance for sticking to the soon to be NRI theme of writing about home town.

It has become a cliche to describe Madras. It has become a cliche to call it Madras as a group of people collectively decided that we would feel closer to the city if we shun the name Chennai. Madras is beautiful like that, it makes your possessiveness come out.

For me Madras is not about Mylapore or Mambalam, for the only Mambalam I know is Ranganathan street, and some textile shop I used to visit twice or thrice every year to buy clothes - uniform, Deepavali clothes, and birthday dress - and all the Mylapore I know is from attending Landmark quiz year after year, taking 29c from Mylapore station and then back. I am probably the most non-Madras Madras fellow. I still haven't visited Broken Bridge (okay Broken Bridge is Chennai not Madras), and I would ask for directions at least twice if you ask me to come anywhere that does not involve Mount road. For me Madras is about my house, my school, and sathsangam theru (street).

I have moved houses only once in my entire life. At the age of 11, we finally reached a point where the most popular middle class dream was no longer a dream, we bought a house. It was just before the real estate boom, when the actual middle class (not the middle class from movies where they have a car and a house with a garden in the middle of Adayar or Tiruvanmayur) could still afford to buy houses with general help from the folks at ICICI. We bought a two bedroom house with a kollapuram and a thunithovaikkara kal (backyard and a wash-stone), which were my paati's favorite thing about the house.

My family didn't travel much, we still don't. We went to Kodaikanal one summer, Kanyakumari one summer and back when my athai and athimber were in Calcutta (the name was changed to Kolkata the year after I visited), we went there one summer. It was the only place I had gone outside the state till I went to Bombay just 2 years ago. It was fun in Kolkata where I actually found practical use for the English I learnt in school. I stayed there for a good month and a half, made friends in the neighbourhood to whom I actually conversed in English (my mom, an English teacher was so proud), and played cricket every evening. So to say, all my Madras experiences come from home, and I don't see Madras and home as two different entities.

I am sitting here while it is raining outside trying to recollect as much as I can, trying to relive everything that meant to me, scared that if I fail to do this there will be too little from this place I will be taking with me.

I am not boasting here but when I was born I was a favorite in my neighbourhood. My first house was an apartment, and my parents had lived there only for a few months before my arrival. My parents are wonderful neighbours and fortunately everyone around were also wonderful. They helped us out a lot, especially with me being a toddler and both my parents working. I still remember Archana akka, Asha akka and their mother playing with me. Even today at my place I talk about how Archana amma (that's what I called Archana akka's mother) scolded me every time I went outside the house without underwear. Fun times.

There is paatu maami across the house we lived in. My sister went for classes ever since she was 4. Even before that, when I was about 1 year old, her students who were my mom's students at school used to come home and play with me. I still remember paatu mami's daughter Mahi akka, and her student Gayathri akka playing with me. (looks like I was popular among the ladies back then :D ) I believe I am still their favorite, a couple of decades later. Me riding the tricycle, being chased by puppies and developing a scare for dogs ever since then, everything happened at home. I will take all these with me when I leave Madras.

All these happened in Sathsangam street, which used to be a quiet neighbourhood (except during the December kutcheri season) in Madipakkam. Kanchi Sankaracharya visited Sathsangam (it was two doors from our house). The most brilliant bajji stalls used to arrive every year as the December season started. The number of apartments and houses on the street slowly increased and I made a lot of friends over time. Your childhood gets even better when you do the growing up together. In a street full of middle class families, there was nobody under the age of 12 who spent their time playing video games or watching cartoons. We were outside the house almost all day. Since everyone knew everyone else, there was no scare, no hesitation in letting kids out to play. It was perfect. I wouldn't trade it for any memory.

We played a tonne of cricket. There have been days when I returned to the house only to have lunch and dinner. We started playing at 8 in the morning and it was cricket, seven stones and what not till it was too dark to spot the ball. After sunset we played hide and seek, in a way nobody would have. Imagine about 20-25 kids hiding in a street with about 50 houses and apartments. It was a riot. A single game used to last for hours and it went on till 9pm or whenever everyone was called in for dinner. For me Madras is about this madness.

Once I moved to the new place life slowed down. I had grown up. I played with a different bunch of people, my classmates. My school is famous for being strict but I couldn't have had this amount of fun anywhere else. I have and had such wonderful friends. From going to Birla planetarium as school excursion to getting caught in class 10 for playing cricket in the middle of exams, we did everything that we were supposed to and everything that we were not supposed to. I still remember watching Venkat Prabhu's 'Saroja' along with 25 other people in the local movie theatre. Handsdown, the best theatre experience I've had. I doubt I will experience anything similar again.

I think I grew up at the perfect time period, the 90s and the early 2000s. Then suddenly everything seems to have changed. I still thank the stars that I was late to the internet, the mobile phone and everything that makes up my life today, because I would have missed on living through most of my wonderful memories.

Whenever someone says Madras, people seem to have this image of a person who went to PSBB, IIT coaching, Kapaleeswarar temple, and likes HSB-Filter coffee's fan page on Facebook. I did none of those and I secretly feel good about taking memories of Madras that are not stereotypes, incidences that can never be guessed. Like Bajji from stalls outside Sathsangam, being in the marching band at Prince school, climbing my first stage in a large event at Chutti Vikatan school quiz, getting yelled at by KP Latha for not drawing margins, and always receiving a 'not enough' from my correspondent while receiving my exam papers no matter whether I got a 95 or a 99.

This is home for me. My Madras which is different from yours, which I am sure is unique in its own way, because none of the stereotypes can define anyone from Madras. Madras is like the definition of love, everyone thinks they know how it is when two people are in love, but can never point and say this is it. I think only you know how you love Madras, while only I know how I love it.