Short and Snappy dated 15th September 2009

The all cleansing soap

 

The Man from Madras Musings has written in the past about the various practices engaged in by hotels in the city in view of security threats. Now there is the added threat of health hazards and a hotel that MMM went to has added what can only be called the last straw though from the way the latest regulation was spoken about by the hotel staff, anyone would think it was the icing on the cake.

 

This hotel has apart from the usual security rigmarole, the added attraction of sniffer dogs that go all around your car. But if you thought this was what MMM meant by the last straw, you are completely mistaken. As soon as you have stepped out of the car, neatly sidestepping the dog which appears to have only one ambition namely to raise itself on its hind legs and rest its forepaws on your shirt front, you are confronted with the metal detector in deference to which you need to empty your pockets. Then there is a man at the other end who prods all over you with something that to MMM’s jaundiced eye looked like a tuning fork with elephantiasis. And just as you assume that the ordeal is over and there is nothing between you and the bar, you are steered away in a vice like grip to a gadget by the wall. This dispenses antibacterial, antifungal, antiseptic and antibiotic soap and you are asked to stand with your hands outstretched. A drop falls into your palms which you immediately rub together and then duly sanitised, you are let into the hotel. You not only smell strongly of anti-just-about-everything, you also like Lady Macbeth realise, that not all the perfumes of Arabia will sweeten your little hand. Oh by the way, MMM forgot. The anti-just-about-anything miracle liquid may be just what the doctor ordered, but its dispenser is not. Did MMM tell you to stretch your palms? He forgot to add that you had better stretch your legs and stand at ease. For carried away by its enthusiasm the dispenser dispenses a few extra drops which if you are not careful usually land on your trouser or worse, your shoe where they stick closer than a brother. Of course, they add to the hygienic atmosphere and what does a shabby shoe matter?

 

Bizarre Beach Beautification

 

And so it goes on, at a snails pace. All that has happened is that vast stretches of what was once a handsome promenade has been dug up making the place completely user-unfriendly. The other day the Man from Madras Musings had the opportunity to take a closer look at what is being done and he was appalled. The entire plan apparently involves various levels and it is not clear as to how the elderly and the physically challenged are expected to navigate these in order to access the beach proper. If this is the condition of the Marina, the Elliots Beach does not fare any better. And what is ironic is that neither of these beaches needed any beautification in the first place. What is sad is that historic San Thome Beach has been completely neglected. MMM drove down the stretch by the sea and was shocked to find that the vast fishermen colony that lives on this part of the seafront has to put up with overflowing sewers, bad roads, a foul stench that comes from putrid water and overflowing rubbish tips. It appears that as far as the Corporation is concerned San Thome Beach being safely out of sight can also be out of mind. If only a small tithe of what is being spent on Marina was allotted to San Thome we may have had some real beach beautification and improvement.

 

Political Fathers

 

It is customary, the Man from Madras Musings is aware, that in a feudal society like ours (no matter what we pretend or think it to be), the ruler is considered pater familias. And MMM is in august company when he writes this, for no less a person than Lord Curzon wrote of how he received a letter while Viceroy of India, from a man who had many children (the last of whom was still milking the parental mother, to quote from the missive) and who now at his wits end had decided to appeal to the Viceroy for sustenance for after all was he the Viceroy, not the father of his (the man’s) entire family? Indeed, in them days, men such as Curzon and several fellow rulers considered this to be compliment.

 

Things have not changed much since then judging by the number of posters and vinyl hoardings that are put up by the politically minded when they celebrate events in their respective families. These usually claim all kinds of relationships with prominent political personalities (PPP) (father, mother, sister and brother being the most common) and state unequivocally that the event being celebrated is entirely thanks to blessings of the PPP who is featured on the banner/poster/hoarding. But is this the correct way to go about it? Have these celebrants ever wondered as to how the PPP would feel? MMM understands if weddings are attributed to the PPP but would not the mantle of shame mount his/her (the PPP’s) cheek if he/she sees that he/she has been thanked for the first ritual anointing of a girl after she has come of age? The technical term for such an event MMM is given to understand is manjal neerattu. And what about the birth of a baby? Would the PPP really want to be involved even though he/she may claim to be pater/mater familias? And is it correct for anyone to publicly announce that a baby was born because of a particular PPP? This has the potential for future paternity suits.

 

The one that MMM would least want to be associated with is the piercing of infants’ ears. When his ears were pierced, MMM, according to those who were around, put up a spirited protest. And MMM is sure that infants still do. Imagine if one of these infants grows up with an undefined hatred towards those who were involved in the foul deed. Many years later, infant, now an adult given to homicidal tendencies gets to see a vinyl hoarding (these things being indestructible) which attributes a certain PPP for the piercing of his (the infant’s) ears. From then on, infant, now homicidal adult begins stalking the PPP seeking revenge. PPP in terror demands Z category security. TV channels go to town on it (MMM can imagine the headlines – breaking news and all that) and finally PPP is given the Z category. He/ she then holds up all traffic while careening down roads thereby adding to the general feeling of hatred and therefore the added threat perception. If only PPP had not been thanked for the piercing of ears, all would have been well. But then sane words such as those of MMM fall on deaf ears and our PPPs are continuously being thanked for everything from weddings to er… turmeric baths.

 

Tailpiece

 

Talking about Z category security, the Man from Madras Musings has always wondered as to why it is called so. Is it because the secured can sleep well (zzzz) while the security walks about completely denied all sleep? Or is it Z because there is nothing further to security, this being the ultimate status symbol? MMM thinks that it is so called because it is the final stop in security, the end of the line and when it fails, it involves complete rest for the soul whose security was breached.

Short and Snappy dated 1st September 2009

Masked Marvels

 

The Man from Madras Musings has recently been going walkabout and what he is amazed at is the way people have taken to wearing medical masks in an attempt to ward off the dreaded H1N1 virus. Any alien coming down to Madras that is Chennai can be pardoned for imagining that this is a city of masked bandits. No matter that the Health Department has repeatedly issued bulletins that the virus is so microscopic that such masks are no protection against it. There is now apparently a shortage of these masks and those who are not lucky enough to possess one have decided to make do with their handkerchiefs. As to how this can be of any use is beyond MMM but there it is. What is interesting is that when it comes to a sneeze or a cough, most mask users doff the masks. Perhaps they believe in spreading the good germ around. It is also interesting that nobody is paying attention to the health warning which has sensible words of advice. It asks people to shun crowded places. But you need only walk down to the closest shopping mall, cinema theatre, multiplex or T Nagar to see that this piece of advice has fallen on deaf ears (perhaps because of the mask) and everyone and his uncle (or her aunt) is out there in the crowded areas, replete with these useless masks. The warning also requests people not to spit in public. But how can we be forbidden from indulging in our national pastime? So off go the masks when it is spitting time.

 

What MMM would like to know is whether these masked men (and women) are really serious about protecting themselves or whether they intend these masks to be fashion statements. Some have them carelessly slung around their necks while others wear them like the ruffs that Queen Elizabeth I made famous. This reminds MMM of the times of his youth when the spondylitis collar was the ultimate status symbol. While the problem of the back came to just about anyone it was only the rich that wore these collars. We now live in more egalitarian times. And you should have seen the joy on a neighbour of ours who was asked to wear one by the doctor. She would never wear it at home but would religiously sport it while attending social get-togethers.

 

To come back to the H1N1 mask, MMM is of the view that Chennaiites face a new crisis of which they will become aware of only as time wears on. This is the question of how to greet people now. The Health Department warning expressly forbids the shaking of hands. It also frowns on touching any part of the face and so the pat on the cheek with which Dr S Radhakrishnan greeted the Soviet Dictator Stalin is now out of question. As for warm hugs, which the Chief is adept at especially with the young uns, that is completely ruled out. Smiling may not be of any use given that the mask hides grins and grimaces. The only way out is to follow the tribal custom of sticking out the tongue. This may not be such a bad idea. The tongue is often a dead giveaway of bodily conditions but then the tongue too would be hidden behind the mask and anyone who sticks his or her tongue out may get a mouthful of mask (ugh!). Perhaps the traditional Indian namaste is the best. That way you keep your dirt and MMM keeps his.

 

But whatever happens MMM (the Man from Madras Musings) will never become MMM (Man in the Medical Mask). Before we go on to other subjects, what is this?

 

“hmmfpppsmmmf”

 

“fmmmspppfmmh”

 

Two men in medical masks trying to speak to each other.

 

Telephone surveys

 

The Man from Madras Musings has frequently lamented about telemarketing agencies calling him on the phone at all odd hours disturbing his peace and making him think of homicidal thoughts. And the manufacturer of the car that MMM uses surely takes the cake. Shortly after the purchase, MMM was touched to receive a call asking him if all was well with the vehicle. MMM replied with great cordiality that all was indeed well whereupon the voice at the other end beamed (or at least MMM assumes it did), MMM beamed back and the call ended.

 

After a month, there was another call asking if all was well. MMM was a trifle brusque but managed to answer with civility that the car was doing fine. A month later there was one more call asking if all was well. This time MMM began having doubts. Perhaps two months was the most that anyone who bought this particular brand of car could be happy for. MMM also began worrying if there was something particularly wrong with the car which they had hidden from him. Did it mean that they were frequently checking up to see that the car and MMM were still in one piece (or two pieces taking car and MMM as two different entities)? Then matters ceased for a while and MMM had practically forgotten about the issue when there was a call last week from the Bangalore branch of the same car company. “We are simply checking up about our vehicle” was the opening line. “Your Chennai office has been doing more than a good job of it” was MMM’s reply. “Oh!” came the rather surprised reply and the caller hung up. He left MMM in a state of unease with vague misgivings about the future. For if MMM’s car is now receiving national attention …

 

Colourful Chennai

 

What’s up with city the Man from Madras Musings wonders. Till recently this was not really a colourful place though the Chief may disagree. Buildings were painted white which with successive seasons turned a dull grey interspersed with moss green when the drains worked overtime. But of late, homes and offices have begun sporting colours that defy logic. Magenta, a variety of pink that in days of yore would be associated with cheeni mittai, yellow (of the daffodil variety), red, ochre… you name them and we have them. Government buildings are not lagging behind either. Several of them are nowadays painted in aquamarine or bottle-green and if that paint is not available then they are daubed with a sky-blue colour. Motorists who are sensitive to colours have been known to shy suddenly and cause accidents when while rounding a corner they unexpectedly come across these bright creations. It would appear that someone somewhere was left with a surplus consignment of paints meant for a child’s playroom or a discotheque and rather smartly decided to market it to house-owners and Government departments and is now laughing all the way to the bank.

 

 

Tailpiece

 

The Man from Madras Musings was at Central Station the other day and overheard two railway porters talking about their sons. One was quite disgusted with his offspring and said that his position was so bad that he (the son) did not even have a cell phone. The other commiserated with the first in his hour of misfortune. Which made MMM wonder as to what the two would think of the Chief. A gentle pity would perhaps be the most that the Chief could expect.

Short and Snappy July 16th 2009

Passing Out Parade

 

Passing away is of course a painful thing for those around, though hopefully those who pass away do not feel anything later. The Man from Madras Musings at least fervently hopes that the latter aspect is really true, for given the way our city’s denizens send off their dear departed, it cannot be anything but painful for those who are seen off.

 

MMM has in the past written questioning the necessity for publicising deaths by printing posters with two weeping eyes set on either side of a photograph of the one who had popped off. This time it is the concept of the funeral procession that MMM would like to complain about. Given the kind of traffic we have, do we need these funeral processions?

 

The other day MMM was driving near the Institute of Mental Health at Kilpauk (now what took MMM there?)  when all traffic came to a halt. Police personnel were forcing the traffic coming up the road via a narrow opening in the median on to the opposite side. Those coming down the road had to hastily make way for the traffic up and the confusion that resulted could only be imagined.

 

Was it an accident MMM wondered. And then came the distant thumping of drums in a tattoo that MMM, after long years in the city has come to associate with funeral processions. The drum-beaters came into view and walked on regally coursing down the lane now devoid of traffic and were followed by a hearse that did not contain the dear departed but a group of mourners all laughing and shouting, stripping flowers off a garland and strewing the petals on the road. Then dancers, who probably under the influence of the stuff that cheers put up what can be termed as a ‘spirited’ performance. All these were accompanied by local toughs referred to for some reason in the Madras vernacular as ‘pista’s (why should they be equated with the pistachio?) who were bursting crackers. Those that were not doing this were trying to regulate the traffic which was thrown into chaos in the first place by these very same people. The regulating they did was not much different from that of the police. It mainly involved shoving cyclists and two-wheeler users rudely to one side and intimidating car users with rude gestures and trading abuses with bus and truck drivers. In the midst of this all was the bier, with the late lamented swathed in garlands, no doubt secretly glad that all this had come to an end and if he/she got through this procession in one piece, he/she can look forward to the peace of the grave. Even hell-fire would be preferable to a Madras traffic jam on a hot summer’s day. The bier incidentally was carried by pall-bearers. It is only our city that a hearse would be used for strewing flowers while the body is carried manually.

 

MMM is not certain, but if more such processions happen, more and more people who use roads will swell the ranks of those already under the care of the Institute of Mental Health. What MMM is certain about however is that these processions do not take place after obtaining any sort of permission from the police. That noble force appears to be as surprised about these as the lesser mortals on the road.

 

 

 

 

Competitive Comfort

 

We at Madras Musings celebrate the past, but if there is one aspect of it that the Man from Madras Musings does not look back upon with nostalgia it is the control that our Government once exercised on telephone services. MMM remembers a time when a phone connection took years and then after it was sanctioned, the instrument, rather aptly black, took months to come after which the connection was established only after follow ups for weeks and then the line went dead within days if not hours. Complaints had no effect and telephone users were periodically administered shocks by being presented with huge bills even when the connection never worked. In Calcutta, a public spirited city like no other, a funeral procession was organised for a telephone that had remained dead for months. Thousands of mourners joined the procession (rather like the one described above) and the instrument was cremated solemnly amidst multi-faith chants. Not that it had even the smallest effect on the Department of Telephones.

 

But how things have changed. There are now many agencies offering these services, telephones come in various colours and connections work, though the billing still administers periodic shocks. MMM is quite happy to be living in this present age, where he knows that when he dials a number he will get through. But even MMM can be surprised. The other day MMM’s land line, which is a number given by the Government controlled enterprise, went dead. A complaint was registered and within an hour a man arrived and said the line was fine, it was the instrument which MMM had purchased from the market that was faulty. MMM said that he would change the instrument and sent the man off. Within an hour, the man was back. He had noticed he said, that MMM did not have another instrument ready with him and so he, the man, had brought a phone to replace the faulty one. It was a used phone which was lying about at office he said rather apologetically, but it should work. The task completed, the line now working, the man departed having given an open mouthed MMM a dazzling smile. Not one rupee had been demanded and none given. It was an amazing experience and even now MMM finds himself frequently reaching out to the telephone just to make sure it is for real.

 

 Having said that, MMM wishes that the Department would get better voices for its recorded messages. There is one which says “Dyulled number yis buzzy. Please dyul yafter some tayam” which takes the cake. It then goes on to say the same thing in Hindi which sounds even worse. MMM strongly suspects that both announcements were read out from a script written in Tamil. Surely in this time and age we can get some pleasanter voices with better accents.

 

Tamil, the lingua franca

 

Now that Madras Week is around the corner, the Chief has this habit of looking quizzically at the Man from Madras Musings and MMM gets the message. “What are you doing for Madras Week?” is the unspoken question and MMM went walkabout with a colleague who organises heritage walks. Our quest took us to Kesava Perumal Sannadhi South Street in Mylapore. Having come to the vicinity of the street, MMM and colleague could not identify the place whereupon MMM stepped up to an auto rickshaw driver and asked him as to where Kesava Perumal Terku Sannadhi Street was. “No such place” was the terse reply. MMM persisted. How is it that there are streets for all the other cardinal directions but not South asked MMM. “Oh you mean South, then why did you ask for Terku?” was the reply. MMM left it at that.

Short and Snappy of 1st July 2009

Novel ways to conserve water

 

This precious liquid resource, the Man from Madras Musings is well aware, is on its way out. There are posters that predict that its supply is getting scarcer and other Cassandras have said that if wars have been fought over oil, the next World War will be over water. MMM was recently at a local branch of a nationalized bank in the city and had to attend a call of nature. When he went to the bathroom, he found a poster that carried messages on water conservation and then when he turned to the wash basin this is what he saw. Could it be, MMM wondered, that the budget for the toilet renovation was exhausted just before the taps could be put in place? And if so, is the bank awaiting the next sanction of funds before getting taps? But what MMM also noticed was that the granite table top had no provision for taps of any kind. Obviously then, this is an inspired method of conserving water. No taps- no water! Simple.

 

Happy happenings at Central

 

Too often, those of you who read the writings of the Man from Madras Musings have felt that he is more of a Jeremiah. Be more like Pollyanna is your cry. Enough of these lamentations you have said and see the sunny side. MMM has been of the view that there is no sunny side in many matters, but then, he is happy to announce that this time he is prepared to sing the praises of a new system at the Central Station. It may have been there from long but MMM availed of it only recently and therefore to him it is still new. MMM is speaking of the bus service from the Central to various parts of the city. These are air-conditioned coaches that wait at the entrance to the station and gone are the days when you had to come out of the building dreading the thought of having to interact with the aggressive auto-rickshaw drivers and their alternate blandishments and threats. You now simply stride across to the bus stand, look for the bus that goes via your destination, pay the fare and sit in comfort and before you know it, you are dropped at a location closest to your home from where you can avail of local transport or simply walk across. Not only is this energy friendly (imagine how many car journeys are saved), it is also user friendly and above all, it is shows how effective public transport can be as compared to using private means. MMM however finds that such a service is not available from the Central’s poor cousin – namely Egmore. Why this is so MMM cannot understand but he hopes that this service will be extended to that location also.  

 

Big Fat Chennai Weddings

 

The Man from Madras Musings has with experience come to the conclusion that it is easier to send greeting telegrams as compared to attending weddings in person in this, our city. If driving to a venue is tiresome, parking is even more so and the weather being what it is, MMM is certain bridal couples ought to get their heads examined for getting married in such a lousy season and then inviting people to participate in them. The more MMM reflects, the more he is convinced that South Indian weddings were not meant for the summer. The fire, the crush of relatives, the suffocating garlands and the overbearing priest all add up to a terrible total. But what about driving past wedding halls? Their suffering is as much if not more than those who attend weddings. Most of these places were built or have been designed to cater to one third or perhaps one fifth the crowd that comes and naturally enough, surrounding spaces are taken over for what the halls themselves cannot contain. If this is not chaos enough, most guests think it is a matter of prestige to be dropped off at the entrance of the hall. They just cannot wait till their chauffeur or poor head-of-the-family has found a place to park in and then walk to the venue. And in the process of getting off, they have to indulge in some last minute conversation with chauffeur or poor head-of-the-family thereby delaying everyone else waiting behind. It is not as though traffic in Chennai has come to such a pass that a chauffeur or a poor head-of-the-family who is setting off to park a car may not return the same day. And with the widespread use of cell phones surely they can be contacted at leisure. But animated conversation with one foot in the car and the other on the ground is an absolute must. It is almost akin to famous goodbyes that Shakespeare penned so movingly.

 

If this is not enough, MMM notices that great wedding processions have returned with a vengeance. There was a time when brides and grooms (MMM included) fought shy of sitting in open cars or on horseback with a couple of mewling and puking infants for company, being led in procession with an off-key orchestra belting out movie melodies. MMM remembers MMM, was most vehement and not all the tears of aged relatives who by the simple excuse of claiming that this was the last wedding they would live to see had managed to get hundreds of bridegrooms to agree could get him to budge. The procession did not take place and the aged relatives lived on to witness many more weddings. But today’s bridal couples are made of weaker fibre or perhaps they like these processions for almost every wedding has these traffic stoppers these days.

 

The police is at its wits end and can do nothing beyond try and regulate the traffic that passes these processions. MMM is quite certain that those driving by curse the newlyweds bitterly. And as for the bridegroom (or bride for she too is not exempt on occasion), how does he (or she) benefit by being goggled at from buses, cars and on occasion from passing MRTS trains? The off-key orchestra has been replaced by live singers who follow the procession in a self-contained open truck which adds to the medley but is certainly more faithful to pitch and tune as compared to the singers themselves.

 

MMM, who thought he had seen them all had evidently not run the entire gamut. Last week MMM’s car was stopped by one such wedding procession and as he had no other choice, his route being the same, MMM had to follow the snaking queue till the marriage venue. There he saw a group of men standing on eight foot stilts and doing a most complicated dance in order to welcome the bridegroom. It was almost like Cleopatra’s triumphal entry into Rome.  What next? Midgets doing tricks?

 

Such events speak volumes about the lack of sensitivity we have towards the problems faced by others when we celebrate. MMM wonders as to whether these wedding parties obtain police permission of any sort before they aggrandize the road for their own celebration. Certainly the police has no business giving permission for such events. And if permission is not sought why does the police stand by and watch?

Short and Snappy dated 15th June 2009

I have been shockingly backlogged on updating this.

Paradise no longer

 

It was not long ago that the Man from Madras Musings sang paeans to the Egmore station in these very columns. But now, like one of those remarks deemed unparliamentary in our legislatures, MMM requests permission to have those songs of praise expunged. Outwardly all is well. The Indo-Saracenic is gleaming and red granite is yet to spread its tentacles. But is architecture all that is needed? What about passenger amenities and even a rudimentary attempt at traffic regulation?

 

It is now more than a year since the new entrance at the rear of the station was inaugurated. But traffic still continues to use the Gandhi-Irwin Road entrance which has very little space for parking or navigation. The entrance on Poonamallee High Road on the other hand is totally empty and looks like a football ground on an off day. Why is there no attempt at balancing the load between these two entrances?

 

The escalator service as MMM pointed out earlier is peculiar. There are some platforms where the escalator is provided only for ascent while in others it is available only for descent. Why this is so is beyond MMM’s comprehension but he is certain that some obscure government file will have a statement that this was based on usage patterns. MMM would like to disagree on the simple premise that a passenger who goes up in an escalator will have to also come down on one.

 

But it is in the matter of information displays that the station really takes the cake. There is only one display board for the entire station which is located on platform number 4 and even this one is poorly lit and is easily missed. The other day MMM and family were south bound. What with books to review and columns to write, MMM never travels light and had to engage the services of a porter. MMM not being an expert in matters spiritual could not diagnose the elevated state of the man who helped him with his luggage. He simply followed the porter who having taken MMM to a platform (after much climbing up of stairs and coming down on escalators) led him to a carriage and deposited the entire luggage under the relevant seat numbers. Then, having taken his fee he departed.

 

MMM then stepped out for buying something and accidentally took a look at the charts. This, given the state of lighting on the platform took some doing and conceive MMM’s horror when he found none of his family members names on it. MMM was just turning his eyes heavenward to pray when he noticed the name of the train and found it was not the one he was meant to travel by. And his own train was due to leave in ten minutes.

 

MMM does not know what the record is for darting into a railway coach, informing family members of the impending disaster, gathering up as many bags as possible, darting out with family members in tow, running down the platform, swarming up escalators, sprinting down stairs (or was it the other way round?), looking in vain for information displays, clutching at passing porters (in the hope of identifying MMM’s tormentor who no doubt by then was the life and soul of the wine shop just opposite), finally getting the information about the correct platform, bounding in that direction, identifying the coach and finally sinking on to the seat exhausted. But he is pretty much sure that he holds it. The females of the species had some acidic remarks on the entire episode, but by then MMM was past caring. He was glad that he had made it en famille before the correct train left and that was all. The burnt child dreads fire goes the cliché but for MMM it is Egmore that is dread-worthy.

 

Banking burdens

 

The Man from Madras Musings has always had a horror of banks. No doubt his mother had been frightened by one. To MMM, the very thought of entering a bank and filling out forms to either deposit cheques or withdraw cash had been an act fraught with tension. And this was not helped by the extremely surly specimens that used to man the counters. But over the years these tormentors unbent in degrees and sometimes even gave MMM a condescending smile. These were occasions of great celebrations for MMM.

 

Then came the days of private banks. Young ones would smile at MMM as though he was the best thing that had happened in their lives and would talk about becoming relationship managers. All very heart-warming no doubt but what it all amounted to was that these banks did not want a personal visit and behind the smile was the message that the young ‘uns would consider it a favour if MMM did all his business through the internet. They called it EFT, ECS and all kinds of other extra terrestrial terms. And so MMM did just that though it took him quite some time to get used to it all. Then there came a day when MMM had to make out a cheque. Having hunted for the cheque book and finally found it (this would have never happened in the old days) MMM issued it only to find it come back like a homing pigeon from the recipient with a nasty note that it had been returned owing to a signature mismatch. It was now MMM’s turn to try and contact the young things but this time they were quite elusive. MMM got a lot of pre-recorded messages and very little live support. The call was eternally on hold and after a while MMM had the impression that he had been listening to jingle bells all his life.

 

Finally MMM did get through only to be told by a curt voice that MMM’s signature had changed quite a bit and the computer had failed to recognise it. This, said the voice was because MMM was not issuing cheques often enough! But what about the ECS and EFT? Yes said the voice, but it was entirely up to MMM to keep his signature unchanged. MMM asked if he could come in person and explain? No he could not, but what he could do was to access the site, download a form … And there matters rest. Watch this space for more details.

 

This would have never happened in the old days. One of them surly creatures would have taken a look at the cheque, passed it and later informed MMM that he better sign the same way or else… The threat would never materialise anyway. It would later become a joke. Try telling the computer or the disembodied voice all this.

 

The Dry Channel Season

 

Now that elections are over, most of the television channels have gone dry for matter. Oh for the happy days of exit polls, swings, analyses and big fights. The other day the Man from Madras Musings was idly surfing channels (you have to be idle to surf channels), when his eyes fixed on one of them which had a series of “breaking news” items coming up and this is how they went:

 

Home Minister visits Jammu and Kashmir

 

J&K visit of Home Minister

 

PC visits Kashmir

 

This is first visit of Home Minister to Kashmir after new government took charge

 

(considering the Govt. is less than a month old, this information was no doubt earth-shattering).

 

And on that happy note, have a great fortnight ahead.

Short and Snappy June 1st 2009

Short and Snappy dated 1^st June 2009

 

Travelling with our countrymen

 

The Man from Madras Musings is happiest in Madras that is Chennai. But there comes a time in mid May when his family members find their love for this city wearing thin and conversation during dinner rather markedly takes a turn towards whether it is the heat that is worse or is it the humidity. Then MMM’s good lady, all the while looking directly at MMM, talks of people who have gone off to better climes and then speaks of certain others who do not have the same luck. Adjusting the thermostat on the air-conditioner does not work and even before MMM can utter a few feeble protests, tickets have been booked and we are off. During these journeys MMM’s attitude is more like Peri standing disconsolately outside Paradise as he muses on Madras and what cheers him up more than the attempts of his family members to hurry him on from sport to sport as the quotation goes, is the behaviour of our fellow countrymen when they have to be airborne.

 

Those who have followed MMM’s writings will remember that he had once waxed eloquent on how some of our brothers behave under the influence of the spirit that cheers once they are in an aircraft. Their motto appears to be that of ‘spiritual’ uplift even as the body is wafted over the skies. So MMM will not repeat himself. And MMM will also pass lightly over the dressing styles of his countrymen. Suffice it to say that Indian men in particular would be better off wearing clothes that hide rather than accentuate their terrible outlines. It is on their behaviour while boarding aircrafts that MMM will now take up his lyre and sing of.

 

The queue system as far as Indians are concerned is an abstract belief rather like Nirvana which you can only aspire for and never really attain. And so, it is only in India that all airlines have more or less given up on the sequential system of boarding aircrafts. While in other countries they announce the pattern in which they want passengers to step forward and board (families with infants first, elderly needing assistance next etc), in India the general methodology is one of laissez faire with the procedure resembling more of a “Come and Get It”, “Go Forth and Multiply” or worse “Charge!!!!” However, while in foreign capitals and dealing with flights bound for India, airlines, no doubt under pressure from the IATA or some such body still follow the system of sequential boarding, at least on paper.

 

Unfortunately, these foreign capitals have not learnt from the Indian experience. MMM noticed that the moment boarding was announced for women with children, several of our Indian sorority stepped forward with young thugs who had begun shaving at least five years previously and attempted to pass them off as babes in arms. Then when the sequential boarding by seat numbers began, several passengers just stampeded their way through, even though their seat numbers had not been called.

 

MMM has since pondered over this strange behaviour. After all, air travel is not akin in any way to travel in unreserved compartments on trains where the fittest get the seats and others need to stand. Then why do Indians behave this way? And then it dawned on MMM. It all has to do with hand baggage which like the queue system is another abstract.

 

There are norms no doubt in terms of size, numbers and weight on what defines hand baggage. But not to Indians. The average passenger carries at least three pieces and when it comes to size or weight, as far as our compatriots are concerned, those are restrictions only applicable to checked in baggage. MMM is not exaggerating when he states that some of his fellow travellers carried into the aircraft bags that were several sizes larger and heavier than themselves. MMM doubted in some cases whether the passengers were carrying in the bags or whether it was the other way round. And it is the suspense of whether they will be able to stuff in their bags into the small, woefully inadequate and poorly designed overhead compartments or the spaces under the seats that causes our people to stampede the moment an aircraft is ready for boarding.

 

Once on board, matters do not end with just some damage to a few overhead lockers, a few heads or toes on which bags descend or a few elbows getting grazed as the boxes are lugged across the aisles. Indians do not recognise the seat numbers on their boarding passes and decide where they want to seat. “Sollikalam” (We can always tell them) was the expression MMM heard as a few passengers muscled in on seats meant for others and sat there even as those to whom the seats really belonged just stood watching bemusedly. It was a wonder that people did not fight for window seats. The crew on board spent almost the entire time duration of the flight in reconciling seats with passenger names and meal preferences thanks to this chaos.

 

Health Security

 

Oink! Yes, there is more to being a swine than meets the eye and the latest is this illness. Security has been “beefed up” (thank heavens it is not mad cow disease this year) at all airports and security, immigration and aircraft personnel go around in masks, which the Man from Madras Musings need scarcely remind you was something that only terrorists, dacoits and surgeons did. And so did a few of MMM’s fellow passengers. And these health conscious people gave their masks a hitch each time someone in the aircraft sneezed. And one among us was heavily infected with cold. He sneezed, wheezed, coughed and looked at everyone with rheumy eyes. Those around looked daggers drawn at him and he could not have been a four-legged creature with a twisted tail, a huge snout and folding ears to get a worse reception. As the flight approached Chennai, health declaration forms were handed over and we were asked to fill them in. Do you suffer from cold asked the first question. No was the sufferer’s answer. Do you have cough was the next. No was his answer once again. The third had something to do with breathing problems and the man answered this in the negative as well even as he huffed and puffed in the effort. MMM’s curiosity was aroused. He was sure that there would be a squad of health inspectors in arrival who would whisk the invalid away and probably quarantine the flight as well. MMM’s first thought was of the Chief and of what he would do if this column was not ready on time thanks to the quarantine. But MMM need not have worried.

 

Even as the pilot announced that we were about to land in Chennai, MMM noticed several of his fellow passengers unfastening their seat belts, extracting the baggage that they had stuffed in and perform quick visits to the toilets no doubt to pilfer all the cosmetics, toilet rolls and even a toilet seat if possible. Some even thought they could queue to the exit (there being no space to stampede) and were quelled in their attempts by a beady-eyed airhostess. Then as the flight landed, MMM noticed the coughing, sneezing and sniffing man fighting his way to exit and charging ahead of the others. MMM thought he was turning himself in and his courage reminded MMM of the Charge of the Light Brigade. But then, this is Chennai. The man led all the rest in the queue at the health inspector’s desk where a heavily masked woman took a cursory look at the form, did not take any note of the man’s febrile condition and simply waved him in. So now if you have an outbreak of swine flu in Chennai, you know how it happened.

Short and Snappy May 15th 2009

Short and Snappy dated 15^th May 2009

 

Security – Hotel Style

 

Ever since the attacks in Mumbai a few months ago, security has been, as the expression is “beefed up” (why not porked up? Perhaps chickened up would not be very appropriate) in most five star hotels of Madras that is Chennai. The most visible aspect is that these homes to hospitality are now behind forbidding gates which swing open rather menacingly when you approach.  The Man from Madras Musings has been to a few and taking his role rather seriously (the Chief has complained that MMM is prone to levity) documents what he has experienced.

 

The moment you enter the hotel compound, the first person who greets you is a man with a floor-level mirror mounted on wheels. He pushes this under your car (presumably this procedure is exempt for Scotsmen in kilts and South Indians in dhoties who come in on roller skates) to examine the possibility of a car bomb in the undercarriage. The other day MMM drove in only to find the man with the mirror standing with his head bowed and deeply gazing at his own reflection rather like Narcissus at the pond which is where all his troubles began if you recollect. MMM waited patiently for a while but the man continued admiring himself and MMM can assure you that what there was did not merit a second look; not that MMM is a thing of beauty himself. And then MMM ran out of patience and tooted the horn whereupon the man, coming to himself with a start, lost his grip on the the mirror which being on a slope promptly went by itself under MMM’s car and would have gone on indefinitely had it not been for the handle which hit MMM’s car bumper and stopped. The mirror was then recovered and MMM was given the go ahead.

 

The next man whom you encounter is the person who commands you to open the boot of your car. In most cases MMM notices, this search is most perfunctory and does not involve anything more than a glance at what is inside. How can anyone identify the presence of explosives or arms by a mere look and that too from a distance is beyond MMM’s feeble intellect. Are these men clairvoyant?

 

Then you have the metal detector. Here you have a man standing beside it, who depending on his mood and on the side of the bed from which he got up, could either wave you through with a smile or in a surly fashion ask you to surrender everything you possess and then walk through. MMM is waiting for the day when clothes will have to be taken off while entering hotels. But what puzzles MMM is that in some of these places, many people keep walking in and out through side entrances with nary a check. And that reminds MMM of another incident.

 

We live in changing times but these occur with such rapidity that MMM is often left wondering as to what happened. The other day, MMM and his good lady had gone to a five star hotel to attend a book release and it was only on reaching within a few metres of the hotel that MMM realised that a flyover had been planned there. A barricade put up by the police was the only sign to indicate that MMM could not proceed onwards. Anyone would think that the hotel would put up a signboard giving details of alternate routes to take to access the building. Not having any choice, MMM took a diversion which brought him to the exit of the hotel. There a kindly security guard waved him on further down the road which brought MMM to the staff entrance of the hotel. Not finding anybody there, MMM hesitated. But the good lady, who in another era could have taken a shot at being Lady Macbeth egged MMM on and so he drove in. Sure enough MMM found himself in the basement car park. Having found an empty slot, MMM, at the insistence of Lady M parked his vehicle and with Lady M in tow took the lift and reached the venue. All through the programme MMM did not have any peace of mind. What if the hotel security found a car for which they had no parking tag? What if the police was called in? What if the car is towed away? Or even worse what if the hotel is evacuated and then the car searched and finally MMM is hauled up before the awful majesty of the law? What would the Chief say when he saw the headlines screaming “MMM in the thick of bomb hoax”? Here MMM stole a sideways glance at his good lady who appeared to not have a care or scare and was the life and soul of the party.

 

At the end it, MMM and lady left. On reaching the foyer, MMM’s lady suggested that we ask the hotel valet to get our car. MMM shook like a leaf. He had it all worked out. He had thought of taking a service lift, and then having reached the parking lot, stealing out hoping that nobody would notice. But the lady would have nothing of it. Under her stern eye MMM went up to the least intimidating valet and began explaining. The man did not even bat an eyelid. With a dazzling smile he took the key, went to the basement, got the car out and soon MMM and lady were on their way home. No parking tag, no security check, no looking at the undercarriage with mirrors. And MMM’s lady had an “I told you so” look on her face. So much for foolproof security.

 

No traffic rules please- we are campaigning

 

The Gowdia Mutt Road leading to the Royapettah Police Station is one way and that is a big joke for almost everyone violates this rule, under the very nose of the police station. Even police cars happily careen down the wrong way. But election campaigning bends most rules more than they ought to. Last week witnessed a posse of policemen standing on this road busily blocking off the traffic that was travelling in the correct direction. MMM was among the many stopped from proceeding further. All this was to allow a convoy of cars belonging to a political party carrying the local hopeful and his cohorts, all of them travelling down the wrong way! Traffic was halted for a long duration during which crackers were burst, the candidate waved, swooped and genuflected even as his companions kept a watchful eye rather like Mars- threatening and commanding on those waiting patiently by. One motorist made bold to protest and was given a few friendly pats by the companions and was also warned off by the police, no doubt for creating an ulawful disturbance. Imagine protesting during a peaceful election campaign. It is just not on and moreover it is foul, offside and unsporting. At least that is what the policeman no doubt thought of it.

 

 

Election Emergencies

 

The Man from Madras Musings is prone to idly watching cars go by and now that it is election time, he sees a good many whiz by so much puffed up with self-importance that it is a wonder that they do not burst out with it. “Election –Immediate” says one variety and this usually has the ‘G’ mark on it indicating that it had better not be trifled with. Next comes the variety that usually has a party flag fluttering from its bonnet and this too does not follow traffic rules but is distinguished by a set of faces grinning and hands showing off signs of victory, muscle strength etc. It must be admitted that grinning does not come too easily to this group. They would be better off snarling, grimacing or look menacing. The third variety has “Press” on it and from the way they drive around MMM infers that they are hard-pressed for time which possibly explains the legend. MMM thought he had seen it all till last week he saw one that simply said “Urgent”. MMM had a pleasant afternoon imagining what could have been the nature of the urgent call.

Short and Snappy 1st May 2009

Lay of the Madras Minstrel

 

Those of you who look on Madras Musings with a fatherly eye (and a catty wag once told the Man from Madras Musings that grandfatherly would be more appropriate as we in MM talk of matters long gone and of a way of life long past. But let us leave that aside, for as we say in this our city – we are like that only), will not be happy to know that the magazine you love has been on auto pilot in the last two weeks. The Chief is away and as for MMM, he too has been travelling far and wide. He has voluntarily banished himself from that sceptred isle – Chennai to be precise and when he receives a nasty missive from the Chief that the next issue is due and could we have the column asap (the chief is into all kinds of modern expressions) and not forget our honour bound duties while we go gadding about the globe, MMM is at a loss for words. Now that may not be so bad a thing according to MMM’s detractors of whom he has not a few, but then, MMM may be down but not out. And so, from a land far away, as MMM looks at Chennai and wonders what to write about, he delves into the recesses of his mind for topics that have not been covered in the issues of the recent past – bad English (no, that was done), traffic (that can wait, it can be used as a filler anytime imagination really runs dry)… Panic sets in and the traffic situation has almost been taken up, when inspiration strikes. And so…

 

The Speed Breakers of Chennai

 

As the country goes in for elections, the greatest exercise in the whole world, democracy is in the air. While editors write columns and columns on it (no, not you Chief, something on the Heritage Act would be more your line), talk shows talk on it and politicians prattle on, not one person has really thought of that one symbol of complete democracy – the Speed Breaker in Chennai. In case you are thinking that the Man from Madras Musings has gone mad, let MMM assure you that he has not. For MMM has his feet on the ground, quite close to the speed breakers in fact. Have you ever reflected on how no two speed breakers in Chennai are alike? Such freedom is given to those who erect these sacred mounds over which we sacrifice our vehicles, that in MMM’s view, it is a perfect example of democracy – freedom, freedom from constraints, from rules, from regulations- in short, sheer bliss.

 

There are various types of speed breakers. The first is the rumble, which starts off in life as a series of risers running across the road. When you go over it, your vehicle simulates a ship of sorts for it lurches forward and then leans backward alternately before driving clear of all the rumbles. Over time, these rumbles are tarred over repeatedly, thereby almost vanishing from sight. But as you go over them, variations in height remain, the movements become less jerky and you can be pardoned for imagining that a mild earthquake is on. Don’t believe MMM? Try what remains of the rumbles opposite Agurchund Mansions on Mount Road.

 

The second is the Himalaya. This has one mound but has no luminescent paint. You know you have reached it only when your vehicle’s bumper has hit it or a significant part of your chassis has been scraped off by the peak over which you are negotiating. When newly laid out, this has signboards on both sides and bright bands of paint to warn you of the approaching bump. But the signboard soon makes way for a political party’s flag post and as for the paint, which brand can stand the wear of so many vehicles going over it? Doesn’t our Corporation have better things to do than paint these over repeatedly? The Himalaya is a generic type and the only standard governing it is that no height limits are stipulated. It can be as low as a few inches in height and can rise up to a foot and more.  There is an interesting variant to this one. The Corporation, or the Police or whoever it is who paints signs on the roads, have at places painted the pedestrian crossings on top of the speed breaker. MMM wonders if you are expected to lean right or left of centre or remain erect while you walk over this.

 

The twin- This makes its appearance in twos around schools and colleges. The schools have them to prevent parents from massacring all those around when they rush to school late and try to make up for lost time by driving amuck. It exists around colleges to ensure students don’t drive rashly. Here again there is no standard as to the distance between two speed-breakers. If a school or college has three gates, not all of them have to have it. Also the speed-breakers exist only outside a few privileged institutions and not all.

 

The citizen’s initiative – This one exists just about anywhere. You can have one just outside your house if you want. You can have two. Three maybe in case you feel it is better. You can also liberally strew these across your entire road. There are so many side roads with these speed-breakers, all most unnecessarily positioned in close proximity.

 

MMM will not be surprised if we soon have designer speed-breakers. Why not a step speed breaker inspired by the great stepped pyramid of Egypt. And why not a wedge shaped one with its top ending in a sharp point? Cars can reach the top and dangle from there in a state of equilibrium till someone comes and gives the vehicle a friendly push.

 

Political Parties on best behaviour

 

Ahhh! The electoral code of conduct is in place. No posters on walls. No graffiti. No cut outs. No banners. All political meetings wind up by 10.00 pm. In short God’s in his heaven and all is right with the world. The Man from Madras Musings may be pardoned for saying that it is his earnest wish that the electoral code of conduct be always in place. No, he does not mean an election every morning, but if only this model behaviour could be adopted by all parties for all time to come, Chennai would be a better place to live in.

 

Fishing for trouble

 

As is always his habit before leaving for the great open spaces (also referred to as ‘the foreign’ or ‘the abroads’ in some circles), the Man from Madras Musings went to the Kapali temple in Mylapore. And this time he did so with hands held to his nostrils. The fish in the tank had died in their thousands and the smell was awful. Various reasons have been given for the sudden death. Firecrackers were burst from inside the tank during the float festival causing release of toxins, people have been overfeeding the fish, the plastic waste in the tank, (every devotee assumes it is a religious duty to throw the empty plastic bags into the water after feeding the fish), the heat etc, have all been given out as reasons. MMM notices only one common factor in all but the last reason. The fish can in no way be blamed. It is we, the people, who are the principal causes behind such ecological disasters. When will we wake up and realise that the Gods do not have to be pleased at the expense of the fish or our environment?

 

Tailpiece

 

Seen in a Chennai newspaper headline: “The incident looks like a wake up call for hoteliers to buckle up” Now is that a buckle down or a buck up?

Short and Snappy April 1st

Somehow I had forgotten to upload this

 

English as she is spoken

 

The Man from Madras Musings has a fairly roving commission as those of you who read his column regularly would have guessed by now. Like Puck, he flits hither and thither. And all the while he keeps gathering information for this column. And so it was that MMM found himself recently ensconced in a seminar on some software or the other. “’Ow does ‘e handle it?” asked the smiling and confident speaker as he, in the process of singing the virtues of his software asked a rhetorical question about a much harassed executive who does not use this product. And then he answered the question himself, as confident as ever. “He cannot able to handle it,” he said. MMM too, could not..er..able to handle it. But there was more to follow. “That is the worriest thing,” said the speaker. “And,” he concluded with a flourish, “in not using this tool, the manager made the blunder mistake of his life.” MMM did not know about the manager, but if there was “blunder mistake” committed, it was by MMM in attending this seminar and getting a earful of English. Now before MMM’s Tamil loving friends label him an apologist for the British Raj and call for his removal from the post of roving dogsbody at MM (MMM can picture the hysteria building up – burning of effigies, protests, human chains, one day fasts, token fasts, fasts unto death and finally a walk out in the legislature), let MMM assure them that he is all for purity in any language. Let them not commit a blunder mistake in judging MMM.

 

But that was not all. That very afternoon MMM was at a shop that sold bathroom fittings. MMM asked for a selection of items and a very confident shop assistant came forward. “Myself Miss XYZ” said the beaming child. Having identified what MMM wanted she then did a quick calculation and presented it to MMM. Having reacted to it as though his hand had been bitten by a tap and he had been hit on the head with a towel rail, MMM, in Tamil, asked the girl to remove a few of the items from the list. After all, who needs Jacuzzi fittings in Chennai when we should consider ourselves lucky to have water from a tap? “I cutted this out” said the girl. MMM once again in Tamil asked for an item to be added to the list. “I putted that it in” said the beaming lass. MMM gave up. No doubt she had been told by her boss to speak only in English to customers. Communicate in English, he must have said, or you will be committing a blunder mistake. But MMM cannot able to appreciate such English.

 

Confiding about the imminent demise of English to a friend MMM was delighted to hear this story. The friend was recruiting girls who would be in the business tele-marketing and they had all arrived at his office. His assistant came in and in a stentorian voice announced that “all the call girls had come for him to interview and make his selection!”  Now that is the mother of all blunder mistakes. MMM wonders how his friend could be able to handle it.

 

Attached toilets

 

Although young journalists often refer to him in avuncular terms, the Man from Madras Musings is not all that old. But he remembers a time in the not so distant past when toilets were always at a respectable distance from the principal rooms in a residence or office. But such is the obsession (or should MMM say attachment?) to toilets and baths and the necessity to have them abutting the bedrooms or office chamber that MMM can be pardoned to assume that most people in Chennai have bowel incontinence. MMM hears of a house-owner with a bungalow built in the 1950s who has been desperate to let it out on rent, only to have most prospective tenants reject it on the grounds that there are no toilets attached. MMM also finds the other negatives listed against old buildings quite amusing and here are a few samples:

 

1. Too big (now is it not correct to assume that a certain amount of living space is necessary for any individual?)

 

1. Too many doors and windows (is Chennai not a city where you need cross ventilation and would you not like to use plenty of natural sunlight?)

 

1. Requires upkeep and maintenance (is that not something that all residences and offices need? And does not the maintenance budget of a modern flat equal that of an old building?)

 

1. Bathrooms and toilets are too far away.

 

And so we come back to the same point. MMM blames it all on the television culture wherein people are trained to answer calls of nature during commercial breaks. This naturally necessitates having a toilet close by. Though what is there in television serials that demands complete attention and concentration MMM is unable to fathom. The stories never move beyond a few inches and even if you spent a whole month away from them, you can pick up the threads in a few seconds. That is, if the actors playing the principal characters have not quit and a new cast has not taken their place. In which case you need a few more minutes.

 

To get back to the bathrooms and toilets, the obsession to have them as close as possible (stopping short of walking around with one of them attached to the person) has resulted in many old buildings being “remodeled” to include them at all odd spots. These then leak all over the place, causing seepage and thereby more damage to the building. If only we could come to accept that toilets need to be at some distance. But in a city where people relieve themselves at all places and at all times, such an attitude may be too much to expect.

 

Going back to school

 

The Man from Madras Musings assumed that there were few professions in the world where you were unfortunate enough to write examinations all through your life. But he understands from some of his friends that being a parent is enough. Come examination time and fathers and mothers of school going children are studying as much as if not more than their children. A father recently complained to MMM that he finds the going tough and while seventh standard was well within his reach, eighth has had him nonplussed. He shudders at the thought of higher education and hopes that he would not have to once again go through engineering if and when his children take to that discipline. “Courage!” said MMM. “What if it were medicine?” The father was not consoled. He feared that in the latter instance he would wind up as the guinea pig.

Short and Snappy April 15th 2009

Loudly calling the Lord 

The Man from Madras Musings is as religious as they come and when young was taught that religion was a matter of personal faith and choice. And, therefore, if you felt like praying, it was best done within yourself. But these are changing times and MMM realises that in today’s environment just about everyone, irrespective of religion, caste, creed or sex (and we are truly secular here) wants to be as loud as possible when it comes to calling out to the Lord (or Lady, for who knows?). And what better way to do this than by using modern technology? 

Take the cell-phone for instance. The other day, MMM called someone and he almost rang off, for on connecting the first thing he heard was an automated voice in the most affected Tamil telling him that if he liked the song that he was about to hear, it was his for the payment of a small fee, or words to that effect. Curiosity made MMM hold on and what should come on but a Sanskrit hymn! By which time the person whom MMM had called answered the phone and that was that. On asking about his choice of ring tone (for that, MMM understands, is the correct term), MMM’s interlocutor said that he wanted to spread the good message around and so he had selected it. Did the package include the most affected voice (rather ironically in advertising parlance this is called the Voice of God), a kind of voice which you would associate with film song programmes on television where viewers call in for their favourite numbers? About that MMM’s friend had no clue. But then who said that the path to God(dess) was easy? If you want the hymn, you also get the affected announcer. MMM believes that the correct term is “free add-on package”. 

Leave aside the cell-phone. What about the buildings associated with religion? MMM (for here again we are secular) includes all types of religious buildings of every religion, sect, subsect and sub-subsect in this. All of them sport public address systems which blare prayers, songs and speeches at all times. And the smaller the structure, the larger its public address system. Those who live around these shrines have no choice but to begin, live through and end their day to music, such as it is. But then, have you reflected? High decibels mean high blood pressure and, therefore, are you not already on your way to God(dess)? One way or another?  

And sometimes (or very often), the songs being played on the PA system are not necessarily religious. Having run out of its stock of devotional numbers, a shrine close to MMM’s residence simply connected to an FM station and the divinity inside the shrine was entertained to songs of a wide variety – love, lust, joy, sorrow, death and one even on the virtues of drinking (as extolled by a lovelorn hero- Health Ministry to please note) etc. And so the neighbourhood was entertained. 

MMM wonders if a model code of conduct could be brought into effect like the Election Code which regulates the use of such public address systems by religious institutions. And unlike the election code, the one for religion ought to be in place at all times, not once in five years. But given our country where laws abound but implementation is virtually nonexistent, MMM is not very sanguine about such rules being followed. 

The inside of the shrines are not free from noisy excrescences either. You have recorded hymns, chants and repeats of certain syllables ad nauseam. Whenever MMM goes to pray at such shrines, he gets a kind of nervous twitch every time the syllable is uttered, for he gets all keyed up waiting for the repeat of the same thing. He can focus on nothing else. 

And lastly you have the horror of horrors. This is an automatic bell chiming, drum beating arrangement which is tucked away in some recess in the shrine and becomes operative on the pressing of switch. On doing so it goes thud thud clang-thud thud clang-thud thud clang continuously. MMM had bitten his tongue violently on occasion and suffered palpitations. The first time MMM heard it, he made a brave search for the contraption and found it in a loft in the shrine and below it, inscribed in large letters, was the name of the donor. MMM was surprised that such a man was allowed to remain at large and what’s more would want to take credit for perpetrating such horrific punishment on mankind. In our city, it would appear that those who wish to worship in peace and quiet are a minority (again this term does not mean any individual community, but only denotes a small group of people who are not, er, in a majority).

Homes for the Lord 

The Man from Madras Musings is aware that wayside shrines (once again of all religions) are an accepted part of life in this, our city. And the tendency to build a particular type of shrine at the intersection of three roads has been a part of our psyche for long. Such shrines are meant to ward off evil  and MMM is prepared to live with that. What really gets MMM’s goat (and here again, MMM would like to point out that he is a vegetarian) is that these shrines soon or later acquire what may loosely be termed a parish of sorts (once again, let MMM point out here that we are secular and the term is only being used as describing a congregation of the faithful) and the members of the parish (see clarification above on what this term means) become ambitious. They feel that their God(dess)/deity/totem or whatever should not be located beneath a mere tree, open to the elements. So what they do is to build a shrine. To begin with, the shrine is small and occupies a part of the pavement. Then, rather like the camel and the Arab, the shrine slowly expands. It acquires a granite platform, a spire/dome/tower and soon the space for pedestrians has vanished, crushed under the ambitious feet of the faithful. Soon it is time for the tree to call it quits, for who can tolerate bird droppings on the holiest of the holies? And so the tree is removed and the spire/dome/tower grows taller. Shortly after this it becomes regular practice to block off the street for festivals connected with the deity/holy personage worshipped there. From here to a public address system that calls (or drives away) the faithful is but the next step. And before you know it, the area is cordoned off for VIPS to visit the place. All this goes on until, many years later, the Corporation wakes up suddenly and realises that the shrine is on poromboke land. There are calls for demolition, counter calls for maintaining status quo and, in short, a good time is had by all. And then, and if and only if, as MMM heard a tutor say during the only computer training class he attended, there is a political will, the shrine vanishes, deeply mourned by the parish (congregation of the faithful).  

Tailpiece 

The Government is taking its job of fixing signboards and providing information on how to access various localities very seriously. But is it correct to have a sign painted on a subway on Mount Road that shows Parry’s Corner to the left and (hold your breath) Tiruchchirappalli on the right?