Desperation in the double-decker train

The much-touted double-decker train arrived at the platform. There was a frisson of excitement among the waiting throng. Out came the cell phones to take pictures and upload on Facebook, Twitter and other social sites. Railway officials and porters posed against the coaches. The Man from Madras Musings then joined the waiting passengers to board the train.

Once inside, MMM located his seat only to realise that someone else was already occupying it. Or, at least, it appeared to be so. In order to accommodate double the usual quota of passengers, the railways in their wisdom had decided to halve the space for each of the seats. The passenger who was occupying MMM’s place was actually in the neighbouring seat but being a gentleman of full habit, as the expression is (in other words, plain obese), he had spread himself on to MMM’s space also. There was very little MMM could do other than squeeze himself into a crevice of sorts besides the giant.

The authorities being the epitome of thrift had also apparently decided to cut the airconditioning capacity by half. What with the heat without and the heat within and the friction caused by His Heaviness in the neighbouring seat, MMM soon realised what it was to commit suttee. The situation improved somewhat once the double-decker moved, but it was very marginal.

Once the train was in motion, MMM’s co-passengers resorted to what most of our compatriots do on train. Several tried making phone calls to tell their ‘near and dear’ (to go with the expression often used in invitation cards) that they were on the double-decker. But the signal being weak, they decided to make up by exercising their vocal cords to the fullest. Added to this was the steady din of the vendors carrying food to all the compartments. MMM’s neighbour snored raucously, his head lolling on MMM’s shoulder.

Unlike the Shatabdi (which was a haven of peace until some sick mind decided to install television sets in each coach), where the fare includes food which is served at fixed times, the double-decker sells food from its pantry car and this is done throughout the journey. There were some passengers who had decided to sample everything that was on offer. The airconditioning in the train being what it was, there was soon a strong smell of stale food in the coaches. It clung to the clothes and multiplied itself into a potent force. The gourmands added to the odours by letting off various appreciative vapours.

So much of food meant the problem of waste was just around the corner. Trash bins were soon bursting at the seams. The vestibules separating the coaches became extensions of the trash bins. Those who needed to use the toilets (and there were many, what with the unending browsing and sluicing) had to step over leftovers, food wrappers, paper plates and cups. And as for the toilets, imagine having just four in coaches that were seating 120! They became unusable after the first couple of hours. And when you consider the way in which our brethren pour water all over the place when they perform what are known as ablutions, MMM has pretty much said it all.

MMM had to get off midway. When he reached the door it was only to find the way barred by trays that had once borne food. An apologetic attendant explained that there was no other space to store them. They did not think anyone was getting off midway. What with the halt at MMM’s station being just for a minute, MMM had to dash through the vestibule, past overflowing toilets and rubbish bins and reach the door of the next compartment, which was fortunately accessible. MMM was informed by reliable sources that by the time the train reached Bangalore, most of the passengers had experienced something akin to the Black Hole of Calcutta.

Footfalls in City Malls

he Man from Madras Musings is not much of a mall rat but he cannot say he avoids them. And when he visits them, he does take to musing on malls. What always impresses MMM is the vast number of people in these places, walking about the corridors, going up and down the escalators and, sometimes, the stairways as well. They remind MMM of railway­stations. But looking inside the shops themselves, MMM cannot but help notice that the silence is more like as what could be expected in a church. And the atmosphere is akin to a church hosting a funeral service.

MMM made bold to ask a shopkeeper or two about business and the answer was that it was dull. Then what of the footfalls, asked MMM. Oh, that; they all come to enjoy the air-conditioning, said one of the disgruntled storeowners. At most, some go to the theatres and a few others to the food court. But the vast majority prefers to walk up and down the common areas. MMM ought to wait till it was time for the daily power cut, said one shopkeeper rather disgustedly, and then MMM could see consumer behaviour at its best. And so MMM tarried a while.

At the stroke of the appointed hour, there was a marked increase in the number of people in the mall. And they did not look like shoppers. Apparently they were all from the residences and offices in the neighbourhood, at least those that did not have generators or inverters. A couple of grandmothers settled down comfortably on a bench, having let loose several children to play on the escalators. Men with laptops moved into a coffee shop and occupied a table. Those behind the counter showed no enthusiasm. On enquiring, MMM found that the customers ordered the cheapest items on the menu, shared it among themselves, and sat at the place for a full two hours.

But surely things ought to improve by evening, thought MMM. But that was not the case, said the shopkeepers. For, the walking brigade then takes over. What with there being no footpaths or walking spaces in the city, several evening walkers have turned to the interiors of malls for their constitutionals. The watch-and-ward staff does recognise these regulars but can do nothing about it for, after all, malls are public places and, who knows, one of the walkers could buy a thing or two. Somehow MMM is more in sympathy with these walkers than with the shopkeepers.

So, are malls on the way out? Not so, as MMM learns. There are giant variants coming up in the suburbs, the kinds where a person can spend an entire day without realising it. Those in the neighbourhood are hoping that these will be complete before the schools close for the summer. What better place than a mall for your child to spend its vacation in? Plenty of space, free lighting and air-conditioning – and complete security as well. Chennai has given the mall a new meaning though it is not the same as what the investors and tenants envisaged.

Voice from the past

Among the Chief’s favourite maxims is one on how before the British, there was no Madras or, for that matter, Chennai. These colonial masters left behind several traditions that continue, despite the six decades and more since they left us to our fates. Among these are social organisations, named after animals, wheels, those who work with brick and mortar and others. Most of these have their annual conventions in summer. This too is a British tradition, harking to Old Blighty itself, where the weather is warm and comfortable during the summer months, thereby facilitating meetings.

Out here, these meetings happen in summer too, at temperatures that enable you to fry eggs on sidewalks (if they exist that is – and The Man from Madras Musings refers to the sidewalks and not the eggs, of which Chennai has plenty). What’s more, there is also a dress code – suit and tie as worn during garden parties at Buckingham Palace. Enough to make you feel that you are living inside a pressure cooker.

Among those who get invited to such do’s is MMM and on these occasions he suffers agonies. He perspires in every pore and resembles more a wet sponge than a human being. And there are occasions when MMM has to make speeches as well, and be the life and soul of the congregation.

In the course of a middle-aged life, MMM has battled many venues – including some where microphones howl, others where they don’t work and yet others where the power fails necessitating MMM reading from his notes by candlelight. These MMM takes in his stride. But what he objects to most are venues with echoes.

He was saddled with one not long ago and it was a historic venue. The space that had become an enclosed venue had once been a pleasant courtyard, open to the skies. A well-meaning but misguided philanthropist had covered this, to make it an auditorium, without worrying about the echo. “Today we welcome Mr MMMMMMMMMM”, said the host and with a sinking feeling MMM realised that he was up against it, sorry, ititititit. The audience seating was arranged in five rows, one behind the other. All of them were straining to hear what MMM was saying-ing-ing-ing. And each time MMM cracked a joke, it was unnerving to hear the first row laugh immediately, the second a short while thereafter and then the third row, each reacting as and when the sound waves reached them. The last two rows laughed all the while. Not hearing a thing, they decided to be polite and laugh continuously, thereby tactfully encouraging the speaker.

Someone then suggested that the mikes be switched off. It was expected of MMM that he shout at his loudest and this MMM did thereafter, only to have the rear rows complain then that they heard nothing and could only see MMM’s gesticulations. And so the mikes were turned on once again and MMM was back to listening to his own voice of which some say he is inordinately fond.

The meeting wound to a close as scheduled and the audience was still clapping even as MMM left. Or so it seemed to him.

The quality of road signs

The Man from Madras Musings is no nitpicker, but he is not pleased by what he sees. MMM alludes to the street names that are now being painted in the old style on walls. For a brief while, we had large metal signboards with the thoroughfare’s name in luminescent paint on a blue background and those were of a good standard. But what one administration proposes, another disposes and so the blue boards were abandoned after a good start. We are now back to the old ways.

But what is appalling is the lack of quality in these wall signs. MMM notices that whoever is in charge of these things has not bothered to check spellings – and that includes Tamil and English. There have consequently been several amusing errors that have provided plenty of grist to this column’s mill and for that MMM is eternally grateful. These have pleased the Chief and that makes MMM happy. But on a larger level, these signs are a blot on the landscape. The spelling mistakes apart, there is also no control on the lettering style, size and spacing.

The contracts appear to be awarded to just about anyone who can wield a paintbrush or two. Consequently, some of the signs are mere scrawls that a two-year old could do better. There is also no standard as to the way the signs are positioned. Some are high up on walls, while others are at foot level. And then the dimensions of the panel are also left to the painter’s imagination if he/she can claim to have that. Some are square, others rectangular and some are so thin and long that they remind you of what Euclid said of a line being all length and no width.

Lastly, some are just in Tamil. Given that we now have a sizeable expatriate population as also a good representation of people from other parts of India who may not know the lingua franca, this does not look like a great idea.

At the risk of offending the powers-that-be, MMM has to say that he preferred the blue boards. They were at eye level, stood out and, most importantly, shone in the dark. When you get to MMM’s age, the last aspect becomes particularly important. The wall signs on the other hand are subject to plenty of abuse. Road side stalls can obscure them, posters can cover them and, as most often, they can be defaced – the last by that dedicated band of vandals that our city specialises in, which ensures that no public facility survives intact.

Not that the blue boards have fared any better. The administration having changed, these are no longer protected. Some are standing on one leg, others have simply vanished and some of those that survive have become convenient places for posters to be pasted on. There is one particular signboard on a route that MMM frequents, which has become a location for people to dry clothes on. So much for civic amenities.

A Day at the Property Registrar’s

The Man from Madras Musings is informed that the busiest registrar offices are those in the outskirts of the city.

Those of you who have been MMM’s faithful followers (and may your tribe increase) will recollect his having visited quite a few of them. There was the place where a pig, a goat and a monkey ran the establishment and then there was the other place where registration of documents was more a question of rude physical strength than anything else. You would not be far wrong in assuming that MMM had seen them all.

But you would be surprised! Life is, after all, a continuous learning process and why should registration offices be any different? Besides, MMM must admit, he does have a morbid fancy for these places. If not anything else, they have never failed him when it comes to providing him with 800 words of mirth for this column. They are friends in need, indeed.

Which is why when his good lady informed him one fine morning that he would be required to accompany her on a day’s outing to a registration office, MMM readily agreed. In any case, what with her eye like Mars, which threatens and commands, MMM was hardly likely to have said he was occupied elsewhere. The one that MMM and lady were going to was apparently the busiest in all suburbia and MMM went with visions of a happening place from where ants could have taken their lessons.

Reaching the place after a fairly bumpy journey, MMM’s good lady busied herself with agents and assistants while MMM was left to his own devices until called forth to produce his thumb, rub it in ink and then affix an impression of it on documents of which he knew nothing about. He may as well have detached his thumb and sent it with the good lady. Something in the way she looks on these occasions makes MMM feel that she too has long come to the same conclusion but just does not clothe the idea in words or, more importantly, action.

But back to the registration office. For all its famed volume and value of transactions, this was no different from the ones MMM had seen earlier. Squalor was its theme. It was an early 20th Century construction, all Madras terrace and Mangalore tiles. In its time it must have been a pretty and spacious office, with a large garden surrounding it. Succeeding incumbents had clearly given full vent to their architectural (and vandalising) skills. The building had broken into a rash of tumour-like outgrowths, each uglier than the other. As a consequence, no natural ventilation of any kind was possible. As for light, the only variety was the kind obtained by pressing a switch. The roof was clearly held by a strong network of cobwebs.

The big man was out for lunch and so MMM and lady were directed to the shade of a tree. A short while thereafter, the boss arrived and belched his satisfaction at the victuals and viands he had partaken of. The place was in business once again.

MMM and lady were ushered in to the presence, identifications of documents were produced, and MMM got busy flexing his thumb, readying it for the big moment. Just then the power failed. This was a scheduled power cut, MMM was told, and he was asked not to worry. MMM understood that this meant some back-up would come into its own and provide light. But that was not the case.

“Let there be light,” bellowed the top honcho and there was light. This was by way of a torchlight pressed into the boss’ hand by an attendant. Battery back-up was available as evinced by a grime covered inverter connected to several cobweb covered batteries in a corner. These worked only when the mains had power. Not that this daunted the officer. He got busy flashing the torch at the documents. He needed to verify that MMM and good lady were indeed those they claimed to be. For this he looked at the identification documents and then flashed his light on the faces of MMM and lady. Now, bright light always makes MMM close his eyes and each time the beam made its way to MMM this happened. The registration boss was not pleased. He wondered why when Madam could do it, Sir could not. MMM did not reply, for such officers are touchy beings. He merely endeavoured to keep his eyes open. After a while the man behind the torch declared himself convinced. MMM and good lady were asked to go to a second room, to produce thumbs and be done with it.

A large crowd was waiting patiently there, as could be seen from the dim silhouettes. It was also evident that everyone had his thumbs on the go. But there was no action. What held it all up was the lack of light. Evidently, the Government allows only one torch light for each registration office and if it was in working condition, which was seldom, it was invariably cornered by the man in the corner office, so to speak. The rest had to wait. And wait they did patiently.

But MMM’s luck was in. The top boss was called away for some meeting with bosses who were further up, impossible though that may seem. He thoughtfully left the torch behind. Matters then proceeded briskly. Thumb after thumb was produced, dipped in ink, affixed on paper and then given a wet tissue with which to wipe off the ink. All along, in a kind of litany, the man who handled the thumbs kept instructing everyone in general that the thumb had to be “left free” if its impression was to be faithfully recorded on paper.

When it came to MMM’s turn, he (MMM) tried being as relaxed as possible. But that was a tall order in a darkened room with thousands of brethren and, above all, MMM’s good lady watching. MMM’s thumb had a sharp attack of stage fright. It would not be free and insisted on clinging to the parent hand. But the chief thumb affixer knew his business. He must have seen hundreds, if not thousands, of thumbs in his time. Having grasped MMM’s thumb firmly, he went about his business, releasing MMM and thumb only after what looked like the shadow of a hammerhead had been fixed on the paper. He then clicked his tongue to indicate that he had seen better thumbs. But that was nothing to go by. MMM noticed that all previous registrations looked like hammerheads too.

This write-up appeared under the Short and Snappy Column of Madras Musings dated 1st April 2013

Watergate – Chennai istyle

How is it at your place? At The Man from Madras Musings’ water is still available on tap. And judging by the way it is, it appears that MMM, his good lady and the rest of the brood will be able to tide over the next few months. But not so the residents of a particular locality which, though upmarket, has the (mis)fortune of being along a road to power. By that MMM means it is a thoroughfare that falls in the route of the Assembly/Secretariat, no matter where that is, and the same route is used by the Numero Uno, no matter who that is.

Consequently MMM learns, no digging of any kind is allowed on that particular road, except for the continual digging that happens at the periphery to erect cutouts and banners. No road work, no inspection of drains and no cable laying of any kind is permitted, year after year, for several years now. None of this really mattered to anyone – drains still functioned after a fashion, the road was as good as any, and as for cables, overhead lines did the trick. But when water stopped, everyone was up in arms. Representations were made and arms twisted but getting permission for a proper dig was impossible. They may as well have been asking for digging up the Fort.

Eventually, after considerable cajoling and what have you, someone relented somewhere. Digging can happen, pronounced a panjandrum, but between 2.00 and 4.00 a.m. only. Within those two hours, the road had to be broken, the errant pipe detected, corrected and closed. This was easier said than done. On the appointed night, or in the wee hours of that morning, the residents were to be found in large numbers, but of the diggers there were none. The supervisor pleaded helplessness. Eventually, two of them appeared. They wove an unsteady route to the spot where the dig was to commence and gave a cursory scratch or two. Someone in the crowd was unwise enough to remark that this way the work would never get done. That was that. The stars took umbrage and downed tools. By the time they were cajoled into working again, the deadline had passed.

Permission was once again applied for and the work continued in slow stages, with the vestiges of the dig being carefully obliterated each morning so that royal progress could remain triumphant and unimpeded. The line was finally detected. It was lowered in depth and closed. Next morning, residents of a neighbouring colony rejoiced. Water had come to them after years. No more dealing with tankers they declared. But, this was not the set of residents who had petitioned for the repair in the first place. They remained as dry as a State with prohibition. On petitioning for water once again, they were told that their water pipe could not be detected. And no, there are no drawings or markings for identification. What did they think this place was? New York?

Dogged pursuit, however, paid off. The earth was opened yet again. This time the police did not help in cordoning off the area. Society ladies manned the road and diverted traffic at 3.00 am while the errant pipe was detected and corrected. All was well that ended well. But MMM cannot help reflecting that it is no wonder that everyone in Chennai looks increasingly haggard these days.

Birthday Season

The Man from Madras Musings notes that everyone is celebrating. From the highest in the land downward. February-March is the time when powers-that-be and powers-that-have-been both celebrate birthdays and the faithful make sure that these are gala events. Mass weddings are the norm with the age of the celebrities being celebrated dictating the number of couples being wedded. More often than not, the celebrated did not come to the events, but the celebrants made sure that the celebrations went on without the absence being felt.

MMM attended them all. Not that he was invited. But all the events took place at a venue close, rather much too close, to MMM. No matter that our State politics is such that only one party attends the Assembly at any given point of time, they celebrated their birthday parties at the same venue, though not on the same date. The venue in question is a vast open-air location, which was historically meant for young men to develop their physique, oratory and clean healthy habits. But now it is used for events where young men flaunt their physique by way of security to leaders, the latter flaunting their oratorical skills. As for clean healthy habits, let us say that those are good in theory and something everyone must aim to have but not really strive towards.

The mass weddings must have been exceedingly popular given the huge number of our populace that descended at the venue. Crackers were burst, drums were beaten, dancers danced, cheerleaders cheered, sloganeers shouted and above all, the speakers spoke. MMM’s ears are still recovering. Those who laughed all the way to the bank were those who hired out the venue, put up the stage and other accompaniments and supplied what had to be supplied. Strangely enough, MMM noticed, the suppliers of the accoutrements for the event were common to celebrants of all hues. And after the event, those who had to clean up were also common as were those who lived in the neighbourhood and suffered while the event was in progress. Truly we are a united nation.

There was another aspect in which everyone was united – the absence of power cuts. Be it the Regina Imperatrix’s birthday or that of the heir (now) apparent of the opposition, the powers that be ensured power was supplied without interruption at least as long as the events went on.

But leaving that aside, MMM would like to point out that Madras Musings is shortly to have a birthday. After all, every magazine in the country begins a new volume on 1st April and MM is no exception. And so why should the Chief not loosen the purse strings and hire this venue? MMM is certain that mass weddings can also be organised. As for crackers and the rest, they can be hired for just about any event and so why not this one? The only element that cannot be taken for granted is uninterrupted power supply. MM is not all that powerful you know.

Short and Snappy dated 16th February 2013

The Bird of Oz

Emus wandering near RA Puram

The Man from Madras Musings couldn’t believe his eyes. The whole thing reminded him of the nursery rhyme, which if you recollect went this way:

When Mary had a little lamb
The Doctor was surprised
But when Old MacDonald had a farm
He couldn’t believe his eyes

MMM was more or less in the position of the doctor, for walking in front of him, on a busy thoroughfare of this other Eden, viz our Madras that is Chennai, was a pair of emus (or are they Emi? But since that reminds MMM of Equal Monthly Instalments and his borrowings, MMM will refer to them as emus). What these flightless birds from Down Under were doing here and how did they come down to the city (they could have hardly flown and walking all the way is out of question) were mysteries that MMM was not equal to solving. Had the Chief, who is forever buzzing off to Oz, coming back and writing books, giving talks and being the Wizard for all practical purposes brought in a couple of eggs, watched them hatch and then turned them out on to the streets? When confronted he denied it all hotly and asked rather testily as to whether he had the time to sit on eggs till they hatched.

Further enquiries revealed that rearing emus is now the in thing in this our land. Everyone, from aged grandmother to budding software engineer with some surplus cash is investing in emu, some on emi basis. Everyone short of Chief and MMM that is. Though why the Chief is not into it beats MMM, ‘coz he is that cosy to anything Aussie. But to get back to the matter of the emu. Apparently, emu (not to be confused with the ostrich) grows fat (rather like Indian software engineers) and lays eggs (also like Indian software engineers if you consider the number of dud softwares doing the rounds) for most of their lives. Every part of the emu is marketable, so the cognoscenti inform MMM, everything from toe to feather (unlike software engineers who may have toes but not marketable ones and definitely not feathers anyway, though several do feather their nests rather well.) There is another school of thought that claims that emu marketing is a scam of the first water and all that you are left with are unpaid emi.

Perhaps the owner of the two emus that MMM saw walking along was one of the latter school and had abandoned them to the roads of Chennai. What harm can a couple of extra vagrants do could be his view. Or perhaps he was out to get them fat on the cheap and so trained them to forage in garbage dumps, which is precisely what the two emu were doing. Shortly thereafter they also began tearing wall posters with their beaks and then chewing them up (the posters and not the beaks). The birds were evidently going local. Given their height they could easily reach the taller posters, the ones reserved for the pater, mater, frater, soror and the rest of our rival ruling clans. Other animals looked on with envy.

MMM decided to be cautious and so photographed the avian pair from a distance. He had read somewhere that the emu could be lethal with its legs. It was only much later that he realised that it was the ostrich that was known for the kick of death.

Animal Farm

Once inspired, the Man from Madras Musings is unstoppable and the emu have encouraged him no end. Do any of you readers rather like Old MacDonald realise that we now have an addition to our animal family? So far in Chennai we have seen cows, pigs, dogs, goats, horses and the occasional elephant. Now we have the emu. The bird will no doubt add its droppings to what is already a rich mixture of multifarious dungs including that of the human variety. And now motorists, who belong to the highest and most evolved category among animals that survive on roads, can begin working on how to incorporate the emu into the food chain. As to who will ultimately consume whom is a matter of conjecture. Will the emu teach the other animals a thing or two when it comes to traffic management? Only time will tell.

Talking about accidents involving animals, MMM is informed that while the dog is perhaps the most dangerous for it has a tendency to dart forward suddenly and get caught between the wheels, the pig spells economic disaster. Apparently, any vehicle dashed against by a pig is practically unsaleable according to Chennai tradition. The thing may as well be gifted to the pig for future use. MMM asked as to what would happen if the seller just kept silent about the attraction his vehicle had for pigs. That would never do. It was the recognised duty of the seller to inform the buyer that his vehicle was once in a relationship with a pig. In Chennai the truth is still spoken on occasion.

MMM’s favourite animal story is not from Chennai but from Kolkata where he once lived. And MMM can assure you it is a true story and was in all the papers when MMM was a (cherubic) child. The camel from a touring circus ran off one night and the trainer got on to an elephant to give it chase. This continued for quite some distance till the camel, tiring of it all, came to a halt beside a temple. The elephant soon caught up but was so excited at seeing the camel that it trumpeted. That stirred the camel like an egg whisk and off it went once more, with the elephant and rider in hot pursuit. Traffic came to a halt and most schools declared a holiday. The dromedary was eventually cornered by the tusker and brought home but the police was not amused. Chennai is relatively a tame place but MMM is quite hopeful that the emu will stir matters up.

Cattle class

That if you recollect was a term that once got a minister contemplating fresh matrimony into considerable acrimony and also probably negotiations on alimony. But what the Man from Madras Musings wishes to highlight is that cattle are back on Chennai roads, in quite large numbers. A very early Worship who is now being groomed for taking over as hereditary head of his establishment, rather as in a monastery, was dead against them. But his successors have taken a worshipful attitude as far as these animals are concerned, leaving them undisturbed. The emu has company.

Short and Snappy dated 1st February 2013

Putting our best foot forward

“Take them on foot,” thundered the Chief. The Man from Madras Musings had just informed him, for there are no secrets between master and serf, that he had been approached by a couple from overseas to take them on a tour of George Town. MMM added that GT being what it is, he would much prefer taking them in an airconditioned vehicle with a few pit stops. The Chief differed and felt that taking them on foot would be the best. Which is where all of you came in.

Chief and MMM worked out a compromise. We would go by vehicle and then walk wherever possible. And that was that. The Chief went back to his deep thoughts and MMM away to plan the tour. And so on a bright Sunday afternoon, when most of Chennai slept, at least that part of it which was not glued to TV sets, MMM and guests went off to George Town.

All was well to start with. There was hardly any traffic and for once the area around the High Court was free of defecators and defecation. MMM and the faithful went around King George’s statue, goggled at the boundary pillar, looked up at Dare House and so on, all the way down Old Jail Road. Madi Poonga was at its best and then we arrived at Mint Street. And it was here that MMM’s troubles began. There was no option but to get off the vehicle and trudge a certain distance as a significant portion of what was once road had now been dug up for one of those never-ending projects that our city is blessed with.

The first sight that greeted one and all was a man relieving himself. He had lifted up his lower garment to the highest possible level and there was no way that anyone blessed with eyes could escape noticing what can only be described as “all”. It was left to MMM and visitors to look suitably abashed. The man was in no way perturbed and continued with his business. After that, anything that MMM showed the visitors paled into insignificance. They nodded at the Mint, smiled at Pachaiyappa’s Building and mechanically progressed down Broadway. The aphasia ended only on entering Bunder Street.

“Who is in charge of the footpaths?” asked the lady of the couple. MMM wished he knew. As far as the eye could reach there was none and we were banking on our luck as we walked amidst cows, crowds and cars. Underfoot was a rich dry mixture – part hay, part packing material and part rotting vegetables. “Who is in charge of…” was the next but MMM did not allow them to finish. “Garbage? Cleared every day twice”, said MMM. “It is just that GT generates too much of it and so it accumulates fast.” Nobody looked convinced. The garbage around looked as though it was as old as Casa Verona or one of the other dubashes.

Coming out of Bunder Street, MMM turned the couple to the right. He was keen that they did not look left and was by then wishing that he had not waxed eloquent about the King George’s statue while rounding the curve. From the vehicle the statue was clearly visible but not its base which doubles duty as one of the largest open-air latrines in GT. But MMM had by then run out of luck. The couple wanted to be photographed next to His Royal Highness. And so off they went. As though in greeting they were met by a 21-bum salute. Some of the users were on their thrones and others were taking care of their crown jewels. The rest of the tour was completed in dead silence.

Paeans in praise

Each morning The Man from Madras Musings walks down a particular stretch. It makes his day. For pasted on the walls on both sides are the latest by way of prayer to the leaders of our land. The Second Lincoln collars the lion’s share, but Artiste, who clearly has done an about turn on the earlier stance of a poster-free city, also gets enough and more mention. Closely following Artiste are the artisans, by which MMM means the gen-next. Perhaps arti’sons’ would be more appropriate had it not been for an arty sister who also queers the pitch. Immediately thereafter come two father-and-son duos, the first going strong while the second is practically out to pasture, and that is not entirely inappropriate as they advocated eco-friendly measures apart from politico-friendly overtures for survival.

The contents of the posters are fairly uniform. Deification is the order of the day. But what impresses MMM is the treatment or variety involved. Some restrict themselves to just one adjective – O Gold, O Parent, O Local Language, etc. are some of the common terms of usage. There are some who go by the simple dictum of a picture being worth a thousand words and so depict the leader of their choice in a variety of postures, those kissing babies being the most preferred. A third variety thanks the leader for several things – Government and party appointments, unveiling of statues and attending family weddings. Sometimes they go too far, profusely thanking the leader when a baby is given birth to in their house.

MMM’s favourite is a man who every day puts up posters in praise of the mater familias. These feature the local Good Queen Bess followed by a couplet. “O thou who art verily holy/That some compete with you – what folly!” is one and MMM must say it fails considerably in translation. Another was structured as a missive from the local fort to the red one up north, advising the latter not to lose hope as Bess is on her way to redeem it from its sufferings. It’s a wonder that she has not yet smiled on this yearning poet and showered him with favours.

Walking down this poster corridor MMM realises that there is no dearth of talent in this land of ours. Be it design, writing or ideas, they are all nonpareil. But what is sad is that all this is being spent on sycophancy when it could be put to much better use in solving day-to-day and larger problems, and thus earn public gratitude.

Short and Snappy dated 16th Jan 2013

New Year resolutions

Now that the 1st of January, has gone by and the next one is a long way off, The Man from Madras Musings has begun charting out a wish list/resolution list for this year. This is not to be confused with the idealistic list made the 1st of January which had such quixotic resolutions as attempting to defy MMM’s good lady also known as She Who Must Be Obeyed. By the 15th of January reality sinks in and MMM sets out to plan things that are more achievable.

And this year MMM has put together a survivor’s list. By this he means a list that spells out all that MMM hopes to have in order to be able to move around in peace on Chennai’s roads. MMM has made attempts to navigate these as a pedestrian, as a public transport user and in small-and, later, medium-sized cars. Having achieved only partial success and a vast number of scratches and bruises (both on himself and the vehicles), MMM now sets out what is needed to emerge unscathed.

AN SUV: MMM had often wondered as to why these SPORTS Utility Vehicles keep careening about on the city’s roads. But then our city’s thoroughfares are arenas for the adventurous only and what better vehicle for them than the SUV. These are so large and go around at such great speeds that it is safest to be inside these vehicles.

A pennant/political flag on an SUV: Having an SUV alone is not enough. Without the pennant or flag, it is relatively infra-dig. Courageous and physically agile policemen are likely to stop traffic-violating SUVs that are sans this appurtenance. But once you have the pointed thingummy up- front, with a party flag flying, all is well.

Dark windows on an SUV that is embellished with a pennant/political flag: This is strictly against the law, but then if MMM does not cock-a-snook at the law, how can he display his clout? And how else can he get the policemen on the road to salute? MMM notices that the law-enforcers salute these vehicles even if the all important personality is not inside. And the faster these SUVs jump the signals, the more the salutes.

The letter G inscribed on the number plate of an SUV with a pennant/political flag and darkened windows: This is to ensure that apart from jumping signals, MMM can go anywhere without worrying about speed limits. By now, MMM also ought to have acquired a fierce-looking chauffeur who recognises only two components in the vehicle – the accelerator and the horn.

A swirling red-light on an SUV that has the letter G inscribed on its number plate and also has darkened windows and sports a pennant/political flag: This is a vital necessity. When these vehicles speed along, policemen do a double act. They salute and, at the same time, abuse all other law-abiding users of the road for being in the way. It is a tough act.

A convoy to accompany an SUV that has a swirling red light, the letter G inscribed on its number plate, has darkened windows and a pennant/political flag: The number of vehicles in the convoy should be such that they can cause traffic jams by themselves. The convoy will usually comprise vehicles of a brand that means emissary at court and will be bristling with gun-toting guards and antennae of various lengths, thickness and shapes. This usually is associated with the last word in security and, so, is generally denoted by the last letter. By now streets will be cleared for MMM to pass. What more could MMM ask for?

A powerless life

The Chief is breathing … MMM’s neck that for this is long overdue. And even as MMM bends … his PC trying to … it out. The TNEB has decided to lend a helping in the meanwhile, by causing a fluctuation … 5th minute thereby causing MMM’s computer to shut down each … as it is low on…. This obviously means that you, dear…have to fill in the blanks as…and imagine what it is that MMM is trying—say. When a complaint was lodged, MMM… assured that he was not alone and that this problem was common across the….

Which brings MMM to the main point. Considering that they religiously shut down power each month for a full day in all our areas by strict rotation, ostensibly for maintenance, how is it that the power supply is so bad when there is power supply? Are they maintaining themselves or their equipment when they have these maintenance shut-downs? MMM sincerely hopes it is the latter, but somehow thinks it is the former. After all, there is no other State in the country where power is turned off at the main for a full day on account of maintenance.

However, the general view in the mofussil is that MMM belongs to a privileged order for he has outages only for two hours in a day and, then, for a full day just once in a month. Apparently, out there in the outback, power is hardly ever there. Let them use candles, appears to be the prevalent attitude of the TNEB, now TANGEDCO.