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

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.

Short and Snappy dated 1st October 2012

Oh, for those four letters!

The Man from Madras Musings learns that heritage buildings in our city are a pretty depressed lot. And why not, for they have much to cavil about. But the latest development (always a wrong word when used in connection with a heritage building for it conjures up visions of multi-storied concrete and glass structures) has to do with the lavish attention, care and speed with which a couple of rounded structures, that have a four-letter palindrome as their prefix, are being ‘restored’ to their original glory.

MMM learns that late at night, when the city falls relatively silent, these structures whisper to each other and one such whispering session had them wishing that even if one-hundredth of the attention, care and speed had been focussed on them, they would have been better off. What has irked the heritage structures is that the two arches have even managed to bend flyover routes to ensure their continuance. That is something that the rest have not managed to do in the case of the Metrorail, which continues to dig deep into their innards.

It is also reliably learnt that all the heritage buildings in the city are willing to change their names by deed, poll or any other legally recognised method to include the same four-letter palindrome as a prefix. Thus we can have **** House, **** Public Hall, **** Insurance Building, **** Palace and so on. If only this could ensure some attention, including site visits by a leader identified with yet another four-letter palindrome, known for conducting all other site visits the e-way!

Apparently, it was left to the **** University building to knock some sense into this wishful session. The **** does not always ensure safety, it said. It cited the case of a **** Centenary Library in its neighbourhood which even now operates with the threat of conversion into a hospital hanging over its head.

The restoration of these four-star arches has strangely enough brought about unanimity between the Government and the Opposition. The leader who is out in the cold and who rejoices under the title of artiste (which did not prevent the demolition of five heritage structures in one fell swoop when artiste was in power) did not indulge in the usual criticisms beyond flaying the original decision to demolish the arches. To which the present incumbent replied sharply that artiste ought to know of administrative processes and if artiste thought that the demolition of arches was decided at the highest levels of power, artiste was indulging in some artistic licence. That has stymied artiste for the nonce, but MMM is strongly of the view that several more such sparring bouts are in the offing.

That said, MMM notes that the decision to save the two arches and “thereby our heritage” has come in for high praise from the party faithful. Posters were put up commending palindrome leader for saving the arches commemorating the earlier palindrome leader. The artiste party abstained from this. But then artiste party was against posters on arterial roads anyway.

Last heard, the arches are being restored at enormous costs. But then how does that matter when our heritage is at stake?

Dear departeds

What is also in season is a plethora of posters lamenting the passing away of various citizens of Chennai. It is the considered opinion of The Man from Madras Musings that printing and pasting such posters is a lamentable (pun fully intended) aspect of Chennai culture. Barely has a person gone to yonder blue than his relatives put out posters depicting two tearful eyes and the picture of the dear departed in the middle. Sometimes, to add variety there are also a couple of lit lamps though the significance of those lamps is beyond the simple comprehension of MMM.

These posters are also great levellers. The same design is used no matter whether the one who symbolically kicked the bucket is from the higher echelons of society or from the local slum. Just goes to show how democratic we are. But that is not the end of the story.

Encouraged by what can only be termed as popular demand, the posters are now being churned out for first, second and several more anniversaries as well. What MMM fails to understand is how or why such public displays are deemed to be respectful to those who passed away.

Cost of nature’s call

The Man from Madras Musings was recently away on an overseas visit and his travel itinerary included a land that, till not so long ago, had a rather vast empire on which the sun never set. Now things have changed. They are in vastly reduced circumstances which no doubt prompted the authorities to charge for the use of public toilets.

As MMM walked by, he could not help overhearing a loud lamentation in Tamil that it was preposterous that Rs. 25/50 (the equivalent of 30 Pence) was being charged for what would technically be termed a single in our city. To which the companion of the lamenter said, rather wistfully, that back home in Chennai a person could go about the business for free with a tree or a compound wall thrown in as a part of the complimentary service.

Tailpiece

These are difficult times and The Man from Madras Musings cannot write about even matters as simple as table manners before receiving an earful on the poor taste of it all. And so how would it be if MMM joked on matters medical? MMM shudders. But then how can he hide gems such as this message that states that the writer had an “engyoplaty with two stunts in the heart”? Haha, what!

Short and Snappy dated 16th September 2012

Morning calls & second opinions

The Man from Madras Musings does not know about your household but this he can say about his own – the hour between 8.00 and 9.00 each morning is one of hectic activity. Even those who rarely stir a limb at other times (and of this lot MMM is a leader of sorts) are goaded into activity and it is only by 9.00 am that the ‘all clear’ is blown.

But there are people who, it would appear, find time hanging heavy during this exact hour and then decide that MMM must also be faced with the same kind of ennui. And so why not call MMM, they decide, and discuss matters of pith and moment? Thus, you will find, if you ever crossed chez MMM at that particularly dangerous hour that, apart from the regular din of a household getting ready to face the day, the telephone will also be ringing to make it all the merrier. And 90 per cent of the time it will be for MMM with some caller wanting to ask some weighty question or the other.

These questions are of such urgency to the callers that in case the information is not immediately given, then dangerous things are likely to happen to them. Unfortunately, MMM’s good lady (also known as She Who Must Be Obeyed) and other family members are not of the same view. Take, for instance, the case of a caller who decided that 8.30 am, when action was at its peak, was the best time to call.

The phone rang and one of the younger and more irreverent members of the MMM family picked up the receiver and then, having covered the mouthpiece, announced that “yet another heritage crank” was on the line. Whereupon the good lady made a dash for it and MMM was most surprised to find pearls of wisdom falling from her mouth.

“Yes, it was at St Mary’s Church,” she said between gritted teeth.

“Yes, it is inside the Fort,” she continued in the same vein, all the while subjecting MMM to a death ray-like gaze.

“Yes, it can be and at any time,” she ended and banged the receiver down.

MMM applied for illumination. Apparently the caller wanted to know where Robert Clive got married and on receiving the answer wanted to know if the place was inside the Fort and also as to whether the marriage register was open for viewing and, if so, when could he go. MMM was full of admiration for the good lady. She would have come at least second in any quiz on Madras, he felt. He then made bold to ask her as to how she knew and was answered with words to the effect that marriage to MMM may not have meant overseas holidays and regular visits to cinema theatres, but she had heritage oozing out of her ears. All this, mind you, was said not in a grateful tone.

That you may have thought was that. But no. The next day the caller was back. And he was most frank about it all. He had received the answers from the good lady but he thought he would just get a second opinion from MMM. In other words, the good lady’s words were not good enough.

Clearly he must be a stout bachelor.

Celebration time

The Man from Madras Musings has to be careful in what he says, advises the Chief. And so he will be. Suffice it to say that a certain institution in the city reached a milestone in terms of its age and celebrations were held. The numero uno of the country was here to participate in it, as were several local numero unos. To avoid confusion, MMM will refer to the aforementioned numero uno as the party of the first part and those comprising the second as parties of the second part, both terms being used with no malafide intention or malice aforethought.

The party of the first part may have belonged to a party before he became the party of the first part. But now he must be considered to be above all parties but that was clearly not the view of the followers of the party of which the party of the first part was once a member. And so they printed posters and pasted them all over the city to welcome him.

As for the party of the second part, all that MMM has to say is that followers decided to party and went to town pasting posters on all the walls about the party of the second part. There were also kiosks and banners. Some hailed the party of the second part as the Fortress of the State, others compared the same personage to the Maid of Orleans and above all was one that said that the party of the second part was the “Hardinger of success”. Now what is a Hardinger?

But to cut a long story short, MMM was under the impression that there were some laws of sorts that did not allow for pasting posters on the walls of private properties and disfiguring public spaces. And in this event of events, he assumed that the law would be abided. Not that the institution that celebrated had anything to do with these posters. It was, it is, and will always be above politics. But surely those who wanted to crash the party should have known better.

MMM was not invited to the celebrations and so did not go. But he did go to a second event, which was hosted by an organisation of the city that is at least 26 years elder to the celebrant aforementioned. And who should be the chief guest at this second event but the party of the first part already referred to. The event began an hour behind schedule thanks to the celebrations at the first event (aforementioned in case MMM forgot) going longer than planned. And, so, when the party of the first part came to the second party, sorry event, applause was rather muted. There is only so much an audience can do when kept waiting, several of them with full bladders no doubt.

But lo and behold, party of the first part began with an apology. That was received enthusiastically. Now, if only petty officers who govern in the name of the party of the first part had the same grace when they keep people waiting.

New names for old

There are new name signs for roads and they provide plenty of mirth. Any time The Man from Madras Musings finds himself a little low, he goes and sees them. Thus Murray’s Gate Road has become Muresh Gate Road. Brodie’s Castle Road is now Bradykassel Road. Radhakrishnan Road is now Radhakeishnan Road. And so on. Watch this space for more.

Short and Snappy dated 1st September 2012

What were you doing during Madras Week ask several friends of The Man from Madras Musings. “We saw your Chief and his sidekick at several places, doing the Punch and Judy act,” they added to good effect. Well, all that MMM had to say in reply was that he was at the Registrar’s.

It’s a long story. To make it short and snappy, suffice it to say that MMM had gone there to be of assistance to the good lady (also known as She Who Must Be Obeyed) who had decided Madras Week was the best time to sort out some issues concerning some long lost land on the outskirts of the city. MMM had put up a feeble protest of sorts and had also said in his defence that he was no good when it came to matters concerning torts and malfeasances, not to mention easement rights and barratry in fief. To which the good lady replied that all that MMM had to do was to appear intimidating and lose his temper (when she instructed him to do so, of course). And, so, off he went. The only bright lining being that he could find material for a good column. And that too was dashed to the ground when he discovered that he had in pitiless detail described the goings on at a registrar’s office quite a few a years ago in this very column. The Chief never forgets.

But each time is a new experience, though nothing sensational really happened as far as the business side was concerned during this visit. The good lady intimidated everyone and was angry on demand, thereby rendering MMM superfluous. He therefore wandered about and absorbed the local scenery quite a bit. And this is what he saw.

Considering that this was supposed to be THE happening Registrar’s office, i.e. the office that clocked up the maximum number of property transactions in a year, all that MMM can say is that not much of that revenue had been spent on upkeep. There was an old and beautiful building, which was locked up sans maintenance. Behind it was a Quasimodo of a building, so ugly in its conception and general layout that MMM was quite surprised to see a stone commemorating its inauguration and recording the names of over 20 local officials and politicians actually taking the credit for its coming into this world.

There were three metal chairs meant for visitors. These were, rather like a celebrated tower in Italy, listing to one side, as they were a leg or two short. The metal had long corroded and so even the most intrepid visitor could not sit on them. Those who could not find standing space in the dark and dingy corridors made do with the garden. This had a few age-old trees providing plenty of shade and, what’s more, there was free entertainment thrown in as well.

This, was by way of a monkey, a goat and a pig, all in advanced stages of pregnancy. The monkey, so far gone in its final trimester that you could actually see the clear contours of the foetus, jumped into the crowd whenever it espied anyone with food of some sort. A few brave ones tried shooing it away, but all the rounds, MMM was glad to note, went to the monkey. The goat, for no particular reason, periodically charged into the crowd creating much chaos. But the pig, or should MMM say sow, was really the queen of the place. She periodically bathed in a vast Sargasso sea of sorts, in which surplus rainwater, sewage and plenty of garbage had mixed in equal proportion forming a rich, gooey sludge. This was just abaft a series of bushes, which in the absence of a public latrine served as the local convenience. Whenever the registrants heard nature calling they went behind these bushes which, for some reason, aroused the ire of the pig. It immediately let out a squeal and followed, thereby making those who were in communion with Nature speed up the conversation with Mother Earth considerably. Alacrity would be the mot juste.

On making enquiries, MMM learnt that it was the pig that really kept the area clean. It was not chasing the people away but out of a sense of zeal was rushing in to get on with its duty. It ate up the refuse and, in case of er… solid waste, it actually encouraged those who created such waste with many a grunt to get on with it. And so what with much noise recently being made on manual scavenging, it would appear that this registrar’s office has found the way out. MMM doesn’t think that the monkey and the goat are on the payroll of the local civic body. Unless of course the goat keeps the garden in order by eating the weeds and grass. But what of the monkey? Looking up at the ceiling of the building, MMM saw it richly covered with cobwebs. Perhaps this is the registrar office’s web site (Ha ha, what?). And the monkey keeps it in order. Perhaps it is employed as System Administrator.

Madras Munchings

That is what this journal ought to be called, reflected The Man from Madras Musings, after he saw the behaviour of a small but select band of freeloaders (FLs) who attended each one of the Madras Musings events organised by the Chief and his sidekicks to celebrate Madras Week. The focus was on the food rather than on the lectures as far as this band of eaters was concerned. And did they do themselves proud! Perhaps they eat only once a year, during Madras Week.

But then, MMM has already waxed eloquent on this subject last year and so will confine himself to what was new.

At one event, plates ran short and one of the FLs was missing an opportunity to feast on vada and sambar. So he immediately ran to the coffee counter, grabbed a cup and came back to the vadas. MMM watched with considerable interest as the FL filled the cup with sambar, proceeded to dunk the vada in it and eat it in peace even as the lecture progressed. Then there was another who brought his entire family, including a couple of juveniles who ought to have been in primary school. Not that the Madras Week events are only for adults. This FL ensured that the family was fed before he ate, his behaviour in the gathering of food being that of a Neanderthal hunter foraging for his loved ones. After the mère et fils had eaten their fill, he sent them away to wander round the neighbourhood and return when the talk was over. To his credit, he sat through the talk, was the first to ask inane questions and be the life and soul of Madras Week. And at an event where the crowd was unprecedented, a society matron was daintily helping herself from a dish when a Brobdignagian among the FLs simply put both his arms around her. His left hand held the plate while with his right he grasped the ladle and served himself. Having done this, he simply lifted the plate above the matron’s head and walked away. Last heard, the lady was being treated for trauma.

A speaker admired

At yet another event, a speaker of considerable charm and good looks, swept everyone off their feet. Among those so charmed was The Man from Madras Musings too. But not so charmed as a man of letters who in the guise of asking a question began to wax eloquent on the beauty of the speaker. Even the prima donna appeared embarrassed.

Short and Snappy dated 16th August 2012

Meeting, Government style

The Man from Madras Musings was urgently summoned to discuss matters of pith and moment, with one of the grand panjandrums running this State of ours. The minion who called MMM and informed him in as many words, did not say it but hinted through tone of voice that a minute’s delay this way or that would be to MMM’s detriment. Not that MMM would have dared. Courage to defy, as his good lady (or She Who Must Be Obyed) would attest, is not among MMM’s virtues.

So the appointed hour saw MMM present himself at the portals of power. The minion, having no doubt sighted MMM from a ravelin or a bastion or a lunette, preferred to remain out-of-sight. A call on MMM’s cell from a landline (so that MMM could not call back and establish contact) tersely informed him that he needed to proceed to a certain floor and enter a conference room.

It was exactly 10.30 am and MMM duly mounted the staircase, two steps at a time. After all, it would not do to keep the poobah waiting. On arriving MMM found the conference room locked. He espied a sofa in the corridor and decided to wait. Other invitees to the same meeting were also there, all waiting. We waited, and waited and soon the waiting began weighing heavily on us. MMM proceeded to wander about only to see that at 10.45, employees (if you could call them that) were casually sauntering in. There were water-cooler and verandah meetings, casual chats and sundry banter. But none thought it necessary to make it to a desk and get on with the day’s work.

At 11.00 am there was a stir. MMM wondered if the high and mighty bureaucrat had arrived. It was not he. Four men staggered in under mounds of biscuit packets. Another bore plates and a third carried what can only be described as a cistern of coffee. These were set up on tables and as though on cue, MMM was informed by phone to partake of these refreshments. That was evidently on the mind of every employee in the building. Abandoning all tasks (casual chats, telephone calls to spouse, internet browsing) they rushed in like the famine-stricken. MMM and the rest of the invitees preferred to avoid adding to the crush.

After the refreshments had given out those that had made it to the feast retired to chew the cud and the rest subsided into a coma. At around 11.30 am there was a minor stir. A lunch bag arrived, preceded by a flask and a towel. These were deposited with due ceremony in some inner sanctum. At 11.45, just when MMM began wondering if he ought make something out of the rest of the day and earn a rupee or two, the building bestirred itself. Peons and clerks began running around. Some parked themselves expectantly in front of the lift. At precisely 12.00 noon, a pair of double doors opened with a flourish and to a chorus of sycophantic greetings, the great personality whom MMM and other non-entities had waited for sauntered in. Everyone was herded into the conference room and the meeting began with not a word of apology for the wait.

It proceeded along expected lines and ended with a promise of a second meeting a couple of days later. On the appointed day, the anonymous minion called again and said that the meeting had been postponed by two days. This by itself was an improvement. MMM would not have been surprised if he had been made to wait for two full days in the office itself for the mandarin to make his appearance. But this time MMM was wiser. He sent his colleague instead. The idea was to spread the bounty all around.

Conferencing, Government style

The series of meetings referred to above resulted in a grand public meeting at a five-star hotel. This, no doubt because it involved the top bosses from the national capital, began on time. But such being the bureaucratic consciousness of pecking order, far-too-many mandarins had to be accommodated on stage. They were all so tightly wedged in that the merest nudge by anyone would have sent those in the periphery tumbling down. Each one had come armed with a speech. And all of them were far too long and highly repetitive.

That was not all. The meeting had to be conducted in the format perfected locally. Lamps had to be lit. And that meant all those on stage had to light one wick at least, as a consequence of which the lamp resembled more a bonfire. The lighting of the wick was applauded as though it were an Olympic medal. Here again, a strong hierarchy was followed. The national bosses were applauded by the local bosses who in turn were applauded by the local minions. As a result the local panjandrums had louder applause and this was not liked by the babus from up north.

Preceding the lamp-lighting was a prayer to be played off a recorder. Everyone was ordered to remain standing. Long after everyone stood up the recorder refused to switch on and the standing-in-silence became more like a condolence meet. In the meanwhile the already-nervous, stammering and apoplectic Master of Ceremonies got off stage to go and check what was wrong with the music system. Someone must have twiddled with the volume in the meanwhile and so when the music suddenly got going it was in full blast and MMM bit his tongue in shock. It was a good thing that those on stage no doubt owing to being tightly packed, did not/ could not move a muscle. Otherwise we would have had a bureaucratic reshuffle.

For the lower orders in the Government, this meeting was a happy day out, in air-conditioned comfort. Several heads nodded, which in a private enterprise would have ensured that they rolled.

Eating, at Government expense

Speaking of the same meeting, the Man from Madras Musings noted that when lunch was served, everyone was dynamism personified. MMM noticed that they rushed to pick up plates and then forks. Why not spoons MMM wondered. Then he realised. The fork was far handier in intimidating those who tried to compete for the same dishes. MMM had heard of Oliver Twist asking for more, but the average Government employee asks for more, some more and then still more.

MMM, armed with a mere spoon, was last in the race. It was while waiting for the crumbs from the table that MMM realised that the hotel had wisely avoided providing knives. After all, nobody likes to see bloodshed. Sure enough after filling their plates, MMM noticed that everyone laid the fork aside and ate with their hands.

This feast straight out of something in the life of Caligula ended, and the meeting resumed. Loud belches punctuated the speeches for a while. And then came a gentler rhythmic sound. Their efforts over, those that laboured now rested.

Short and Snappy dated 1st May 2012

MMM by any other name

Sundays are lean days for temples, especially in the mornings. There is hardly anyone at them and it is usually on a Sunday morning that you will find The Man from Madras Musings at one or the other of the many historic shrines that Madras that is Chennai is blessed with. And so it was last Sunday. MMM prayed, begged forgiveness for many sins of omission and commission, and thanked That Which Must Be Obeyed for whatever blessings had come his way.

And then it was that MMM realised that what he had actually been suspecting to be a rash of prickly heat on the back was actually MMM’s sensitive skin reacting to someone’s penetrating gaze. MMM turned back to see a man “with an eye like Mars to threaten and command”, looking sharply at MMM. If MMM had had a guilty secret, this eye would have detected it at once or perhaps knew all about it already.

Having peered short-sightedly back at the gazer, MMM walked away only to find that the prickly heat sensation was increasing. Sure enough, the gazer was following. And when MMM stopped, so did he, always maintaining a respectable distance. Man and shadow had reached a fairly secluded corner of the temple where there was hardly anyone. MMM could picture the headlines: “Society scribe done in by stalker” or “Murder comes to MMM” or words to that effect.

It was with a sinking feeling that MMM came to suspect that the man knew MMM’s identity. True, the Chief had assured MMM that his true face would always remain a mystery but perhaps information had leaked? Was the man upset about the wretched story that MMM had written a few months ago on nighties which earned him everyone’s ire? Was he from the University, deeply resentful of MMM’s comments on the photography exhibition? Or was he…

But having come close, the man’s mien changed. He smiled ingratiatingly, though his eye seemed as powerful as ever. MMM took a deep breath. Perhaps this was a fan? Perhaps he would say how much he enjoyed all that MMM wrote?

“Sir, can I ask you a question?” he said.

“By all means,” said MMM, now beaming at the man.

“What cologne do you use? It is very good and I have been following you wanting to know the brand.”

It was an anticlimax. But then MMM has survived to write this column.

Powerful’s power

The Man from Madras Musings, in all his innocence, had assumed that power cuts afflicted kings and commoners alike. But apparently that is not so. MMM got to know of this while walking along with a few others when the conversation turned towards the timings of the two-hour power cuts in the respective areas which those who were walking came from. And then it transpired that one of those walking was not contributing to the conversation at all. But there came a point when everyone else had given details of his area’s power cut timings and this gentleman had to speak up. He turned a bright shade of pink and confessed that he never had any power cuts.

The reaction was varied. Some were plain jealous, while others who were of a more charitable bent of mind wondered if the ‘powerful’ gent could have his mains hitched to those of a nearby hospital. But that was not the case. Someone in power was living in the neighbourhood and so the area was spared of power cuts. As simple as that!

RIP – English

“Memorial to Benny Quick,” read the headline in a leading newspaper of the city, when it chose to announce the laying of the foundation stone for the structure. Now who is Benny Quick, you may wonder. It is none other than Pennycuick, the man about whom the Chief and several others have been writing, the father of the Mullaiperiyar dam. And considering that it was just about a couple of months ago that the Government decided on a memorial, MMM must say it has all been mighty quick.

But what a radio station did was even better. Those of you who read this column will know that MMM, when he does not have to finish a story for the Chief, sometimes tunes in to the radio. And so he did the same day as the Benny Quick story came out. “It is Shakespeare’s birthday today,” screamed an announcer. There was no way that MMM could verify this, but he did wait to hear what followed. “On this day, we present you a Tamil film song that has English,” she said. MMM waited with bated breath. What could this be? It turned out to be Why this Kolaveri di!

Where British jogged

The Man from Madras Musings is being consistently advised by the Chief that he ought not to be condescending towards those who have no knowledge of history or heritage. “Fight this tendency, MMM,” he has warned several times. And it is entirely thanks to this that MMM has taken to spending time with young journalists once again, even going to the extent of tolerating their calling him ‘Uncle’.

But they do help in keeping MMM ever smiling. Last week, when one bright specimen called to know if MMM knew anything about the jogging track of the British, MMM was flummoxed. Mystery turned to admiration. Here was this young man who had found something that even the Chief would know nothing about. Did we not need more of his ilk? May his tribe increase, thought MMM. Further enquiries, however, revealed that he was referring to the War Memorial on Island Grounds. Its circular shape, he said, gave him that clue. It reminded MMM of another of the same breed who said that he was pretty sure that the Madras GPO was the residence of the Mughals in this city. It’s a pity the Taj Mahal was not built here.

Short and Snappy dated 16th April 2012

The politics of a tanneer pandal

Tanneer pandals were very much in the news in the last couple of weeks. For, it was the time when the festival of the 63 great devotees of Lord Shiva was celebrated in Mylapore. To The Man from Madras Musings, tanneer pandals will remain a unique Tamil tradition, though a newspaper did refer to them as refreshment stalls, thereby conjuring up a vision of something on a railway platform with catering by Spencer’s in those good old days.

In the days of not so much yore, these tanneer pandals were simple affairs. Patrons donated money, a makeshift shelter of thatch was put up, a couple of pots of water were placed in them, and that was that. The more affluent pandals had buttermilk and, maybe, panagam, that sweet drink made with jaggery. That was the very outer periphery of luxury. To these the faithfuls flocked, slaked their thirst, and moved on.

But all cannot remain forever well in this Garden of Eden. MMM notices that the politicians have of late discovered that much capital (and what else is the average politician interested in?) can be made out of these pandals. Overnight these pandals have become participants in squalid vote-grabbing exercises. And how!

From his vantage eyrie MMM could see the pandals springing up in street corner after corner. And each of them sported banners with beaming photographs of the leader whose party had sponsored the particular pandal. The side walls had cut-outs and the rear had full-length photos of the leader in action. And each of the pandals needed formal inaugurations as well.

These followed a well-set routine. From an early hour, high decibel loudspeakers blared out party songs, film-songs involving the leader and announcements to the effect that a pooh-bah from the party was on his/her way to inaugurate the refreshment stall and provide manna in the wilderness to the deserving public. Bawdy dances followed in the bigger venues. Then came a series of speeches by the junior leaders, each in ascending levels of volumes and stridency. Dire fates were predicted for those who dared oppose the beloved leader while milk and honey would be showered on the faithful. The leaders in the opposition were berated in colourful language and aspersions were cast on their conduct in private and public. Moral turpitude was the general theme. MMM wondered as to where the speakers got such intimate details.

The Big ‘Un duly rolled up in due course and, by the simple act of drinking a glass of water, declared the pandal open in the name of the leader. The faithfuls were then let in. The bar, in short, was open. Those who preferred liquids were given the drink of their choice and for solid refreshments the sky appeared to be the limit. By the end of the day, the place resembled a Roman orgy of sorts with the ‘spiritually’ elevated reeling away or simply lying down on the footpaths. The next day the pandals bore all the signs of a morning after, with even the structure in some places leaning to one side, with a dissipated look.

Somewhere in his childhood, MMM had read that tanneer pandals had originated when Appoothi Adigal, one of the 63, had welcomed Appar, another of the same ilk, by constructing them. All MMM can say is that we appear to have come a long way from the time of Appar and Appoothi. Apres Appar le deluge, eh?

Render unto Caesar…

Remember those twinkling fluorescent strips that flashed at you from the road whenever you drove on the wrong side, which was all too often though it was not your fault. Well, The Man from Madras Musings has news for you. They have begun vanishing, one by one. MMM attributed their departure to the fact that the volume of Chennai’s traffic was too much for them and so they were wearing out at an alarming rate. But such, it appears, is not the case.

Apparently, there is a group that makes a small packet by removing them, collecting them till they form a respectable quantity and bulk, and then selling them. Though who care to buy them and for what purpose, MMM is at a loss to fathom. The seller, however, gets much-needed cash which he, in turn, showers on the local TASMAC bar for a tipple or two. It cannot be denied that our brethren lead interesting lives and work hard for a living.

MMM was quite shocked to know about such goings on. Not so MMM’s informant who is a sharply observant character. He sees poetic justice in the whole thing. What was provided by the Government is being returned to it, is his view. What is being lost on the turnstile of roadways is being gained on the roundabout of liquor vending.

Ever punctual

There was a time when Chennai worked as per the clock and the more religious followed the panchangam or almanac. Good deeds were begun at certain hours, and the inauspicious hour, which followed the formula of Mother Saw Father Wearing The Turban on Sunday, was avoided like the plague. But now The Man from Madras Musings observes that everyone works as per the hours of the power cut. Meetings, discussions and outings are planned according to the schedule and the more enterprising ones fix visits to places where they are sure to find power and, more importantly, airconditioning.

And MMM has to hand it to the TNEB. Their word is their bond and they are remarkably punctual when it comes to turning off the power at the main and restoring it after the stipulated two hours. Neither a minute more, nor less. Never a minute earlier nor after. Shylock could have taken his lessons from them. But it makes MMM wonder as to why such meticulousness could not be followed when it came to planning for power capacity and generation.

Short and Snappy dated 1st April 2012

The great divide

The readers of this publication can be strictly divided into two categories. One variety imagines Madras Musings to be the local variant of The Times, London. Stately corridors, an army of staff gliding up and down steps and along corridors, the Chief in a panelled sanctum, the rest of the gang, The Man from Madras Musings included, sipping tea from bone china cups and feasting on wafer thin sandwiches, etc. That at least is the impression MMM gets when he sees letters addressed to various departments in MM, such as editorial, postal, finance, etc.

The other variety knows the truth and this group will readily tell you that a vital ingredient in the workings of Madras Musings is the regular meetings between the Chief and MMM, who between them run the editorial, postal, financial etc. And, therefore, it is vital that the Chief and MMM meet. No meet, no MM. And till now it was all very easy. The Chief had to merely command MMM’s presence and it was done. All MMM had to do then was to jump into his car, turn right, make a U-turn, turn right and then proceed straight till he hit the Gemini flyover. And from there it was a mere bagatelle. A couple of turns more, a few curses given and taken freely between MMM and other road users in the true spirit of motoring in Chennai, and MMM was at chez Chief. And then over a cup of coffee, Chief and MMM would discuss MM, its behaviour in sickness and in health and all would be well.

But now, what with work on the Metro going ahead in full swing, journeys to the Chief’s hangout (and it is not a panelled sanctum) are proving to be a tough proposition. Rather like a computer game where the degree of difficulty keeps increasing with competence, the route that MMM takes has been complicated beyond comprehension. You would not be far wrong in imagining the process to be akin to those children’s puzzles where, with the aid of a pencil, they need to help Brer Rabbit find the shortest way to his warren. What was earlier a couple of turns here, a U-turn there and a bit of rounding at the straight, coupled with the exchange of curses, has become a maze of one-ways. There are days now when MMM having set out to meet the Chief has after a couple of turns found himself back at starting point, namely Chez MMM. In fact, the only thing that has remained constant is the free exchange of curses and, here too, MMM is now more at the receiving end as he frequently pauses at every corner to select the best way forward.

Which brings MMM to the key point at issue. How is the communication to be bettered between him and the Chief? One option would be letters and that is a mode that the Chief would be most comfortable with. But with his hand-writing being pretty much undecipherable at either end (there are days when even the Chief can’t make out what he has written), this option is ruled out. Emails could be a way out, but at the Chief’s end there is a complicated process of printing them out for his perusal and we are committed to saving trees. MMM is of the view that smoke signals could be the only way out, provided the general pollution does not distort what discussions of pith and moment the Chief and MMM are having. Oh, yes, we do have the telephone, but the Chief is rather short in his telecons. Does MMM hear someone say SMS? OMG! Dat wd b a bit 2 much wd it not?

And so at this point MMM and Chief are divided by (and not over) the Metro. It is rather like Pyramus and Thisbe. And, no, before the first category of readers comes up with it, let MMM assure them that MM’s finances do not permit travel by helicopter.

Chennai Chola

The Man from Madras Musings is a confused fellow. You would not be far off in branding him Confused Character of Chennai (CCC). His doubts pertain to what constitutes heritage. The Government is of the view that monstrosities of 1980 vintage are worthy of protection while those built 100 years ago, being the crass creations of the commerce-minded British, ought to be demolished. If MMM is to believe what is being written about and said not-so-freely, the 1980 eyesore, according to the Government, is a classic example of ‘early modern Chennai architecture with a goodish-bit of the Chola about it.’

MMM trusts and prays that Chennai Chola, as evolved in the 20th Century, will not be a subject of study in architecture courses in the years to come. But in case it does, MMM, on the afternoons when the Chief has not sent him off on some errand concerning an old building facing imminent demolition, has compiled certain essential elements of what constitutes Chennai Chola.

a. Copious use of red granite – the ancients used granite for their temples. We use granite for just about anything and dressed granite at that – road med-ians, cladding of walls, flooring etc. In all this, red granite is the preferred stone.

b. Use of domes (preferably two domes) – referred to in native parlance as doom (rather appropriately). No new Chennai Chola structure can be considered without it. Where only a single dome is possible, it is usually customary to have a smaller dome on the larger dome, ref as can be seen on the Kalai(gnar) Maligai at Queen Mary’s College. This is also known as the doomsday obsession.

c. Use of aluminium windows and vitrified tiled flooring. The latter to pre-ferably be in red/ochre colour. Use of tiles with divine images for corners and borders is a must, as they prevent the average office-user from spitting into these places.

d. Large black granite commemorative plaques with lettering in gold informing the not-so-concerned passerby as to who inaugurated the doomed struc-ture. These spots later become convenient places for pasting posters as and when the office union has a strike or an election.

e. Non-aligned doors and windows – from the first day, no door can be locked without lifting up or pressing down. Ditto for windows.

f. No free natural ventilation – In the absence of electric power (assuming that these Government valhallas suffer the same problems as we lesser mortals), the staff can engage in the children’s game of dark room.

g. Ornamental grilles in concrete to ensure a convenient space for news-papers, used coffee cups and homes for spiders and other winged inhabitants.