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Upper class culture cannot be conceded to the upper classes, because it is the toil and blood of the working classes that has made that culture at all possible.

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அசோகமித்திரன் கணையாழியில் 40 ஆண்டுகள் ஆசிரியர் பொறுப்பில் இருந்தவர். அதில்தான் 30 ஆண்டுகளுக்கு மேலாக சுஜாதா கடைசிப் பக்கங்களை எழுதினார். ஒரு வகையில் இருவரும் சகாக்கள். அப்படிப்பட்டவர் சுஜாதாவின் மரணத்திற்கு எழுதியிருக்கும் இரங்கல் கட்டுரை என்ன தெரியுமா ? " சுஜாதா எங்கள் வீட்டுக்கு வந்திருக்கிறார். அப்போது என்னிடம் ஒரு கேமரா இருந்தது. அந்தக் கேமராவில் நாங்கள் ஒரு போட்டோ எடுத்துக் கொண்டோம்." ஐயா , என்னை நம்புங்கள். அவ்வளவுதான் இரங்கல் கட்டுரை. இப்படி ஒரு இரங்கல் கட்டுரை வேறு எந்த எழுத்தாளருக்காகவும் , உலகில் வேறு எந்த மொழியிலும் எழுதப் பட்டிருக்காது என்று நினைக்கிறேன். இருக்கட்டும் , எனக்கும் ஒரு சந்தர்ப்பம் வராமலா போகப் போகிறது ? ' நான் அசோகமித்திரன் வீட்டுக்குப் போனேன். அவர் ஒரு பூனை வளர்த்தார். அது என்னைப் பார்த்து மியாவ் என்று சொன்னது. நானும் மியாவ் என்று அதனிடம் சொன்னேன். ' எழுதுகிறேனா இல்லையா என்று பாருங்கள் அசோகமித்திரன்.

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Headache

Act 1:
Three years ago, when I came here to study, I was one of the few international students that my department took in. I was also the only 'non-Chinese' student. Some might wonder what the Chinese are doing in sociology? Well, there's demography...and...well, there's demography. But the department made sure that students don't swim their way across either choosing just theory courses or methods courses -- some were mandatory. So whether they liked it or not, they had to take some theory courses and I often happened to be the only non-White student who spoke decent English.

A couple of them became good friends and they felt comfortable to discuss the readings with me (especially when they had to do presentations). Because it was their first year, their English was very hard to understand and making them understand what I was saying didn't seem any easier. Something that I cannot forget about those 2-3 hour conversations is the ensuing headache. It's not so much their accent or my frustration with "explaining things", it's the prolonged state of heightened concentration to hear every word (then match it with a word that made the best sense in that context and so forth). Any activity that requires you to have that kind of concentration for that kind of time is bound to have a bad side effect. Zoning out, like I used to do in schools and colleges, was not an option because it's a conversation that requires you to say more than "hmm, interesting", "that's so cool", "really? neat!" etc.

Anyway, eventually I was done with my coursework, they got better at their English and we moved on. I was more than relieved that the episode(s) was over.

Act 2:
When it's too cold to play anything outside, I just sit home and play chess, online. But I easily get suckered in those egomaniacal marathons that before you know, the room is no longer bright with sunlight. By now you've been staring into black and white squares and moving little pieces with absolute precision (at least as far as the physical motion is concerned) for hours together in a CRT monitor. This is the kind of thing that makes you wear glasses. But it has other effects on me as well: starting with the proverbial headache and then the annoying "I want to throw up" feeling. After all, it is one of "those" activities.

One of "those" days: it was last Saturday and I had been playing chess for at least 4 hours without moving an inch. I finally gather some "courage" and decide to break the cycle. I wanted to expose my eyes to wider boundaries and let my pupils relax. I tell myself, "ok, this is the last game. Get up even if you lose in 20 moves, I cannot take it anymore". Just then I hear someone knocking my door. I simply resign the game, get up and open the door. Wow, great! It's my new Chinese friend.

April 1

I don't really remember being all that creative to 'fool' someone on April the first. It's probably because I would get really annoyed after getting "fooled" by some retarded logic/process and I assumed mine wouldn't appear any better to others.

I did, however, very willingly take part in the no-nonsense ritual that was common in Dindigul and, based on some anecdotal knowledge, in few other cities (but Madras) -- splashing ink at your friends, cousins and at times, passers by in the street. Sometimes it also involved crushing tomatoes/bananas in the face. No, they don't just throw them at you; they get really close with absolute stealth and attack you from behind -- place the tomato at your face and squeeze the last drop of liquid down your eyes and nostrils. Usually there's someone to distract you, so it's a two men job (I don't really remember watching girls do this stuff).

The most irritating line we get to hear on April 1 is "annei, wheel suthudhu" from second and third grade students when we are pedaling in the hot sun. They all want to take part in this seemingly fun activity and want to feed their tiny, budding egos with being bold and clever. Little bastards.

Years have passed since then and there's not a lot of memories for me, for this day. Maybe where I lived in Madras had a lot to do with the dry spell since I left Dindigul. The schools were pretty lame too, there were no trees, no play grounds, just concrete pavements. Come to think of it, schools in Madras did not have the 'splash ink at the end of a major exam' ritual either.

PS. Try some of the featured videos in youtube (before April 2). They are all somewhat funny.