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.

The missing ‘rush': the narrative

It’s been close to 2 years since I left India – the same time it has been since I experienced genuine adrenaline rush. You know, the one that gets your heart so hot that you can feel it outside (no, I’m not being metaphorical). I’ve been addicted to that ‘rush’ as far as I could remember. As with most Indian children, there were very few means that I could exploit when I was very young. The most common was to ride your cycle fast down a slope with your hands in the air. Sometimes make turns too. Of course, the occasional accidents do scare you enough to stop doing it for a while. That’s the point though – the looming sense of danger is what gives you that rush.

As I grew up, more avenues were exposed. I lived in a relatively untamed environment. Fish was a major part of our lives then. And I imagine this craze with “kalar meen” was shared by children from other parts of TN as well (and probably, all of India). Some were so crazy that they wouldn’t care if it was a tadpole. But people like me, who wouldn’t settle unless it’s the real-2 inch long-thing, would stretch our permitted limits. Each class had its share of renegades who didn’t bother their teacher’s warning about what might happen if anyone is caught “fishing” in the “kenaru” near the school. Dindigul had several little pools and wells where you could “fish.” They were the unforgiving, ‘taken several lives’ kind of water sources – the ideal spots for us little wannabe ‘heroes’ to test our nerves. Some wells were so treacherous that you wouldn’t know difference between day and night once you’re in it. The neatly wound snake skins wouldn’t make the place any less scary. Not to mention, that’s where we usually learn swimming; with some ‘adult’ supervision, of course.

Then we moved to Madras. For a kid from Dindigul--not even Ooty, Mettupalayam or some exotic place like that--Madras seemed so lame. Only thing you can do is play underarm cricket in your street or pedal all the way to IDPL to have the ball lost in some bush. Oh yeah, you can also get on the terrace and spend all your money in some ‘kaathadi’ and watch it bite the dust because of a “deal.” But I can’t think of anything that could have replaced the things I had mentioned I did when I was in Dindigul. The times I almost drowned in the beach come somewhat close.

But it all changed when I got my hands on my father’s 100cc motorbike – I was 15 then. It provided a much needed upgrade to the stale TVS 50 I was riding around once in a while. For once I could hit speeds as high as 100 Km/h. As many teenagers, I didn’t care about holding a license. I didn’t till I was 21. But I took his bike to almost every corner of the city. The fact that I didn’t have a license made those rides a little more adventurous – helped that rush a bit more.

It got better during my college days. It was the time when we had group rides to Pondicherry, New Year nights to Besant Nagar and all the clichéd “adventures” most young men in Madras are known to go through. These occasions usually give you the opportunity to experiment with other bikes. But I always had a big fetish for Yamaha RX 100. I think all bike enthusiasts would agree that it’s the ultimate thrill machine for Indian cities.

I got my lessons directly from my cousins who had mastered the art of crowd control to crazy stunts with the bike. I got to own one myself when I was 21 – just when I got my license. The next two years during which I got to ride it, mostly in Bangalore, had some of the best moments of my life. I haven’t taken any drugs so far, but I think that’s how it feels to be high. When you are rushing through fellow motorists – like you’re travelling in a Star Trek space cruiser with the rocks and other objects disappearing in nanoseconds – your mind operates in a subliminal level. Only then would you be able to not worry about all the lives you put in danger. The top speed of my Yamaha was 120 Km/h ¹.

In all my years of bike-riding I’ve had quite a few accidents. Most of the damage done to myself and to my bike(s). Nothing fatal though. To be honest, each accident would slow me down quite considerably. It will take at least a few weeks before I can go above 80 Km/h without getting all shaky and anxious. As if there’s a dog or a bitch waiting just to jump in (pun intended). This is what differentiates bike riding from most other forms of adventure – you can never get used to getting hurt, at least not thoroughly. You get methodical and systematic about how you fall, how you roll and even how you heal. But nothing that will quite make you feel like it’s ‘routine.’ Of course, I’m talking about myself here. I’m sure there are several people who can do exactly that – get used to getting hurt with no residual effects.

Driving, I think, is slightly different. When you’re driving, the whole “I might die” effect isn’t as obvious as it is when you’re on a bike. It’s mostly the ‘got to get home without any scratches or dents’ urge that gives you that rush. And driving is slightly more comprehensive in its experience. Good music, good company, reasonable comfort plus the rush - they are mutually elevating.

Ever since I got here, I’ve driven a few times. That’s about all the “rush” I’ve gotten. Even the fairy ‘ride’ in Niagara sucked. I’ve missed the daily dose for a very long time and it’s taking its toll on me. I’ll write about it from a pseudo sociological perspective in the next post. As of now, I’m just looking forward to my trip to Madras and hopefully get a half-decent second hand car when I return.
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¹The bike was tuned for high speed. It usually doesn’t exceed 115 Km/h, but it was a long sloping road and I weighed just 54 kilos (still do).

Boy meets train

An extension of this post

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The Train and I

My relationship with the train had an unusual start, probably not so unusual for several thousands of students who went to schools like mine. It started right from my kindergarten days: I, along with others in my rickshaw had to cross a railway track to get to school. We would have to get down and push the vehicle over those ‘massive’ tracks. If there weren’t many of us, the rickshaw guy would just leave us before the track and we’ll have to walk the remaining distance (about 200 meters). I don’t know if it’s the annoying walk in the sun or the general feeling that trains can crush almost anything: we would place stones on the track for feet together, when we return, every evening. Just to see them get pulverized (with some hopes to derail the train, perhaps. Who knows?). We would curse the ‘oldies’ who come chasing us to remove the stones, moments before the train passes by. They were sometimes exciting sometimes nervous moments. When we found a crushed dead body beside the tracks one morning, ‘scary’ got added to the list.

I’ve lost so many 10 paise coins in the tracks, trying to ‘magnetize’ them. I wasn’t the worst, though. I know some 8th and 9th grade kids who would regularly flatten 1 rupee coins. I wonder what they learnt in their physics classes.

A train had all these strange meanings, and just that, for several years till I finally got on a train in my 5th grade. It was a long journey - Dindigul to Kakinada. Madras was exotic, Egmore sounded alien. Pallavan buses were, well, red.

A lot of things were new: short, non-stop ads in Sears-Elcot televisions in Central screaming "pon vandu pon vandu, potu paarunga"; shining blue Bisleri bottles that made me ask “thannikku kaasu tharanuma?”; my ‘never seen before’ gluttonous side; vomiting on a fellow passenger’s lap not being able to bear with his cigar smoke; testing my ‘learned from TV’ Hindi to attend nature’s call – “bhai saab mujhe urgent se aaraha hein;” bribing Godavari with a 25 paise coin to get the train across and a lot more.

My first train journey overwhelmed me with all kinds of emotions – joy, anxiety, unease, jealousy, confusion and even ruefulness. It took quite sometime for me to absorb these things and consciously experience what the stereotypical Indian train journey is known for – “meeting with interesting people from all walks of the society.”

By the time I moved to Bangalore I must have traveled in trains for over a hundred times. Marriages, college tours and what have you. There were very few 'stunts' that I hadn't pulled; there were few postures that I hadn't assumed - intentionally and unintentionally. But Madras – Bangalore was always special. It was the first time I started doing everything. I earned, I stood in the queue, I paid, I got to the station – all by myself. The experiences that I've had then, during the journeys, are some of the best, ever. I think I'd rather save them for a podcast.

Train journeys in 'Second Class Sleeper' reflect a very reasonable image about Indian life. Nothing is too bad, but you do to get to see the worst of it occasionally. People, facilities, everything would have a fair mix of what India has to offer. That's what makes 'The Great Indian Railways' such an excellent documentary.

I first saw it in 1998. It had been just a year after India's 50th independence anniversary. Some of the short films from the Bharat Bala's series the previous year, were still aired in DD. The pseudo-patriotism injected in our veins over a period of several months was still alive. So the documentary wasn't all that enchanting. I even felt outraged at times. I thought they were deliberately hiding the 'good stuff' to dampen our spirits (damn whites, I thought). I continued to hold the same impression for a long time.

Even though I would run into the documentary once in a month or so, later, I chose to sit through the whole thing again only in 2004 – six years after the first time I had seen it. This time I was in Bangalore. I was older, and as I had mentioned earlier, I had gained more experiences to compare and contrast (and of course, the jingoism had faded away quite considerably). The documentary, now, seemed extremely sincere, emotionally profound and unimaginably comprehensive. I thought then, and still do, that it was probably the best documentary to portray India as it is.

I was so excited to find it in 'desitorrents'. The short segment below is my favourite. The crowd rushing into the train is so typical of what I've been part of several times. It's the quintessential “kerchief culture” at work. Of course, the babu English, the “cribbing” women, the cold sense of humour, the retired "bank manager" arguing with taxi drivers – it's all very fascinating and real.

Of everything an Indian can miss, the train is what I miss the most.

I miss the odour

Today is Deepavali. One thing that I miss most and have not been to able to replace with is crackers (no, not the white folk). For me, that's what Deepavali was mostly about -- the odour of gun-powder, the noisy environment and feeling the blast waves on the face. I miss them all. Just them.
I have too many thoughts and memories that I can put down in a blog-post. I instead chose to record it all in a podcast.

Timeline (in minutes) of what's in it.
1-13 : types of crackers and how we use them
13-23 : "Cultural events" in Dindigul; Nostalgia
23-30 : Deepavali in the past and present
30-end : Diwali or Deepavali? End.

Download: 96Kbps; 48Kbps.

PS. Crackers mentioned in the podcast include hydrogen bombs in the page.