I know this is not the most creative topic to write on. I know you won’t consider this as one of my best works. A few of you pundits, I am sure, will go to the extent of debating over whether my pen should retire after reading this. But hey, You haven’t been through 6 mobile numbers in as many months.
Posted by Pope on May 25, 2012
http://almostaverage.wordpress.com/2012/05/25/402/
On the subject of surprises, I have strong opinions. There are times when they are welcome and others when life would be better off without them. Besides the timing itself, the general subject that causes the surprise can also determine the open-armness of the welcome that is offered to it. To cite an example, it would be a wonderful surprise – one to be welcomed with the openest of arms, if life is dawdling along and a long lost bosom friend pops up out of nowhere. On the other hand, if you have just left a location grateful about not having run into a certain bloke, it is less than a pleasant surprise to find the same bloke awaiting you at your next destination.
I had barely crossed the front gate of my grandparents place when I saw the unmistakable gleam of Uncle Sudharshan’s balding head. He stood at the threshold with his arms wide open at the sight of me. He also had a sort of plastic bag-basket over his left shoulder. A low growl emerging from it confirmed my suspicions of its contents.
‘Hari! My fine boy!’ he said, in a voice that may have woken up half a dozen neighborhoods. ‘So good to see you here’. He grabbed me in a tight embrace, which must have been hard considering my conscious efforts to stay away from the basket over his shoulder. I finally managed to break away when the sounds from the basket indicated that the chains tethering the beast inside were on the verge of snapping.
Aunt Sreeja had just appeared over Uncle Sudharshan’s horizon. ‘You want some coffee, Hari?’ she asked. I passed a wry smile and nodded. One should never underestimate the amount of caffeine needed to tackle relatives such as the one who stood at the threshold with a dog-basket slung over his shoulder. I waited for the gracious aunt to retreat into the house before turning to face the uncle who continued to beam at me.
‘Good to see you too Uncle Sudharshan’ I said at length, straightening out my checkered shirt. ‘I thought you were at your house. Gopal said you were in the back. I was over there for the past few minutes.’
‘Oh! So that was where you had run off to! I should have known!’ he exclaimed, waking up the poor neighborhoods again. ‘No, no, my child. Sreeja called me up to let me know that you had arrived in the morning. So I wasted no time to hurry over to see my favorite nephew. In fact, Cleo has been dying to see you as well.’ He patted his basket and was about to open the lid to unleash its wrath, when I grabbed his wrist.
‘Oh uncle, I think I’ll meet Cleo later. I have to run in and have my bath. I feel particularly filthy after that train journey. Besides, I don’t want Cleo to lick me in delight when I’m so dirty.’
Uncle Sudharshan let out one of his trademark guffaws. ‘Hari, you are one fine lad. So tell me, how is work and everything?’ I had been hoping to retreat back into the house after my last statement, but clearly that was not to be. You don’t have short conversations around Uncle Sudharshan. He is of the strong opinion that they should be reserved for talking over the phone. If you ever happen to chance across him, try to avoid the phrase ‘I’d better get going.’ or ‘I should go now.’ He likes to make a comeback with the line ‘Why? Is your phone bill running too high?’ and unleash a laugh to wake up your neighbourhood too.
‘Oh work is going great.’ I said, after taking a moment off to curse my luck.
‘Oh that is good to hear. But you know what, my son? This IT business is not the field for smart people like you. You should be doing other things. Following your passions and earning bigger bucks, for instance.’ I wanted to make a point here about loving my job and not caring about the money, but my feeble attempt at speech was drowned out in his unceasing ramble. ‘You know what you should do? You should do what I do. Breed dogs. You love dogs, and dogs love you.’ If you were in the vicinity, you would have heard a ferocious bark from a dog in a basket who clearly disagreed with the last point that Uncle Sudharshan made. A lesser mortal might have dropped arms and made a dash for it, but I decided to stand my ground and trust the lock that held the dragon inside its lair. Again, I would like to remind my readers that I have nothing against dogs in general. But the very thought of miniature Cleos running riot over civilization is enough to deter anyone from even pausing to consider the prospect of breeding dogs.
‘Oh, Gopal did tell me about your dog breeding business.’ I said in a breezy voice, although I was fluttered to the core by the ruckus that was emanating from the basket. ‘It seems you are making a good deal out of it.’
‘Oh he did, did he? Yes, my boy. These pups fetch me a fair penny.’ He paused to put an arm around my shoulder and draw himself closer to my ear. Here I must inform my readers, Tambrahm uncles do not know how to conspire. They tend to forget that at the core of each conspiracy lies subtlety. I do not recollect Sherlock Holmes drawing Watson aside to whisper a master scheme into his ear while the rest of the police force stood watching. Great designs require great executions and uncle Sudharshan was not renowned for such abilities. If at all, he would have appeared in any of Sherlock’s adventures, he might have let a criminal or two off the hook with his inability to keep a plot to himself and indeed following it. That would have greatly annoyed Sherlock no doubt, but uncle Sudharshan as indeed many other uncles around the Tambrahm world, having been brought up on Sun TV soaps rather than murder mysteries, would have been ignorant of it.
Uncle Sudharshan by now was satisfied with the distance within which he had brought me. He sent a quick glance over both his shoulders to ascertain there were no eavesdroppers. “Let me tell you a little secret”, he said, to ascertain what was headed my way. “This is between you and me. A gentleman has decided to purchase two of the pups; an NRI, by the sound of it. These NRIs pay a good deal, I tell you. I might be able to pull off a real coup if it goes well.’
‘Oh that sounds nice. Where is the guy? Here in Trichy?’
‘No no, he’s in Calicut. I’m leaving for the city in the evening today. By the 7 o’clock bus.’
The statement may pass lightly over most of my readers. But if you are a Tambrahm with a fair idea of the geography of southern India, you might be able to see how the situation might turn, if I may use the phrase, a pickle. For the benefit of the other readers, I will explain a typical Tambrahm naming ceremony. But do feel free to stop me if you already know the rules that Tambrahms play by. The most significant act of a Tambrahm naming ceremony involves the name of the baby being traced out on a pile of wheat. This act is to be performed by the nearest male sibling of the mother of the child, which would generally be the child’s uncle. So, it is of the essence that the particular gentleman be present at the site when this ceremony is in progress. In this particular case, that particular gentleman was to be Uncle Sudharshan. And if you have been following my narrative closely, you would remember that the naming ceremony was on the day after the morrow.
‘But Uncle, how far is Calicut from here?’ I asked, clearly concerned.
‘About 12 hours by bus.’ He said, brushing aside my question.
‘You do remember that the naming ceremony is on the day after tomorrow, right?’
‘Of course I do. It is at five in the morning.’
‘And you do know that it is absolutely necessary for you to be here, right?’
‘Yes, yes. Don’t you worry. I’ll be back in time.’
‘Uncle, isn’t it a bit rash of you to go off like this, just before the ceremony? Why don’t you go after the ceremony? You’ll have no issues of time then.’
‘Ah, don’t talk brash, boy. I cannot delay this, the bloke is going off to the gulf in the evening tomorrow. I have to see him and sell him the pups before he heads away. And don’t talk like your mother. She has a habit of being overly cautious about things.’
‘Aunt Sreeja knows about your plan?’
Uncle Sudharshan peered nervously back at the house. There was no sign of Aunt Sreeja or any coffee. ’Are you nuts?!’, he hissed. ‘She’ll freak out if I tell her. That’s why I told you at the very start – This is a secret that stays between you and me. Were you not listening? Not another soul should know I am going to Calicut tonight.’
‘Would they not notice you missing?’
‘Bah, the place is crowded enough to not notice one missing relative.’
I pondered over this. He was right, no doubt. There were relatives as far as the eye could see; one less person would arouse no suspicions. But the point he was failing to notice was that the person who would effectively be conducting the ceremony was about to go missing. Someone or the other might raise concerns about it and then the scenes wouldn’t be pretty. I could see Aunt Sreeja tearing down the highway to Calicut and dragging her brother back by the ear all the way to Trichy. Such an event was best avoided. So I decided to push it further.
‘Why can’t someone else go to sell the pups? Let Gopal go. I can go with him.’
Uncle Sudharshan let out one of his loud laughs again. By this time I was sure, the neighborhood was swarming with people who had given up on any chances of catching any sleep.
‘No no, my boy. I have to go. These NRI blokes are tough nuts to crack at times. You really have to have one of your breeziest days if you want to get the best bargain. I reckon I can squeeze fifty grand out of him for the two pups. But if you are really interested, you can come along too. You can pick up a couple of tricks on handling these pesky non-residents for when you start your own dog breeding business.’
I politely declined the invitation but added that I would definitely attend his courses before launching off on any such endeavors. ‘Okay, looks like I cannot stop you. But, make sure you get back in time. It would be very embarrassing for Aunt Sreeja if you don’t.’
‘Yes, yes. Stop worrying so much. I always told people you had more of your mother’s genes than people think. I’ll be off now. Cleo is feeling hungry.’
While we had been talking, the rattling inside the basket had been getting louder. I did not relish the prospect of a hell-hound breaking loose and having my leg for breakfast, so I waved a hearty goodbye to the aged relative and headed into the house again. Aunt Sreeja met me halfway to the kitchen holding a tumbler full of steaming coffee. ‘Here you go,’ she said and with a big smile she went off to distribute more of the genial liquid amongst my caffeine-hungry relatives. I would be lying if I said my heart was not heavy with concern whilst I sipped on the beverage. Obviously, I was worried if uncle Sudharshan would be back in time. Aunt Sreeja was not a person who I wanted heart-broken. But also, if he didn’t, the relatives would eventually find out about and go for the throat of the one person who was aware of the crazy plan all along and that one person was Hari Chetlur.
So it was easy to imagine that it was a Chetlur with a clouded mind who accompanied Gopal to the station to receive Priya. Gopal had definitely noticed the dip in my mood as was apparent by his ceaseless questions about the same. But I refused to be drawn into revealing his father’s crazy idea. For a moment I might have considered spelling it out for him, for he might be the one person to be able to convince Uncle Sudharshan against it. But there was also the possibility that he would freak out and cause utter pandemonium back at the aged relatives place. I decided to trust Uncle Sudharshans judgement, however crazy it sounded and hope that he returned in time. No one would even know. It was much of a relief when the train came chugging in, and our minds were diverted to looking for Priya among the milling crowds.
It took a fair while to establish contact with the cousin. She was not the biggest girl around and our efforts to find her were further compounded by the fact that Gopal forgot the carriage by which she was travelling. A couple of phone calls later, we tracked her down to help her out with her luggage. Priya had always been the jumpiest of us cousins and she didn’t disappoint on our arrival. She lunged herself at Gopal with a distinctively South Indian cry of ‘How are you da?!’ I, meanwhile, had my attention fixed on her companion that Priya had never mentioned. She was bestowing upon me the sort of look one would give to an insect stuck in one’s bowl of curd rice.
‘Reva?’ I asked, finding speech, if you would call that finding speech.
‘Hari?’ she asked, in response. Clearly, she was not familiar with the Question-Answer protocol that humans follow. I mean, when Bloke A shoots a question at Bloke B, he expects Bloke B to give him an answer, not shoot a question straight back at him. So I simply returned the favor. ‘Reva?’, I asked again.
‘Shut up, Hari.’ came the reply which was certainly not a question. I was glad I had taught her the protocol at least.
Posted by Pope on December 28, 2011
http://almostaverage.wordpress.com/2011/12/28/more-coffee-no-thanks-chapter-2/
It was a fair enough morning. The early birds were up and about, catching their respective worms and making a great deal of fuss about it. The Homo Sapiens on the other hand, were only beginning to stir and wake up to a slight chill in the air. The general atmosphere was that of contempt and mild surprise at the generosity of the weather. If the poet Keats had been around, he might have been bally-ho about the whole scene and would have surprised no one by writing about seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness. I sat on the porch of Surya Nivas and stretched the weary limbs. The last thirty odd hours had been spent in a rickety metal carriage and I was glad to finally be in a place where I could swing my arms around without the conscious fear of slapping a bloke inadvertently. Not that I was someone who does that frequently, but it is a nice feeling to know that one can swing one’s arms around without fear if the need arise. The journey from Mumbai to Trichy on a train was one that I’d rather not talk about. So, even the most casual of observers could have guessed that the person who now sat on the porch of his grandparents’ place stretching his weary limbs, had a sense of quiet satisfaction about him. The hustle and bustle of Mumbai and the merciless grind at the workplace had worn me out over the past few weeks. This trip to Trichy was a welcome break. The Hari Chetlur that the observer saw on the porch was a Hari Chetlur happily drinking in the ambience of his hometown.
“You’d like some coffee?” came a voice from the other side of the front door. It was my aunt Sreeja. I thought about the filter coffee for a split second but decided against it. I had had about half a dozen cups of the steaming beverage since my arrival by the 3.10 train in the bleak hours of the morning and was thus thoroughly caffeinated. If at all I needed anything, it was a few more minutes of the fresh morning air.
“No, thanks. I think I’ll take a stroll.” I replied, getting up to pick up my shirt as I spoke thus. I popped my head through the front door, waved a genial goodbye to everyone in the living room who bothered to look up and headed out of the front gate. The road to the left leads down to the temple, and it was down this street that I trodded along, humming a distinctively Carnatic tune to myself.
I have not stayed in South India for too long, nor have I visited these regions too many times, but throw Hari Chetlur into a town down south, he can drape the veshti, drink the filter coffee, fling the accent and ride the TVS-50 like nobody’s business and never look out of place for a single minute. This particular trip was to attend the naming ceremony of my youngest aunt’s son. As a rule, Tambrahms never shy away from ceremonizing anything. Over the years, I have attended ceremonies for all occasions, ranging from the pooja ahead of my cousin’s first written exam (he was in class III) to the celebration of Uncle Moorthy’s eating of his 5000th betel nut leaf paan. The other Chetlurs had, I am sure, attended even more. For the ceremony in question, I had received a phone call from Aunt Sreeja about three weeks back, cordially inviting me to the same. I have now landed here two days ahead of the function to allow myself to absorb the atmosphere first.
It was a small ceremony by Chetlur standards. Let me try and recollect the people in Trichy who would have the date marked in their calendars. There was Aunt Sreeja, of course, whose son was to be named. She was a sound egg. My mother’s youngest sister, she was a delight to be around. Her husband, Uncle Sridhar would be flying down from Chennai on the morrow. There was also Aunt Jaya, my mother’s elder sister who lived with my grandparents here in Trichy. She was a disciplinarian if there ever was one. Her husband, Uncle Murali, on the other hand was a priest in the temple and was the sort of person who jumped at loud noises. Their daughter, Priya, was just eight months elder to me and worked in Bangalore. If I am not mistaken, she would be here by the evening train. Besides these folks, there were the aged relatives – my grandparents and their siblings. I tend to lose count of them.
Oh, I forgot to mention. There is also Uncle Sudharshan, whose house my stroll had brought me in the vicinity of. He was my mother’s elder brother and took a lot of interest in my career. At first glance, that seems to be a good thing. If I were to walk up to you and say “Ya, my relative takes a lot of interest in my career”, you might have said “Oh really? That is nice. You can get a lot of advice from him” or “Oh nice. That is really rare these days” or words to that general effect. But in my very next sentence, I would have corrected you – “No, you are mistaken. Every time I see him, he is continually trying to convince me that my job is crappy and that I should look at other vistas of opportunity.” There may still be a few of you who might consider that a good thing. I would again correct you by saying “The last advice he gave me was to open an Emu farm”. I would then proceed to put the final nail in the coffin with the following statement – “Oh and by the way, he owns a Chihuahua.” You would have no comeback, would you? Any sane person like yourself would know, you do not take career advice from a person who owns a Chihuahua. The first time I had come across the blasted little thing, I had stared in disbelief and remarked, “Uncle, you must be the only person south of the Godavari who owns such a specimen.” He took that as a compliment.
You might have wondered why I used the phrase ‘blasted little thing’ for the dog. You didn’t? Perhaps you should read the previous paragraph once more; somewhere around the third line from the end. Anyway, I should assure my readers, I have nothing against dogs in general. I love the species. When they run around, with their tails a-wag, tongues a-sticking-out and barks a-yap, presenting a picture of general happiness, there is nothing more fun to be around. But the Chihuahua in context didn’t take any interest in the aforementioned activities. She considered them actions reserved for lesser beings and breeds. As far as behaviours go she was aptly named Cleo, short for Cleopatra. She was aristocratic around the house; Uncle Sudharshan bowed to her every demand. I failed to understand why he didn’t get rid of the creature on first sight. She looked like a cross between an overgrown rat and a malnutritioned pig. I don’t know if dogs can read minds, but she seemed to know precisely what I thought of her. She made particularly sure that she treated me like a slave who had escaped the proper treatment in a previous life. She would never fail to bark her little head off at me, snap at my ankles when I entered the house and growl menacingly when I came in her vicinity.
So, it is quite understandable that I wished to walk straight onwards even though I was a stone’s throw away from my uncle’s place. I might have done so, if it weren’t for the person who was picking up the morning newspaper on that particular doorstep. “Dei Gopal!” I shouted, causing him to pause midway and look up at his cousin strolling towards him in a checkered shirt and cargo shorts. That, I might mention, is the usual attire of people who are South Indian but not quite.
“Hola!” he said in reply to my greeting and threw in a broad smile for good measure. Gopal, Uncle Sudharshan’s son, was a bloke who had missed my birthday by two days to choose to be born. After his mother had passed away when he was eight, he had been sent off to live with us in Mumbai to study. As a result, we had more or less grown up together, only separating at the time of college – he chose to pursue a career in business and took up a course in commerce. I, on the other hand, drifted with the currents into an engineering college. Post graduation, he had secured a decent-paying job. But he gave it up within a span of months to run a business from home. He bought used cars and leased them out to willing buyers. I had laughed off his suggestion when he first told me about his idea. But now I was having to silently eat my words after looking at the comfortable six figure earnings he would draw each month. Besides this, he was also a part-time stock investor. All in all, he was rather well-to-do; which was perhaps a necessity, considering his father’s obsessions. In spite of his gracious bank balance, he was down-to-earth and always ready with a kind word when one needed one. The chap for all times, I called him. He was holding out his arm for a fist-to-fist greeting as I approached him, which was presently acknowledged. We had established it as the non-childish alternative to the Hi-Five when we were back in school.
“What are you doing here so early? It’s barely seven. I thought you were coming by the evening train.”
“Nopes, I came by the morning train. I thought I’d arrive nice and early in time for a filter coffee or two.”
“Good point. Why don’t you come in?”
“No, I think I am better off outside. That four legged pocket demon of yours scares the hell out of me.”
“Oh don’t worry about her, she’s in the back with dad. Besides, she has been rather quiet since her litter.”
“Litter? You mean your dad managed to find a male Chihuahua in these parts?”
“Yep, some bloke from Palakkad. Dad found him on Facebook. He came down with the little tiger when Cleo was in heat. We had to barely introduce the horny bastards to each other. In fact, it took a fair bit of effort to separate them.”
“Wow, so it seems Cleo does have a fair bit of appeal atleast among dogs. I wonder what they see in her. Surely can’t be her personality or her feminine charm.”
“Tell me about it. This is their third litter together. This time there are 8 pups.”
“What?! Your house must be infested with these brats!”
“No no, dad sells off the pups. We only have Cleo. Also the Palakkad guy takes half of them.”
“Sells them to whom? The devil?”
“No da. It seems there are a fair number of takers for them. Each pup goes for nearly 15 grand. Sometimes even more. Dad is a good bargainer.”
I let out a low whistle. “So uncle has turned breeder now?”
“Ya, more or less. I would say he turns auctioneer during these times. Sells pups to the highest bidder.”
“Hmm. That’s handy.”
I stepped somewhat bravely into the living room. The chap was right, there was no sign of the pocket monster anywhere.
“Coffee?”
“No thanks, just water.”
“When is Priya coming?”
“By the 7.30 train from Bangalore I think. It’s been a while since I saw her.”
“She was here with her parents about a couple months back to visit the temple. I managed to meet her then.”
I graciously drank the cold water that he offered me. Back at my grandparent’s place, there was no refrigerator. They don’t believe in such technology. Cold water, as a result, is hard to come by. Gopal had headed back to the kitchen; judging from the tremendous clatter he was making, he was probably doing the dishes. I liked the look of this house. It was not as huge as the one down the street, but it was very cosy. For the two occupants, and that microscopic pest of a dog, it was sufficient.
The living room was a slightly elongated one, serving as a seating area at one end and home to a dining table at the other. Next to the dining table was the doorway to the kitchen, which was covered by a cloth curtain. On the other side of room was a narrow passageway which was flanked by the puja room, Cleo’s room/store room and washroom A in that order on the left and Uncle’s bedroom, Gopal’s bedroom and washroom B on the right. Gopal was never a fan of fancy things and his home was the most convincing example of it. There were just a few paintings on the walls of the living rooms that alluded to his taste for creativity, but all in all, the whole place was the Optimus Prime of simple households. Priya had once remarked, “You would make such an easy husband to maintain. So boring.”
My cousin stepped back out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his checkered veshti.
“So, what plans for the day?”
“I am not very sure. I just came today, didn’t really plot out my schedule. In fact I feel rather lazy. I think I’ll just sleep off the daylight.”
“Don’t be such an oaf. I am going to pick Priya up from the station in the evening and you are coming with me.”
“Oh, ok. I’ll tag along. By the way, Aunt Jaya cordially invites you for lunch.”
“I wonder how much of the cordiality was actually from her end.”
“Enough to wipe a nose on. Anyway, I’d better be off. I’ll see you back at the house.”
With that and a cheerful goodbye, I trotted back to my grandparents place completely unaware of the mucky series of events that Hari Chetlur would soon find himself in.
Posted by Pope on November 14, 2011
http://almostaverage.wordpress.com/2011/11/14/more-coffee/
Pope