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(ARCHIVE) VOL. XXIII NO. 1, April 16-30, 2013
Short 'N' Snappy

The quality of road signs

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

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

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

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

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

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

Voice from the past

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tailpiece

The city is certainly heading for a water crisis, say the newspapers. The Man from Madras Musings strongly recommends the use of paper instead. Of that we have plenty, given the poster war, which has reached unprecedented heights. The followers of the Treasure House of Compassion and those of the River Deity are at loggerheads as always. The latest, in nursery rhyme fashion, claims that the latter has fame while the former and family have shame. It took MMM back by several decades to when he was young and cherubic. He would have added “Nicely Wanted” as a concluding line. For those who do not know the local language, this expression may be a bit of a puzzle and MMM requests those who do know to please explain it to those who don’t. As they say in local parlance, MMM cannot able to do it.

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.

MMM

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