Bouncing in Perambur

The Man from Madras Musings had taken the left when he ought to have turned right. This was a regular beat of MMM’s and he was fairly sure of his route and yet he had taken the wrong turn. This was at Perambur, the land that God and the Corporation have largely forgotten. And having taken left, MMM drove on, fairly sure of his destination, which was the pristine and verdant campus of a hallowed industrial house of the city.

It was only after MMM had driven quite a bit that he came to realise that he was lost and the time had come to make enquiries. Now, Perambur is not one of those localities where you can stop at any place, for the roads are so narrow that chances are that someone or something or the other will be at your back, hooting and encouraging you to move on. And so it was quite some time after realising that he was lost that MMM was able to ask anyone for the correct route. But a blameless life of good deeds always has its benefits. MMM was assured that all was not lost and that he had only to do an about turn and drive down yonder street to arrive at his destination.

The U-turn was an adventure by itself, but on that MMM will not dwell, for he has much to say on what transpired thereafter. The thoroughfare that MMM was asked to take after the U-turn rejoiced in the name of Raghavan Street and one look at it told MMM that to live/drive/walk there you did need the grace of the bow-wielding God who did demons in.

Raghavan Street, it appeared, had begun life as a fairly respectable rue. There were signs to indicate that at some stage in its life, it had had a decent coating of macadam. But, thereafter, Nature, it appeared, had moved in and was refusing to vacate. The road bore traces of not only the present monsoon but also all of its predecessors, dating back to prehistory. There were large puddles, small puddles, deep puddles and long puddles. Their relative ages could easily be identified by the colour of stagnant water. The older ones were a Nile-green with housing colonies for mosquitoes being located in them. To MMM it appeared that these mosquitoes must have booked themselves into their version of gated communities, with swimming pools thrown in.

True MMM reflected as he lurched and tossed about in his vehicle, Chennai’s streets and roads are not free of potholes and ruts. But Raghavan Street was in reality a series of potholes with a few patches of road in between. As to the potholes, we may have heard of bumps and troughs, but whoever has heard of hills and dales in a city street? After diving deep into every abyss, MMM’s car would emerge and begin climbing up what appeared to be a minor mountain. And all the while there was the fear of what lurked on the other side. It could be sloping valley, but it could also be cliff.

Among the various complaints that MMM suffers from (and all of which are brushed aside as states of the mind by his good lady, also known as She Who Must Be Obeyed), poor eyesight and a bad back are but two. (He also suffers from a weak stomach but that is neither here nor there.) If the multiple levels on the road were bad enough on the eye, the jerks and jumps were tortuous to MMM’s rear. The local residents were, however, unlike MMM, a resilient lot and encouraged him with word and gesture. The thought did occur to MMM that they were perhaps hoping that MMM’s car would do what road rollers ought to have done.

After a heroic struggle, MMM did emerge successfully and the first thing that struck his eye was a signboard that said ‘Singara Chennai, world-class city’.

Of MMS & GPS

The Season for Music is gathering steam and The Man from Madras Musings is bracing himself for an onslaught – not of music but of invitations to attend concerts. These come from what is known as the band of ‘young and upcoming musicians’ which, in Carnatic music, can mean those up to the age of sixty or so, after which they are labelled veterans.

MMM, being of a sympathetic nature, tries to oblige as many as possible. But of late, the number of invitations has grown to unmanageable numbers. This is because the methods of sending invitations have also multiplied. There was a time when these would come by mail and MMM could get away by saying that he never received them and put the blame on the postal system. Then came the e-mail wave and MMM could still get by saying that somehow these never reached him and could the sender have perhaps sent the invites to a wrong ID? But nowadays many put up event notices on Facebook and occasionally Tweet or use Whatsapp to publicise them. These are a little less possible to avoid. But what can never be missed, and which MMM has come to dread, are the MMS – Mother Mail Service and GPS – Grandfather Plaguing Service.

MMS is where the mom of the musician is tech-savvy, phone-savvy, personal-contact savvy, post-savvy and is savvy enough to use all these to get you to receive an invitation in some form or the other. If all these fail, then MMM would not be surprised if even the pigeon post were employed. The GPS believes in direct attack. It lurks in places where MMM and others of his kind, known to be culture vultures, flock and waits for a suitable moment. Then, having identified its prey, the old GPS advances, fixing its victim with a paralysing gaze. Having arrived up close, it then begins digging deep into the innards of its costume, all the while holding its prey by sheer eye-power. Then it coos like a dove, beams like a searchlight courtesy the latest in denture technology and holds out a printed invitation. The apple of its eye, says the GPS, is performing at such and such location and it would be good if MMM attended. It does not mention it, but its tone of voice indicates that since it had uncomplainingly changed MMM’s diapers when MMM was young and also stood MMM the occasional bar of chocolate, it is time MMM paid back. And so MMM capitulates, grits his teeth and attends the concert of the apple.

The reward is another invitation for yet another performance by apple. And thus it is that MMM becomes wary and shifty eyed as he goes from sabha to sabha. Watching out for MMS/GPS is tough work. The season has its drawbacks.

What’s this?!

Walking around Mylapore, The Man from Madras Musings was brought to a dead halt on seeing the message below. Is it really what it is or is it just a case of someone using an ‘&’ in the mistaken belief that it is a short form for an alias? On that happy note, here’s to a Happy New Year.

– MMM