Physician, heal thyself
The Man from Madras Musings, as you are aware, is not getting any younger. And as he advances in years, parts that he never knew existed have suddenly begun to make themselves manifest by niggling aches and pains. There are some others that begin moving whenever MMM stops to rest but of those he will not dwell on, for it is the niggling achers and painers that demand attention.
One among these had become particularly vociferous in the last few months and even MMM's good lady who sternly believes that all illnesses are a state of mind had to admit that something had to be done about it. Several years earlier MMM had been afflicted by back-trouble and had taken to going around looking like a clothes-hanger and a particular doctor had set him right. This time too it was decided that the same person ought to be contacted.
But time the great healer also does other strange things. In the interregnum between the time when MMM was bent double and when he was standing straight but walking with a hobble, this physician had expanded manifold. By which MMM does not mean in terms of avoirdupois but in terms of clientele. This therefore demanded the opening of several branches and to one of these MMM was directed. What about the main doctor, asked MMM whereupon he was looked at pityingly and told that his services were reserved only for very advanced cases. In comparison it was implied that MMM was in the kindergarten of ailments.
The stripling that gave MMM the once over declared that it all had to do with MMM's posture. A set of exercises, said the young 'un, would set MMM right in no time at all. He had to come for a series of training sessions at the end of which MMM could give Rudolf Nureyev a run for his money. The money for this series of lessons was paid in advance and MMM duly joined in.
A couple of sessions later, MMM found that he was physically in the pink and so was the nagging pain, which awoke bright and early and compellingly demanded attention. On MMM's mentioning this he was told that it was always that way in these sessions and then, one day, the pain would vanish. The exercise sessions were always accompanied by some pleasant conversation during which the trainer carefully elicited information as to what MMM's profession was, where he lived, what car he used and which clubs he was a member of. By the third session, by which time the pain was in its third degree, MMM's financial status was an open book at least as far as the doctor's clinic was concerned.
On the fourth session, MMM had barely hobbled in when he was asked as to whether he would like to run a marathon. Now this had always been one of MMM's secret ambitions. But age makes you wary and so MMM said that he would think about it. Whereupon the trainer, rather in the manner of P James, suddenly produced a pink brochure that had on its cover a series of before-and-after pictures of men and women who had been barrel-shaped and later become svelte runners. The trainer fixed MMM with a compelling eye and said that he ought to sign on the dotted line. The programme was for one year, or 300 sessions, at the end of which MMM would be the reincarnation of Phidippides. The fee, said the trainer, all the while keeping a searchlight-like look on MMM, was Rs xxxxxx (six digits in all). Payment could be made in one shot or in easy instalments, and in the latter case it would be Rs xxxxxx plus compound interest.
It was left to MMM to point out a small obstacle. What of the pain that prevented MMM from walking normally? Would that not have to be cured before MMM could run? "Oh that," said the trainer waving his arm airily, "it was all a state of the mind."
MMM has since not gone back to the trainer. The pain has subsided to manageable levels and MMM and it have entered into an arms-length relationship, each respecting the other's space. There have been calls from the clinic asking whether MMM is interested in training for the marathon but nobody has asked as to why MMM dropped out for days into the training and how his original complaint was. MMM's good lady has had the satisfaction of saying that she had told MMM so. And that is that.
Airport abominations
The more The Man from Madras Musings travels to and from the new Chennai airport terminal, the more convinced he is that it has taken the city further away from its avowed goal of becoming Singapore-on-the-Cooum. MMM has written in detail earlier on this topic and so this time he will contain himself to writing on the toilets alone. Before you hurriedly move on, let MMM assure you that what follows is not a graphic description of what MMM saw. Writing on that can fill several columns but MMM will desist.
Firstly, the toilets are immense. They are meant more for communal easements and not solitary communion with nature. The water closets are already missing fittings – here a flush knob, there a broken handle and everywhere stained pans. The layout of the toilets is so poor that the closet is at one end of the immense partitions and the toilet rolls are at the other end. You literally need to make a long arm to access the rolls, if they are ever there that is.
And then you come across what are euphemistically termed EWC – (Eastern Water Closets?). These are the squatting variety and today it is perhaps only the very elderly or traditional who use these. Even they would find the task difficult, for the EWCs are built on raised platforms that are of immense height. You need to be a colossus if you have to climb on to these for fulfilling certain bodily functions. Taken all in all, a bad job and makes you almost pine for the old airport with its peeling doors, creaking escalators and slow-moving baggage carousels.
Leaving the toilets aside, MMM also had the immense satisfaction of finally locating an electric socket that worked. This being an 'international' airport terminal, it has row after row of electric sockets for charging your gadgets. But perhaps because Chennai is power-starved, supply has been restricted to very few of them. MMM had barely located one and plugged his laptop in when he noticed a queue forming behind him. Get on with it was the unspoken message from everyone in this line.
Be Indian buy foreign
How do you know that Chennai's domestic terminal is truly international? Well, The Man from Madras Musings has the correct answer. The only outlet selling Indian food is outside the terminal. All the food counters inside sell only pizzas, milkshakes and pastas. There is also a restaurant whose prices are flights of fancy but of that less said the better. – MMM
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