This scorching summer

The Man from Madras Musings is visibly melting in the heat. Perhaps it is the onset of old age, or perhaps it is just addiction to air-conditioning. But as the years progress, MMM, who for years considered himself one of those hardy specimens whom the vagaries of the weather affect not, finds himself more and more dependent on artificial means of bringing down the ambient temperature. O for a beaker full of the warm south, sang Keats – and he could not have got it more wrong. What is needed is for the south to cool down. For that matter, so does the north. MMM learns that those in Delhi at 47 deg C are looking enviously at our city which, according to them, is enjoying an unfair advantage at 41 deg C.

Chennai by itself is now broadly divided into two groups – the first complains it is the heat that affects it, while the other says it is the humidity. Not that it has ever snowed in our city, but there is no denying that the summers are getting worse. This is chiefly because of the way we construct our homes and offices, and the way we dress. Of the first two, MMM will restrict himself to stating that this is not a city that can handle buildings in close proximity, low ceilings, glassed windows and shut-in interiors. But who is going to listen? Perhaps these are circumstances beyond our control; the population being such and the spaces being so insufficient, this would appear to be the construction style for the present and the foreseeable future.

But on the matter of apparel, MMM has much to cavil about. What has happened to the cottons that once made Madras a name to contend with the world over? Why has the populace abandoned that eminently suitable fabric for synthetic ones that are not meant for our climes? MMM wishes that the average Chennai man would give nylons and polyesters the go-by at least in summer and revert to cotton. MMM learns that one of the reasons for the former scoring over the latter is ease of maintenance – they don’t crease and wrinkle like cottons. Drip-dry and wear, appears to be the motto. Only the drip is more of sweat which, when dry, hits everyone’s nose.

Everything in India smells except the rose was a derogatory comment made during the British Raj. MMM would like to add that nothing smells worse than the average Chennai male clad in synthetics during the summer. And given that most of these characters feast rather well at lunchtime on onion- and garlic-flavoured foods, the odour gets compounded. Add smoking and frequent coffee drinking and you have something building up that could eventually blow away the entire ozone layer. It is time we had a movement against this couldn’t-care-less attitude towards body odour.

Get on with it, MMM, say the more delicately constituted among his readers. And so MMM will bring this diatribe against stinkers to a close. But not before making a few more observations. Firstly, this particular group has no class distinction – the top-notch executive who recycles clothes smells the same as the AC mechanic who comes home and leaves a rich odour behind. Ditto the chauffeur or a waiter at a restaurant. It all comes under the head of wrong choice of fabric. Secondly, the old lady of Tamil who has a statue on the beach instructed that we rinse our raiment even if it were a rag. That appears to have been given the go-by since her days. Lastly, can we expect the State Government to dispense branded deodorants along with everything else that it is giving?

Not for children?

When in doubt, go walkabout – this is one of the various maxims that The Man from Madras Musings follows. And doubts assail him often, their intensity peaking just when the deadline for this column nears. So it was last week when, keeping company with mad dogs and Englishmen, MMM too walked about in the Indian sun, seeking inspiration for the column.

Having wandered lonely like a clo(u)d, MMM did not come upon a host of golden daffodils (unlikely in Chennai where you could come across terrible things quite easily), but he did espy a raised platform enclosed by railings. A Corporation of Chennai (second oldest Corporation in the world and civic body in charge of the first city of modern India, in case you did not know) plaque boldly announced to the world that this was a playground for children. It also gave the name of the councillor during whose tenure this was inaugurated. And just in case the plaque missed the average passer-by’s attention, a large but fading digital banner broadcast to the world at large the name of the benefactor once again and thanked her profusely.

Years of wandering around Chennai has given MMM a heightened sixth sense about places where rich pickings could be had for this column and something told him that this spot was one. And so he looked inside.

The place could have been a dioramic representation of the Sahara. It was barren and the only relief features were shards from broken bottles that adults who evidently made merry here at sundown had left behind. A few reed mats also littered the place, indicating that the celebrants at sundown stayed on after the party and left only when the milk was delivered. If these regular party-goers had been in other strata of society, they could have featured in the third page of at least one newspaper of our city.

MMM had assumed that a play area for children would have a merry-go-round, a slide and perhaps a monkey bar/climbing frame, which for some reason is known as a jungle gym in our country. But of these MMM espied none. He, of course, realised that those who frequented this playground at happy hours did not need them – they got the effects of all this equipment from what they imbibed. But what of the children, MMM wondered.

And then MMM saw the sole object that could be remotely classified as a plaything. This was one of those synthetic rubber water tanks that are visible on most buildings and have probably contributed more to the ugliness of our city than anything else. This was being rolled around the place by a couple of urchins. That made MMM realise that our Corporation and its councillor had achieved their stated objective. All other aspects, such as the photo-op during the inauguration of the play area and the obligatory news report, not to mention the more permanent foundation plaque and the semi-permanent banner, were merely incidental benefits, of course.

Tailpiece

‘Pimp up your home’ screamed a link on the web edition of one of our ultra-respectable newspapers often compared to a Vaishnavite deity on a once wide thoroughfare. The Man from Madras Musings could not believe his eyes. He later learnt that the expression means to make something over-decorative with flashy accessories. MMM realised he had to change with the times, particularly when it comes to language.

-MMM