Madras, Abridged

Appellations of Chennai's localities that are particularly hard on the tongue, especially to those not knowing Tamil, co-exist in simple avatars, making lives easier for its teeming citizens


If brevity constitutes the art of articulation, then Chennaittes are its past-masters. Proof of it lies in the names of some of its localities, which are in a state of perpetual minimalism. Those finding it difficult to enunciate the names of its localities could derive help from nomenclatures – a la the IUPAC for anything chemistry – that ensure you do not have a tongue-twister for an address.

From those steeped in the Sangam era of Tamil literature to their present-day trendy abbreviations or Anglicized versions, or those named after politicos, the names of Chennai’s localities could very well be Exhibit A in The Louvre of Pluralism and Co-existence. But we digress.

Did someone say floccinaucinihilipilification is the longest word in English? Or that Eyjafjallajökull (remember the volcanic eruption in Iceland that disrupted flights over half the globe?) seems unwieldy to read? Reading the names of some of Chennai’s localities, too, could be a demonstration of the phrase “as slippery as an eel”, making tongue twisters seem like child’s play. Take Valasaravakkam, for instance, a locality which was once in the city’s suburbs, but now well within its orb. Chances are, even the average Tamilian might flounder while reading it. Ditto with Virugambakkam, Nungambakkam or Injambakkam  – to name a microscopic few. In fact, save for edifices such as name-boards on the MTC buses or post-offices, few might recognise them by their full names.

And banish the thought that Chennai is also the metropolis of literary faux pases, for, a rather irrational technique helps subvert it. Applicable for names ending with ‘-am’, it involves abbreviating and appending them with the suffix ‘-ai’. Which means, Valasaravakkam gets reduced to Valasai, Nungamabakkam to Nungai and Virugambakkam to Virugai. Why, even the city mayor calls himself Saidai (Saidapet) S Duraisamy. Voila. How ingenious! Interviewers, take note – one can’t get any more terse, and yet convey the meaning.

Go ahead, tell someone that this phenomenon laid the foundations for SMS lingo. Chances are, no one would dare to contest it.

Going by the same logic, a Madurantakam should get reduced to Madurai; Acharapakkam to Acharai; and Villivakkam must assume the identity of Villivai, but no, they do not. Reason? Because the city is exceptionally sunny right round the year. Because a certain N Srinivasan once became the president of the Board for Cricket Control in India, and had to be ousted. Because the filter coffee here tastes like heaven. Because the Tamil Nadu chief minister is also its mother. Because actor Rajinikanth doesn't wear wigs at public functions, revealing his bald pate.

That’s as rational as one can get.

And then we have the acronyms representing landmarks of the city – EA, TIDEL, CMBT, LIC, DMS, TVS, DPI, NIFT  -- expanding which would, in all probability, elicit furrowed eyebrows, puzzled or dirty looks (Trust me, I am speaking out of experience!). Also, pat yourself on the back if you thought of the acronym-prefixed localities such as K K Nagar, M G R Nagar or M K B Nagar. 

Short and sweet? OMG, this is 2G2BT, u kno!!

K for… 'Kazhagam'

If words were to encapsulate the ethos and characteristics of a city with equal measure, then, for Chennai, the Tamil word kazhagam would make the cut, easily by a mile.

No other word is as omnipresent in this burgeoning southern metropolis. Whether you make an effort to ignore it or not, whether you loath it or invite it, the kazhagam is out there, staring at you from everywhere.

How does one check the veracity of the above statements? Head in to the city with an observant eye, and with the intention of counting the instances of the rendezvous with that ubiquitous word. Board any MTC (Metropolitan Transport Corporation) bus, but before doing so, take note of the letterings on its sides; board a share auto – that can be accurately described as a cross between a utility truck and an autorickshaw, which performs the tasks of both – proceed to some non-decrepit place, but while paying the fare after haggling with the driver, read the sticker of the union to which it belongs. The city’s railway network too falls under the ambit of the kazhagam, if the encyclopedia of posters on strikes and elections that greet you there are any indicator.

The regional media is no exception, either. Switch on the television or browse the newspapers and you would realise how vital this innocuous word is to the political sphere of the state. In fact, no politics is possible in Tamil Nadu without it. From the DK founded in the pre-Indepedence era to the not so recent DMDK, or the principal Dravidian parties – the polemic DMK and AIADMK – every political outfit worth its salt is a something only if it has been suffixed with K (Is it any coincidence that the fortunes of the national political parties, the BJP and Congress, here are as extinct as the dodo?).

It may not sound outrageous to suggest that kazhagam is an element whose abundance in the city is not exceeded even by the public cut-outs and hoardings of superstar Rajinikanth, the dictatorial Chief Minister J Jayalalithaa, the DMK’s ‘talk-ever achieve-never’ TESO conferences or the ever-controversial Swami Nityananda.

But pray what does this word mean, enabling its usage all over?

Kazhagam stands for group/ outfit/ unit, and its synonyms, of course. I am well served by the new-age source of non-authentic information that is readily referenced, Wikipedia, for an attestation. This means that the many Ks of TN, DMK, AIADMK and their like, are kazhagams for development (never mind the paradox, though).

Its usage construed as an overpowering fixation by some and a puzzling fetish by a few others, what with the Tamil language endowed with many synonyms, an encounter with the kazhagam is inevitable while traversing the landscape of Chennai.

An umbilical cord, via the airwaves

Ilayaraja: Composer non-pareil

                               

Serendipity

(noun)
The occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way: “a fortunate stroke of serendipity”

Like the little girl tumbling down the rabbit hole, in Lewis Carrol’s Alice in Wonderland.

Like me listening to Chennai’s FM channels by chance, that too late at night, bringing me face-to-face (okay, ear-to-ear) with their total dependence on a composer who virtually ruled Tamil cinema in the late 70s and 80s: Gnanadesikan aka Ilayaraaja.

In what can be termed a metro-to-retro makeover in an instant, the channels, which would until late evening churn out the latest chartbusters, seek refuge, en masse, in the hits of the Isaignani, at the stroke of 9. (Those interested in phenomena such as multiple personality disorders have a case study on their hands.) This is in addition to his compositions in recent Tamil releases occupying their fair share of airspace in the pre-9 pm slots (NeethaneEn Ponvasantham, for instance), much like a senior cricketer proving his mettle in the game’s latest avatar, T20.

                                                          

Maestros in medley

Go ahead, say aloud, “Old is gold.”

My chance encounter with the city’s airwaves post 9 pm led to some rather interesting revelations.

One channel (no names, no endorsements!) has a programme laid out, especially for those with aching hearts, doling out drama by the tonne. Respondents either call up or mail experiences of their trysts with love – usually the jilted or spurned – which the RJ reads out in an almost funereal tone, his voice modulated by the mood of the correspondence. A sombre mail usually means a token show of sympathy and reassurance from the radio jockey, followed by the playing of tracks from movies that involve its protagonist grappling with the nuances of love (Think O Priya Priya… from the Nagarjuna starrer Geethanjali; Kuyil pattu… from En Rasavin Manasile). However, if it’s a telephonic conversation, then the RJ plays to the gallery, the dialogues replete with tears, wails and sorrow; putting to shame a Romeo and Juliet or a Devdas.

Oprah, Arnab, are you listening?

Another FM channel is more direct, perhaps seeking the easy way out. The RJ here proceeds methodically, talking about the movie from which the song is, and then its cast, providing enough content that could fill a Wikipedia stub before playing it. Interactions with listeners are limited to announcing the names of respondents and the song requests they have placed for.

With Kollywood biggies Rajinikanth and Kamal Haasan;
Ilayaraja has composed music for many of their movies

Then there are the motley group of channels, that play the Isaignani’s hits back-to-back and fall silent at the stroke of midnight. No comperes, no explanations, no time-fillers.

And then there is the government-owned FM channel that makes amply clear that it belongs to an altogether different planet. Songs are punctuated by breaks of random durations, with the radio-jockeys choosing to make themselves heard as they please, in the midst of government – state and central – ads, from family planning to polio control; in addition to those that stress the nation’s on the road to prosperity. So, the lilting Kuzhaloodhum Kannanukku… or the funky number that begins with a burst of Spanish guitars, Raakkamma Kaiya Thattu… may be interrupted with the ring of a bell, followed by a mechanical, sonorous recitation of the implementation of government schemes, in addition to why it has redefined success.

And we thought Ripley’s ‘Believe it or not’ was screened only on TV.

In one of his hit numbers Ilayaraaja may have likened Tamil Nadu to paradise (Sorgame enralum athu namma oora...); but this musician who began his cinematic career in 1976 with the Tamil film Annakkili has been re-authoring Milton’s “Paradise Regained”, dusk after dusk.

I bribed a journalist!

It isn’t unusual for a journalist in Chennai to encounter instances of casual bribery. Only, it happens regularly on their line of duty

In the journalistic circles of Chennai, it is simply referred to as the “cover”.

Possessing the subtlety of a government lobby and the crudity of paying for a harlot’s services, the “cover” is, simply put, a monetary favour to a media reporter/ photographer in exchange for better coverage.

Cover and thy shall be covered with glory, in print or on TV.

Mediamen in most press conferences and symposia in the city’s glitzy star hotels (repeat: most, not all; italicise, bold, underline) and even protests by the bourgeoisie, including slum dwellers, are, invariably, handed over glossy looking packages containing a host of gifts ranging from diaries to pens, folders, pamphlets and literature about the event in question (also known as the ‘press release’) and, of course, the “cover” – an innocuous looking envelope containing currency. The handing of the cover is a process of convenience: no eyebrows are raised; it is as essential as the greasing of palms at the local government office for a document. In crude terms, it is insurance, a surety, for positive — at least definite — media coverage. 

One incident would serve as a testimony. According to an account, the organiser of a presser, an industry executive and a newcomer to the city, was taken aback when certain scribes, TV and press reporters alike, stipulated to him the phenomenon in no uncertain terms and stormed out in a huff.

Decay of morals, did someone say?

Lots may have been written about paid news, the bubonic plague of the media, but no one talks of the cover phenomenon, which may, of course, be referred to by other words elsewhere. While the former is dependent on the publication’s allegiances (surprise, surprise!), the latter can be a test of character for scribes.

This phenomenon, in my understanding, can be distilled down to the question: gift or graft? While accepting tid-bits at such events surely do not amount to a crime, the scope to enhance the grandness of the tid-bit (till it ceases to be one) always exists. This is when the transgression into graft happens.

That this is reading too much into hospitality and distorting it is a matter of conjecture; however, the inducement a journalist faces, when in a ‘yet so near and yet so far’ situation is for real. I must, however, reiterate that not all organisers of pressers are ATMs for journalists and the latter a bunch of salivating, money-minded chauvinists.

It may also be pertinent to note that the pay packages of scribes of regional TV channels and dailies, in particular, is a pittance when compared to their English counterparts. Such organisations, on their part (although reminiscent of Goebbel’s — he, of Hitler’s lieutenants — theory, I must remind that this is hearsay!) reportedly encourage their employees to satisfy their financial needs via such events. Behold, Krugman, Amartya Sen, mutual co-existence could never have been illustrated better. And then there are stringers, scribes working in non-urban centres, for whom “take a hike” is more a swear word than words printed on their payslips.

Journalists, as an occupational hazard, need to socialise (and I don’t mean of the Rani Mukherjee in No One Killed Jessica kind). Lunches or drinks at five-star hotels or tee-offs with industry honchos offer us that rare opportunity to deconstruct them, for the benefit of the public and publication. Tales also abound, of senior scribes who would not even accept a glass of water at such events.

However, what matters, above all, is public perception. If the public begins to slot us along with the corrupt, need anything be said about the media’s credibility?

Forget the next 2G or the CWG expose; if the Fourth Estate is to scrub India squeaky clean, it will have to begin from its own Aegean Stables.

Tea stalls: Of university and diversity

Tea stalls in Chennai — outright common, yet unique

Beverages have been totemic of the civilisations in which they were consumed. The Soma Baana (said to be a distilled form of arrack) from the days of the Mahabharatha to the beer of Munich, swilled in copious amounts during the Oktoberfest (as well), testify to this. Likewise, Chennai, too, has its beverage.

And here’s a knock on the head for those claiming that filter coffee — yes, it was the jingle for an advertisement of Leo Coffee that brought an unheralded A R Rahman to movie director Mani Ratnam’s notice; the rest as the cliché goes, is history — bags the title. Such people would cite its intrinsic link with the city’s heritage by pointing out its availability in the canteens of the various Kacheri Sabhas -- the Narada and Krishna Gana Sabhas to name a few, since their inception. “After all, no meal can be deemed as proper unless it is washed down with a cup of filter/ degree coffee,” they’d add. Every restaurant, be it the new or the old, the Triplicane Ratna Café, the Saravana Bhavan or the newly-sprouted Madras Café outlets, have it on their menus.

This roadside tea stall selling filter coffee
proved to be an epiphany to this writer

However, no enumeration is needed to prove that nothing could be farther from the truth. In fact, tea, and not coffee, could rightfully stake claim to the title. This is, of course, under the premise that sales of the wares of the hordes of the city’s TASMAC shops (the government-owned liquor stores) are not considered.

Tea, teyilai, theneer…
The labyrinthine network that is the roads of Chennai abides by the dictum: “We may or may not be metalled or paved, but we would certainly have at least one tea stall in our midst.” Be it the roads in upmarket R A Puram or Besant Nagar or Royapuram — portrayed infamously by Kollywood, the portmanteau for the Tamil film industry, as the city's dark underbelly — the tea stall (theneer viduthi in Tamil) could be the city’s calling card to omnipresence.

These stalls are an Encycloapaedia Britannica unto themselves. From the road-side vendor with his cycle retro-fitted with a tray carrying flasks of tea (in some cases milk, coffee and Boost and Horlicks, too); to the ramshackle stall selling short-eats such as bajji, bonda and samosa, duly wrapped in paper; to those selling international magazines (Maxim and The Economist included!) and newspapers, we have proof of unity in diversity.

However, the element of homogeneity in this diversity is so striking that it may be safe to declare that a Vaastu-shastra, a set of laws and rules for construction, of tea stalls, is a treatise waiting to be authored. Here's why:
·         For one, the de-rigueur arrangement includes locating the stove at or near the entrance; you don't have a stove at the entrance, you don't have a tea-stall. Is it to lure customers? That could be an open-ended question
·         The cash counter is usually located to the left of the stove, and is about three-fourths the size of the stove counter. Tea-stall norms (TSN, from now on) dictate that currency and eatables jostle for space, with boxes containing currency and snacks being snug neighbours
·         The exhaust fan, for some inexplicable reason, is, in most cases, located at the eye-level of the tea master or ‘master’
·         Tables and chairs, if present, are usually inside, and visitors have to make their way past the counter and stove – doubtless a daunting task. This zone could be your place straight from heaven or hell depending on your affinity for tobacco set alight; non-smokers are, hence, advised to avoid the ‘s-zone’
·         Needless to say, TSN also dictates that kettles, stoves and boilers form part of most of tea stalls, as would other obvious ingredients such as sugar and cooking gas; add to the list vessels containing chutney and sambhar if it doles out snacks too.
·         Want your tea brewed a little stronger? Then wait for the vendor to extricate his swimming pool cleaner-like strainer from the kettle, containing tea dust used since the beginning of the day, and pour your brew through it multiple times, until the desired ‘strength’ is achieved. Black tea aficionado? Just ask for the kattan-chaaya.

Here’s one phenomenon that we may be able to beat the Chinese without breaking into a huff: tea pouring, in which Chennai’s vendors have transcended every fathomable barrier. You think the vendor’s standing arms akimbo, you think he has unsheathed a sword; everything happens in a flash that you close your eyes in fright; however, he hands you the cup of brimming hot tea humbly, like a temple elephant.

Tea may be downed in generous amounts in Chennai, but its brew masters, by tradition, hail from God’s own country with which Tamil Nadu has a long-standing water dispute. Exceptions to this rule exist, of course, which are few and far in between (the joke that Neil Armstrong was flabbergasted to encounter a Malayali tea vendor in the moon isn’t without its empirical evidence, after all!).