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.