Yelelo Ailasa - Hauling up the moottais!

Again, a post about what happens right around us. Why do construction workers in Chennai, and I presume also other parts of India, (especially women, often with no slippers) climb many many stories carrying loads and loads of bricks and sand in baands? (for those who don't know chaste urban thamizh, baand = a concave metallic carrier instrument used for transporting building materials like cement and sand).

Why can't they use a pulley (which is a primitive iron age tool) from the top of the building to pull these loads? Is it to generate employment and use the excess unskilled human capital that India has in abundance? Nope. Surely, the building contractors don't give two hoots about such stuff. Then is it that pulleys are costlier than manual labour in India? Negative, again. This certainly can't be the case. Has the thought not occurred to the construction guys till now? Nobelium, yet again! After employing all those limited probability skills at my disposal, taking into consideration 5000 years of India's civilisation, over 1.2 billion brains inhabiting it at present, this seems highly improbable.

What then is the reason, I wonder. I can't figure out the reason. May be I'm again being that ignorant superficial onlooker who doesn't really understand why things work the way they do. But I was relieved to see that such a machine (do forgive me for my lack of imagination in civil/mech. engineering terms), obviously more advanced than a pulley, was employed in the premises of the Anna Centenary Library. I managed to get a snap of it in operation, though it meant waiting for some minutes and enduring some awkward glances.

But what didn't change was this.

Why is there a coin shortage in India?

I have often wondered why everyone is stingy with their coins here, in our India. Can't people just go to the bank and get desired coins for the desired amount of money and live in peace? Especially people whose profession demands daily dealings with a lot of change, like autokars and vendors. As ever, it turns out that I've been this naive, idiotic on-looker who whinges without understanding the way things really work.

Going into the details, Shyam's committee on the Indian Currency System Today presents the following data on the topic:

Here's why India is short on coins. The volume of rupee coins and notes is controlled by the RBI. Under its direction, the total number of rupee coins in circulation in India is around Rs. 9984 crores! (as of 2008-09)

Now coming to Rupee notes, whose printing is also the monopoly of the RBI (Issue Dept.), currencies worth around Rs. 7,88,279 crores are issued (as of 2009-10).

This explains why we're always short of coins here. Too many notes, too little coins. As simple math would point out, the note-coin ratio is atleast around 80:1. Now, I did get curious as to why the Reserve Bank has this partiality towards currency notes, but me being just a Shikari Shambu and no Sherlock Holmes, couldn't muster up the courage to go deeper and read more boring documents to get the answer. However, the wise, enlightened, economic crocodiles who read this post are welcome to give their thoughts and justifications.

Recommendations of the committee:
Let's not anymore whinge about the helpless autokars. Let's form one auto-passenger union to go and jointly whinge before the gates of the RBI!

Ore Galeej baa!

Welcome to Chennai. Smellcome, rather! I'm a product of Chennai, totally. But of late, there are two things about this city that has been tickling my tolerance very much. So here are those tolerance ticklers (TTs), listed in descending order of their intensity and score in the tickle-o-meter.

No. 1. The horror of spit: (Tickle-o-meter scale - 8.3)



Ah, you see this in all varieties, kinds, colours and is often preceded or accompanied by a range of highly vocalised throat sounds. There are amateur and professional spitters. Professionals are somewhat tolerable, but the amateurs are real killers. They don't streamline their spit like the pros you see. Especially when you travel in a crowded suburban Chennai train, you find these sprayers come out before you in footboard and bless their fellow passengers with a liberal spray of half a litre of a maroon coloured concoction. They miss holi now and again, I guess. In the trains, autos, buses, lifts, stairs, malls, platforms, markets and roads, it is there. It is here, it is there, it is every-bloody-where. Why doesn't the Indian government do us Chennai-ites a favour and name this place the Spiti valley instead of giving the coveted name to that ugly place in the Himalayas? After all, we'd be proud to call ourselves the 'spitites'. If early English rhymers visited present day Chennai, they'd probably come up with a rhyme like this:

Old MacDomer had a Pan Parag,
Eee - I - eee - I - O
After that he had a beeda,
Eee - I - eee - I - O,
With a spit spit here, and a spit spit there,
here a spit, there a spit,
everywhere a spit spit.
Old MacDomer had a Pan Parag,
Eee - I - eee - I - O..........

No. 2. St. Autodriver: (Tickle-o-meter scale - 7.6)



These spiritual people wear khakhi instead of white or saffron and are a product of the Autostand monastery. They are probably the second best known saints in Chennai after St. Thomas. There are five unbreakable vows that the St. Autodirivers follow. These are:

1. Charge five times the actual amount.
2. Never ever run your meter.
3. Scold and ridicule other vehicle-users, in a vulgar way, if possible.
4. Follow Heisenberg's Auto Priciple: Never allow any other vehicle to use the same road at the same time conveniently, when you're driving your auto.
5. Fight for more money once you drop your passenger off.

In keeping with the proud tradition of the Spitites, they also spit at every possible traffic signal. When they follow these rules meticulously, they are raised in the Autostand Monastery's heirarchy as follows:

Autoteur - Beginner
Automoboil - Rising star
Maverickshaw - Top notch - pain in the right place - maverick of the auto stand.

I do strongly recommend these two totally heartening experiences for tourists who visit Chennai for the first time. Don't you dare miss them or mess with them!

Don't think twice, it's alright!

The verse 'Don't think twice, it's alright!' is from one of Bob Dylan's songs which has always managed to invoke in me an amused smile or a bemused shake of my head. The similarity between the song and this post ends with the title. While the song is about Bob dumping a babe in characteristic style, this post is about what's happening with me right now.

My life these days has become very interesting. I know I enjoy what I'm doing but I keep thinking where this'll lead me in the long run. I don't know if there is any definite answer to such a question. So i just wanna throw my thoughts out into a void right now and be happy with it. And yeah, it is a poem this time around (The things I do to keep a blog going!!!).


Wakey wakey 'tis now when the milkman knocks,
Ah, the idea of getting up does sound like bollocks;
But oh, I've crossed three cycles of snooze already,
So I drag myself out and say - Hey there mate, Howdy?
Did I get enough sleep or did I stay late last night?
Well, don't think twice, it's alright!

Office beckons and it's indeed a vibrant team that I work with,
Variety of mates - some funny, some focused, some blobby, some lithe;
For the lucky sake of Grand Merlin's beard or Lord Ganesh's belly,
I haven't yet taken them for granted, nor do I want to be that silly.
Is my boss a Tenali Raman with a hearty smile or a Forrest Gump with trousers tight?
Well, do not think twice, it's quite alright!

Slowly comes Chennai's dusk and with it some yearning for laziness,
Yet more appealing is the thought of working now to push yourself to weariness;
Finally, do I wrap up at night and move over to a half-asleep train's extreme,
And there is this feeling of lightness that many a times fills my bloodstream;
I guess I just feel light - that lightness special to a starter in life's limewire,
Who neither bears the burden of success nor the heaviness of failure.

But hey! Don't you think twice, it's alright!

Boxer - 8994

So it's been two months since I came back to Chennai. I'm employed now but thankfully in such a place that nourishes and motivates me. I really like the profession, the place and the people. So instead of embarking on a journey of professionalism, formal suits, fake smiles and omnipresent boredom, this place hands me short adventure packages disguised as projects and encourages me to think (laterally, linearly, spherico-rhomboidically and hyperbolic-geometrically). I enjoy working in this 'wonder la' office.

I travel to my office oft times by train. But sometimes I ride my dad's Kawasaki Bajaj Boxer (note: with a registartion number - 8994) to reach the spot. This bike is at least 10 years old but somehow manages to look rickety and ancient, worse than the ones you might find in the rat bikes section of Oley's scoot-a-rama, thanks to the wonderful care and maintenance bestowed on it. The bike's horn, front brake, indicators and headlights are absolutely non-functional. But what we want is for it to run. And that it does, if with an occasional whimpering (because of an anemic engine) and regular bumps (because of a pot-bellied tyre). It has managed to shame, stain, dishonour and ridicule me in many major, moderate and minor roads of Chennai with a sense of timing that'll make Charlie Chaplin feel insecure.

Let me site a classic example. Once when I finished being the Master of Ceremony for one of our department activities in MCC, I was surrounded by some good hearts who generously congratulated me. Acting modest, I congratulated them in return for being such a wonderful audience and making the show interactive. Proceeding thus our little mutual admiration club reached the exit. I waved at my friends who were crossing the road to catch a train and kick-started my Boxer 8994. Making a U-turn I turned the bike around my friends simultaneously waving at them (yet managing to maintain a modest body posture!!). When this U-turn victory waving parade got over, I got stuck behind a bus and applied brakes. And the rebellious boxer let out a voluminous groan - Crrreeeeeeeeeekkkk! Poised at the brink of modesty now, I looked around at my friends (with an apologetically embarrassed look). Half of them feigned not knowing me, while the rest were reeling with laughter. That was your best joke, though it didn't come on stage, their eyes said. With an awkward it-happens look, I shifted gears and dragged the wretched dilapidation back home.

The moody bike's mischief reached a new level yesterday when after office I wrestled with it for close to an hour trying all sorts of bike wizardry to start it. There was one bike-aware soul who took pity on me and helped me for half an hour but the stubborn brat 8994 did not budge. So I left it at that and went back home thinking hard on how I can teach a lesson to this bullishly adamant piece of contraption. I came back to office today but couldn't look at Mr.8994 till 3pm. When I went and finally kicked the starting lever, the bike jumped to life instantly. Dear oh dear! I've seen humans stabbing you one day and smiling at you the next but this machinery seems to be the mother of all things brutus.

Nevertheless, I guess 8994 teda hai, par mera hai!

With this, Shyam's legend of associating himself with fumbling and misbehaving whimsical machinery continues... Et tu boxer!

The dream of building a bathroom!

I have always been fascinated by baths. Even at an early age, Archimedes' bath tub attracted me more than his theories of density and volume or his exclamations of 'eureka' or his running-around-town-naked antics. I have had a lot of ideas about building my dream house and one of the main areas where I employed my creativity most is probably the bathroom! I was and still am enchanted by bathtubs, and decided that my spacious bathroom in my dream house would have a luxurious bathtub with a flat screen TV on its front and and an adequately sized mirror on its side. Whenever I drive in the horrid afternoon heat of Chennai, I would imagine myself in that bathtub, well placed amidst sweet smelling herbs and soft lather and watching my favourite comedy shows or a fine game of football. Of course, when I get bored with the TV, I would amuse myself with the mirror, making Mohawk hairstyles with shampoo foam and Mafia hairstyles with my hair perfectly wet and obeying me on all things. And I might also try submerging myself into the tub, holding my breath and counting to a hundred. While I'm at it, I might also write down my thoughts in a waterproof notepad with a waterproof pen like the Japanese, for I find myself bursting with ideas when I take a shower. The idea of writing this post itself came to me when I was taking shower 20 minutes ago.

The shower here in Newcastle has a scale of 1-9 to choose from which corresponds to the water temperature. I always start with six and a half, which is comfortably warm and end in 2 which is quite cold. In India, I never felt the need for different temperatures as the climate is always hot and a cold shower is very refreshing, if one can overcome the first few seconds of discomfort when the cold water sweeps through the body. But here, a warm shower after reaching home or a cold shower after a work out or a mixed shower in the mornings is simply wonderful. Starting with warm water and slowly reducing the temperature, one point in scale at a time and lingering there for a few minutes before changing the temperature again is a fantastic, almost spiritual experience.

So now, with this kind of a shower also capturing my heart, it seems that I must widen the space of my already spacious dream bathroom. Then there is also my dream swimming pool, with a simple design but with broad steps like those public baths of Harappa or the ponds of temples in India, with probably a kid's pool on the side and may be a jacuzzi, a lawn and a barbecue space (please remember that this is me in a dream about my dream house living my dream life :)). I could go on adding supplementaries to this set up but I'm afraid of exhausting all my imaginative talent in the bathroom and having nothing left for the bedrooom! Already, I get the feeling that its not a bathroom that I'm planning in my house but a house inside my bathroom! So stopping my dreaming and jabbering here, ever so unwillingly, I bid you guys a showery goodbye!

St.James' Park

This post is about my first experience of seeing live football in St.James' Park, Newcastle, the third largest club football stadium in the UK just after Man Utd's Old Trafford and Arsenal's Emirates stadium. It must be noted that Newcastle was relegated from the premier league last season but still, St.James' park gets filled to capacity each week by people who come to watch their lads play some football. The crowd is very passionate about the black n white army. This particular match was with Sheffield Utd (red n white jersey) and Newcastle being on the top of the table, would brighten its chances of getting to the premier league if they win this match. With a seat in the first few rows, me and my friend Erwin had a fantastic view of the match.

As the clock ticked towards kick off, the stadium was brimming with visibly no vacant chairs. Then, it started... the chanting.

'We are the Geordies' they sang
'The cock of the north
We all hate Man Utd
And 'Boro of course
We all drink whiskey
And Newcastle broon
The Newcastle boys are in town
la la la la la la'.

The people around me were animated and made a strange combination of spectators. To my immediate right was a middle aged hooligan-ist supporter abusing the sheffield guys with such a rich plethora of curses and using them in such ingenious permutations that it seriously disturbed the comparatively quiet family sitting before us. The children in the family, nevertheless were amused and kept scrutinising him closely trying to pickup a good curse that might make them famous in school. To my left was a woman, again of middle age who was nevertheless a staunch Newcastle Utd FC (NUFC) supporter and of course there was Erwin, from Netherlands who was also watching Newcastle play for the first time. With such interesting companions and a wonderfully lively atmosphere, the whistle was blown and the football kicked. And Sheffield scored. AND SHEFFIELD SCORED!! With the score board showing 1-0 in favour of the visitors, the crowd was screaming at the top of its voice. Half of them were harassing the Sheffield players and the other half devotedly chanting for NUFC. Then came a corner for Sheffield. 'You're a small fucking team from Yorkshire, that's what you are. We'll hang your balls in your ears', shouted the guy next to me and beamed emphatically at the children. They happily grinned in return having been acknowledged by their new brave hero. The match was getting increasingly exciting with Newcastle dominating the play and making inroads into the Sheffield defense repeatedly. The football pitch looked like a war field with both the armies trying to save their capitals (goalposts) from the atom bombs (attempts at goal) thrown by the opponent. Both the teams' defenders were standing their lines and made the enemy earn every inch. The offenders worked already discussed strategies, deceiving, cutting, falling, passing, all in the hope of getting a single hit at the enemy's capital. What I most admired was the role of the protector (goalkeeper), organising his defense, guarding his capital with vigilance when the enemy loomed close but casually trotting out of the danger zone (D-line) leaving the capital unattended at other times. Yet when the enemy charged again he showed no nervousness and wore his armour and clapped his hand to deal with the innumerable missile attacks that would be coming his way.

And all of a sudden it came, the MOMENT OF RECKONING. NUFC was offered a penalty. The Guy next to me went berserk with excitement. And the lads scored this time leveling the score. Then came half-time and then the winner from a fine foot soldier of the black n white army. It was a scissors from a pass very near to the goalpost. The fans around me started singing 'Newcastle is in the premier league, we're in the premier league and we'll win the premier league'. I joined along as I didn't want to be the only guy in the park who wasn't singing. Then came a third for Newcastle just before the final whistle, from a substitute, or so I thought, but this goal was disallowed as off-side. The fans were grinning, hugging and singing gleefully now.

The whole experience was like watching a gladiator competition in a medieval arena. I was so surprised by the type of people I saw during the match. Usually the British people I came across were polite, formal and decent but in the park, I saw the real people, the real crowd of Newcastle in flesh and blood and I saw them laying their hearts out for the lads who represent them. The heart of Newcastle after all, beats in the grass of St.James' park, not in the glass buildings of the city centre. I was really touched by the people and their passion. In their normal boring weeks, a match day was something they looked forward to, and being in the stadium, they felt joy and anguish, excitement and disappointment, but most important of all, they felt a part of something. Something that they grew up and identified themselves with, something that gave a spark and colour to their lives. The stadium was a place where they completely belonged, children and adults, attorneys and laymen were all part of the NUFC brotherhood here. And that showed. In the way they beamed, shouted, clapped and moved, it showed.

And when they sang -
'We are the Geordies! The Geordie Boot Boys!
For we are mental! For we are mad!
For we're the loyalist football supporters!
The world has ever had!' I couldn't help but smilingly acknowledge the intense passion that shook their voices.
"Cheers to that, then!!
Howay the lads, I say!! :)