Chasing cars... err... Camels...

This is a slightly modified version of what I wrote for the paper. The person behind the scenes is my dad, who drove me to all these places without salichifying,  and we had fun in the process too!

At 6AM on Friday morning, an open ground at MR Nagar off Pulianthope High Road bears all the signs of being a cattle market – the sound and smell of sheep, men and women haggling with the traders and vehicles waiting to take away the animal.

The sheep are coded using colour powder according to the trader; some are pink, some green, and some multicoloured. They bleat loudly as their traders entice potential customers to check out the animals. “We have the best among the lot here,” claims one man, pointing to a herd of about 50 sheep covered in pink powder.

With Bakrid around the corner, over 20 individual traders from Cuddapah in Andhra Pradesh have brought their sheep for the Chennai market, and are doing brisk business, to say the least. As interested Muslims examine the sheep to get the healthiest ones, the traders run their sales pitch. They are unwilling to reduce the price evn by a few hundred rupees. Hard headed fellows.

Rajesh, one of the traders, says, “Apart from transport, we also have to pay for our food, stay and the helpers. Under those circumstances, the price is reasonable. We barely make Rs 1000 on each animal. This is the last day for us to sell the animals. By afternoon tomorrow the sacrifices should be over, so we will leave tonight or early tomorrow.”

Meanwhile in a small street off Broadway, a few camels chew the cud lazily as they sit next to a mosque in Mannadi. They have been brought down from Rajasthan especially for Bakrid by several groups of people. While the price of an entire camel can be prohibitive for most families, they have the option of sharing it with other families.

Dastagir, who is one of the many people who organise to procure the animals, explains how the sacrifice works in case of a camel, saying, “When the qurbani is done, the names of the seven families will be recited. That is what we mean by splitting the cost. After that, the meat is also divided equally among the families.” Each camel costs Rs 35,000 to Rs 40,000, he says, adding that once an approximate number of people who will purchase a share are known, the camels are brought by walk from the north.

The state vice president of the Jananayaga Muslim Munnetra Kazhagam (JMMK), Dastagir says that they do not do this for the money. “We are doing this to help our fellow-Muslims. Not everyone can manage this, and since we have the means to do so, we take care of the arrangements. It is not about profit,” he says.

The other option for sacrifice is cows, and these sell for about Rs 1300 a share. Mehrunisa, a housewife, says that the tradition differs for each family. “The animal chosen for qurbani depends on each family’s preference. As long as our sacrifice is healthy and up to the standards, we do not mind anything,” she says with a smile.

Obnoxious

I like Alecia Moore. Also known as P!nk. She has a way of singing what I feel.

Listening to "Please don't leave me" and I hear the lines:

"How did I become so obnoxious?
What is it about you that makes me act like this?"

What makes me that way when it comes to certain people? Keeping it all in a little box at the back of my mind works for a while. But that box has a short fuse attached to it. Spark it off and BOOM. I barely know what hits me.

Till then I am calm, collected and rational. Once that goes, so does all reasonable thought.

Time for some anger management?

May be I just need to get out. 

My Madras

I have friends from all over the country, and they all have their own opinions of the city I was "born and brought up in", to use common parlance.

With no plans whatsoever to move from here, I am happy to be in my little corner of the world, despite what I keep hearing about needing to expand my horizons and stuff like that.

I like this horizon.

It's safe. It's pretty.

It has a beach where I can see an actual horizon.Where I have watched a pink sun rising on a Saturday morning, and a bright red moon rise out of the sea on a breezy night. Where I have built sand castles. Where I have eaten fried fish and prawn, molaga bajji, Pupil burgers and Nutella pancakes. Where I've been caught in a rainstorm, almost Mills and Boon style.

I've been here all of 22 (okay fine, almost 23) years. Now, I'm reading a book by an author who has made this city his home for the past decade. Tamarind City by Bishwanath Ghosh. And boy, is he making me feel guilty for not exploring my city more!

It's not that I don't know Madras. I prefer the name Madras. After all, I was born there. Chennai came into being only in 1997. Yes, yes, I know Chennapatnam and all. But this is what I like.

Anyway. I know pretty much any place in the city, I can find my way anywhere. No problems.

I get by with a little help from my friends, of course. Helmet on, Google Maps calibrated, and I'm off. I get lost, no problem. Help comes from the nearest auto stand: "Anna, indha address enga irukku? Thank you anna!" My mother finds it amusing, but that simple appeal to the 'sister sentiment' so glorified in the Tamil movies can work wonders.

Reading about all the illustrious people and the buildings that make up my home town makes me want to delve into it's history more. Note to self: go on next tour of North Madras, the place where my father will not allow me to venture alone on a two-wheeler.

That being said, it always makes me sad to see an old house being broken down; the thinnai where several generations might have sat on being reduced to rubble. And the thing is, no one really cares. The fact that the house has a story built into every brick and terracotta tile is romantic nonsense; the only thing that has value is the prime piece of property.

One thing I have noticed is that people in Madras don't really give credit to what the British did for us as a city. Yes, they took over our entire country starting from here. But that doesn't mean it isn't part of our heritage. I do not buy the drivel that if it's colonial, it's bad and deserves to be broken down. Hello, where is our Secretariat housed?  It's who we are, like it or not. And we have to celebrate that heritage, be it buildings, parks, statues, whatever.

We are traditional, no doubt about it. But that does not necessarily connect with love for our heritage. Madras week is a good way of bringing this emotion about in the people's minds, and it seems to be having some sort of effect. Here's hoping things get better.

And what is my city? My city will always be the Madras with narrow lanes in Sowcarpet, swanky houses in Besant Nagar, and the traffic filled Mount Road with brick-red buildings standing a stone's throw away from Express Avenue.

Dreams

I always had a dream. Not in the range of Martin Luther King Jr and all, but just a dream - to be a journalist. And by God's grace, I am one now.

The other day my parents and I went out to dinner. Now, Appa has always taught me by example to be nice to the people who serve us - security guards, doormen, those at a ticket counter, it could be anyone.

We parked the car, and the security guard so courteously did his job - directed us to the parking place and did it without a grumpy face as many are wont to do when it's 10PM. What struck me was his sincerity and the fact that I could see it on his face. He was older, perhaps 40 or so, greying hair and moustache.

It struck me that he too might have had dreams.

To drive his own car rather than direct others to park theirs.

To have a relaxed dinner with his wife and kids at a restaurant.

And a million ways by which he might have wanted to achieve that dream.

I'll never know.

But it makes me so, so, very sad to think of it.

It was just a thought, impulsive and it came out of nowhere. Nowhere conscious, as far as I know.

But it struck strong enough to have stuck to my mind like a leech, and it won't let go. I don't know if it is guilt , or a desire to ease some of the sadness in the world.

I flounder with my thoughts. 

Speechless

Being sick is the worst feeling. 

I wonder how all this mucus and phlegm flows unceasingly from my nose and throat. It is quite disgusting, really.

The hardest thing for me this past week was the fact that I could not speak. 

Yes, me, who cannot keep my mouth shut for any extended period of time. 

And in a way, it helped. I realised there are a lot of things I say that need not be said.

Life can go on smoothly, even if, especially if, I don't come up with any snide remarks. 

Being speechless can be a good thing sometimes. 

Emotional policing

8.30PM on a Wednesday evening. Thiruvanmiyur Beach.

It's no longer secluded like it used to be, there are several families and groups of people all along the stretch.

So me and my boy J were sitting on the ledge talking and laughing, when we saw a beautifully red moon rising.

I love the moon. It's been a long time since I saw one rising out of the sea. I wanted a closer look. We moved to the sand.

We were there for about 10 to 15 minutes when suddenly two or three policemen come walking down the beach, pulling up all the couples. Uh oh, this could be trouble.

The fattest one says, "Thambi, inga vaa paa." So the thambi very respectfully gets up and goes, expecting a rash comment or something.

Except, the policeman goes, "How can you do something like this? Isn't it wrong? You shouldn't come to the beach like this with a girl. What will your parents think?"

And J goes, "Our parents know sir, you want me to give them a call?" One super look of shock on police uncles face. He calls me, "Nee inga vaa ma."

I get up and walk to them sans slippers and ask what seems to be the problem. He unleashes the same tactic on me, "How can you come to the beach at this time? Did you think about your parents? What are you doing here?"

And I say, "Sir, I am a reporter, and I am here with my parents knowledge. If you want, you can talk to them from my mobile directly. Is there any other problem?"

By now police uncle is fully confused. The couple next to us were thoroughly scared like he expected them to be, and he has his deputies haranguing them as he grills us. But we? He was not expecting that.

Anyway, he says we shouldn't hang around here any more since it is 'late" and we should get home safely.

As we leave the seashore, J and I wonder what these moral/emotional police would say if we tell them that we are married, since they are so shocked just by the fact that we are there and our parents know. "Enna kudumbamo idhu," must have definitely run through police uncles mind!

We decide to try that out next time.

We walk back to the ledge and continue watching the moon rise.

Just another day in paradise.

Safety precautions

Everyone likes to save their own hide. Everyone takes their own precautions.

Even if it means ignoring the fact that someone has died because of someone else's negligence.

We want to be safe. We don't want to offend.

We want to paint pretty pictures to cover up the reality.

I understand that feeling; I often ignore the reality and live in my own bubble, because I prefer it that way. Life is infinitely more easier to go through if you're wearing rose-tinted glasses. 

But the feeling extends only to what I find unpalatable, and is a personal choice.

A girl, younger than me, has died. Because she wanted to go out and have a good time. It went wrong.

What happens then? 

I crack my knuckles, put up my feet, and proceed to write about the place of her death. How many such places exist, what is present there. Not more than that. 

A puff piece.

What am I going to say, when my heart is not in it?

Pride for the day

Pride - because I had a kick-ass story in the papers today.

Not much can match the feeling of accomplishment that comes with it, knowing that one sleepless night and several unfinished conversations went into writing it. TOTALLY worth it.

The page could have been in colour though. Just saying. To whoever is in-charge of deciding that.

Other than that, uneventful day. Sort of an anti-climax really.

Went to watch Ice Age 4: Continental Drift with my boy.

Yes, I have a goofy grin on my face when I talk about him. Get over it. You also, aunty-sitting-next-to-us-who-switched-seats-when-we-held-hands. I'm not stopping you from holding your husband's hand, am I?

Also, I realised those fictional animals travel way more than I ever have in my life. Must work on that. Nowhere near ice though. Too cold; I'm the freak who gets chills if I sit in an AC room for half an hour without a shawl.

My kind would have been the first to go extinct when the earth froze over.

Daydream

In my mind's eye,

Splashes of purple, red, yellow pink, swirling around - ice candy on a summer day.

I see sand castles being built, not to last.

I hear the laughter of a man and a woman, deeply in love.

I feel the dry leaves crunch under my feet.

I touch the raindrops on the windowpane.

I smell the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

I yearn for what has been, and never will be again.

I hope it will, in vain.

I wake myself, and live.

Judging

I have an O.C.D when it comes to writing on the computer.

Those red, green and occasional blue lines drive me mad.

Which is why I don't understand how people can write without punctuation or paragraphs, and multiple spelling mistakes and typos. 

Yes, I am judging you.

Go edit what you wrote. 

Bye.