Chugging along in commuter trains

I hope I used the right word because I wanted the reader to understand that however long your travel by train takes usually, in commuter trains you travel lesser distances in more time. The more knowledgeable of you will immediately spot the flaw in the design of this form travel. Well done. Appreciation of the intellect is just not what it used to be.

So coming back to commuter trains, these electric trains connect stations situated in and sometimes a little out of the city. So while doing my undergraduate degree I volunteered to be pickled with a few hundred strangers every morning and evening for a nominal fee of a couple of rupees. Well, you must be thinking ‘she really got herself a deal right there, the last time I tried participating in one of these expeditions I paid five times as much’. Well the railways treat their regular sardine substitutes more kindly than the occasional visitor. People who sweat it out regularly in these tin boxes with cut out windows save a few bagfuls that can come in handy when paying the doctors for the diseases your co-passenger so generously shared with you.

Now the railways system does promise you a journey like no other and the air takes on a distinct musty odor, the wind and several impersonators play with your hair and clothes during the journey. After two years of traveling and keenly observing the components and contributors, I have found the air to be quite different in the women’s compartment as compared to the general one. It is quite obvious that a compartment filled with the gentler of sexes is the preferred one for me but you really have miscalculated the equations.

In the general compartment the men chivalrously try not fall too hard on the members of the gentler sex. Unlike their bus traveling counter-parts they do not rely on their female companions for cushioning or other wise comfort seeking crevices. The train travelers are so deep in thought about when exactly this train suddenly come to a halt and call it a day that they barely even notice their fellow crusaders. Therefore when a station does miraculously emerge the crowd gloriously part ways and some enthusiasts even give the reluctant traveler a gentle nudge and send them on their way.

But the women’s compartment is a whole new story. The smells of rotting flowers, coconut oil, gold, sweat and talcum powder mix generously with other odors distinct to women’s attire and accompaniments. And the women are more affectionate toward their companions and barely move a muscle when one wishes to leave their company to reach their family and friends. So the more determined thin their lips, sharpen their elbows and march out of the compartment even if it means dragging a few others with them who are residing closer to some of the upcoming stations.

Another feature of these trains is that if one wishes to stand near the entrance and pleasure the outside environment, the railways have generously removed the doors for our convenience. So if the tracks fall a little to close to the native flora then the door keepers will generally get their hair tussled by birch branches and sometimes birds and frogs have been known to abandon their tree houses for the posh interiors of the commuter trains.

So when you plan you next trip by a commuter train get ready to numb all your senses. The disciplining wooden seats will make sure that your numb mind has a companion at the other end as well. And in case all these seats are occupied your thoughtful companions will make sure that your feet stay beneath theirs irrespective of whether you like it or not.

Summer is a time for mental toughness

While the western countries welcome the summer with a frenzied song and dance and half naked office goers lounge on all parts of the pavement for a restorative tan before the daily board meeting, it is a different story in India.

Here, summer brings along a mental challenge that a few survive. In India, summer is looked at like the Europeans look at the plague. While it boasts a lesser mortality rate than the plague, pedestrians can be observed to suddenly swoon like the maidens in romance novels. Just like there was the involvement of vermin during the black plague, there are vermin in summer as well - the electricity board.

The employees of the board hold a striking resemblance to homicidal convicts imprisoned in the strongest prisons of the world. Now what does a convict look like you ask and take a tour of the electricity board and you will become something of a connoisseur of convicts. While not many sport the more telling crescent shaped scar on either cheek some do have a few teeth missing due to prolonged acquaintance with tobacco.

It must be noted that their deeds rather than appearances qualify them to the most exclusive prisons globally. After knocking their foreheads together over master plans to dominate the world they decide on mentally weakening the strong breed of Chennaites. Our toil on the crowded streets of Chennai and our singular prowess of waiting for hours outside the US consulate has caught the attention of some of the biggest names in the field of deception and decimation.

So now at the peak of summer days when gourmet chefs can be seen flipping their French crepes on the pavements outside, the board members go ahead with their master plan. Exactly when the heat sizzles the feathers of our native birds (they come in a uniform black), the electricity supply is terminated for houses holding the most accomplished minds (yes, mine is frequently targeted). Noon is the hot favorite. Now by geographical design, easterly and westerly winds make a point of avoiding our quaint sea facing city, so devoid of electricity not a leaf rustles.

The maddening heat slowly curls her fingers around the weaker of the masses, their sweaty brow tells tales of an inflamed and agitated brain inside. While the weaker of the stock fume and fret during these hours of distress, the stockier ones find a secluded spot and go into the ‘cooling position’. After scientific testing and verification, it has been found that if said person lies in unsaid location on their back with legs and hands stretched out much like children in snow making snow angels, the heat has a less degenerative effect on said body and mind. This is fondly called the cooling position. Sometimes tongues can hang out to accentuate the posture.

Now that the master plan has been revealed I will go into the various sub-branches of this devious brain melter. There is the prolonged absence in electricity which wreaks havoc on the fretters and fumers but for the cool positioned it is like picking teeth with a tooth pick. The next one is when every hour the electricity is terminated for ten minutes. It targets office goers who are not in the habit of saving every few seconds and so every hour they dejectedly watch their toil disappear into the blank screen. The cool positioned, face a tougher challenge with this repetitive tactic as their body’s balance with the outside temperature is repeatedly disturbed when the fan or air conditioner kicks in after ten minutes of egg boiling heat. And the third is the cruelest of all when every hour a mere ten minutes if electricity is supplied. Here families have been known to resort to the foulest poison and there have been reports of scenes similar to genocide in the city’s streets when people try to find the elusive tree in their neighborhood and seek its shady branches and unrelenting try to fight off sweaty and fevered neighbors and half burnt birds.

As this is just the onset of summer few fatalities have been reported. But already there have been a few days of pilot testing their torture tactics. The electricity board have no doubt many new brain vaporizers up their sleeve but we Chennaites are ready to brave another summer.


Note: The author has not succumbed to any brain damage other than the ones suffered at birth so please keep your concerns aside and be assured that the electricity board has not claimed her as a victim…yet.

Hair raisers and what nots

A cumbersome requirement for membership in civilized society is having the head snipped at regularly and fitting into a decent set of clothes. It comes as no surprise that I have been living on the very edge of these requirements not by volition but because of nothing less than cosmic conspiracy. Call me paranoid but I do believe the government might have a hand in it as well. Listen carefully to the evidence at hand and feel free to wriggle those brows when called for.

Born in the summery month of March, my head was bestowed with what might be kindly termed a generous and somewhat boisterous set of curls. They seemed to thrive and flourish on madras curries and everything typically designed to curb populations by the millions. Even regular immersions in pools of highly chlorinated water did not discourage the stringers to fall out. So now after much threatening and cajoling I have left behind me a trail of broken shears and weeping hairstylists, for no matter what they claimed their fingers never could disentangle from the mess swiftly enough.

But there was just one man ‘Pete’ we shall call him who bewitched my mop into submission and his clippers breathed a new life into my social standing. No more did people huddle in groups and discuss the man-eaters I held over my forehead and no more was a flick of my lock any threat to my neighbors. But alas all was not well in my Keratin kingdom. While dancing my way to my fortnightly visit to Pete I was informed that he had left to Dubai. It seemed too much of a coincidence that my tamer of locks would require a break so soon after discovering me in his office.

Teenagers take heartbreak very badly and I was no exception. So I fled from the scene and threw myself under another’s scissors. Weepy and hiccoughy I stammered ‘Do what you want’ and the startled barber started clipping. Perhaps he was suffering from Parkinson’s or I had been overly conclusive in my weeping but by the end of my appointment my scalp was making appearances where it should not have. And to pour fat into the fire the ailing fiend charged me a whole month’s worth of pocket money. Trudging home I thought up innovative stories to relate to sympathetic enquirers about why my hair looked as it did.

Nobody seemed to believe that chance encounters with bird droppings caused inconsistent hair fall. I tried the ‘my hairdresser had a stroke’ story but I didn’t want to be termed the cause of an honest man’s end. So over the years I lived a life of a hair fugitive. Never visiting a parlor twice and always paying by cash. These visits have resulted in various styles that can be struck off the suitable list. One brave lady tried the electric blonde look refusing to take into consideration the black haired dumpling of a customer that I was. In these instances caps and bandanas came in very handy. After all these are sensitive times and one doesn’t want to find themselves suddenly flogged at by nervous pedestrians.

Slowly I have learnt to live around my conspicuous hair. I grew a decent sized brain and let people think that I spent no time on frivolous acts like combing and hairstyling. I secured a paired of glasses and claimed impaired vision after hours of twisting the so called brain and burning the midnight lamp. And its amazing how perceptive onlookers are to a wild haired bespectacled individual walking on congested streets with their nose stuck in a book. They immediately part ways or yip plaintively when my foot meets theirs rather abruptly. The next time I shall explain the trials and tribulations of finding the right clothes to lessen the number of screams from those who can see.

Hey... who put that there?

When I was lying with my left cheek plastered to the road, praying that no bus decides to barrel down the bridge while I am stuck under my poor bike, my appreciation for my city's road ripened. After such an intimate and bruising experience with one of Chennai's busiest what else could you expect. First of all I am not such a road slut that I involve myself so completely with every lane and alley. Oh no! it takes a special effort on the road's part to induce my fall, usually I have been a sucker for golden sands strewn carelessly along the turns but this time it was different.

After a delightful birthday party and tonnes of chocolate cake warming my belly I was driving up Chetpet bridge, marvelling at how beautiful the moon looked and the lights glittered and so forth. Suddenly the car in front me gave an ugly lurch and bumped its way but not before I found myself on collision course with a large yellow median rock. A girl can never resist such a surprise so there I was sprawled across the road almost kissing it. How a median rock found it's way to the middle of road is yet open for debate but while my bike didn't fare so well after that incident I have jumped right back from this experience, fit to engage in some more.

The road officials in Chennai are a keen and adventurous lot. At every meeting they crease their brows in pursuit of more ideas to liven up the driving experience for their beloved motorists. They synchronise their road laying with the busiest times of the day so that harried office goers have the time to sit on their vehicles and peacefully ponder about life's happenings. What better time to smell the roses eh? Or in this case the noxious fumes of burning rubber tyres which are used to heat the tar. After they have succefully laid a road, they immediately call the telephone and water department informing them that an even road awaits their attention. So these fellows come barreling down and dig the whole place up so that the office goers are now reaching for their phones and informing home that they will be late or even absent for dinner. After the different departments have done their job and turned the once boringly even road into a challenging mud racing pit, the real fun begins.

Scooterists and cyclists together weave through the ups and downs of the roads without getting run over by the cars and buses. Sometimes a water lorry jerks epiliptically under the weight of a thousand gallons of water while making its way through the roads trying not to kill more than the usual number of pedestrians and cyclists. Its nature's law of survival of the fittest being put to good use on roads. The road officials have also planted man holes exactly in the middle of the roads so that driver's minds stay sharp and focussed on the bumps and ditches ahead. Now and then they rub their palms together maliciously and make big roads into one ways and tiny lanes into two way streets. ' Now lets see how they fare' is what they are thinking. The scene is similar to white coated scientists benevolently looking down on a tortuous maze filled with white mice. Here the mice have three days to find the cheese without getting electrocuted, drowned or chopped bythe obstacles kept in their path.

Once the bumps and ditches have tested your vehicle's suspensions, the brake inspectors are sent in. To keep the drivers on their toes, the city for the most part is devoid of pedestrian crossing lights. Jay walkers are welcomed into speeding traffic like Santa Claus on Christmas Eve. If indecisive pedestrians doing the mambo in front of your vehicle doesn't do the trick, nervous cats, sleepy cows and adrenaline driven dogs roam the city streets keeping a careful look out for complacent drivers or those that look like they are driving on auto pilot. Nothing like a sudden bovine presence in front of your car to jolt you back to the cardiologist. The road officials are still working on innovative methods to check driver's stability of mind and emotion. Perhaps they should consider involving overhead missile attacks but budgetary concerns are high. For now it is more financially viable to remove streetlights from most streets so that the motorist can only guess and work his imaginative juices on what lies ahead of him.

Driving in Chennai is smilar to trekking through rugged scenery, where else would you glimpse deep or shallow placid ponds and green shrubbery in the middle of the road broken now and then by dancing pedestrians and sleepy cows who thoughfully check your brakes every now and then. This city is for the thrill seekers and adrenaline junkies. Faint hearted and sweaty palmed get a driver.

I inherited insanity

I was chatting with my favourite cousin A online and was telling him I had spent half the evening searching for the TV remote and my mom found it in the freezer where I must have left it because the ice cream was making a nasty puddle in the living room. 'Man I must be loosing my mind I told him'. 'Are you kidding me ?' he replied. ' We are kindred spirits, two weeks ago I left the dishes on the washing machine, thoughtfully stacked breakables and others.' Adding that up to my mother who has found a magic remedy for her sinusitus, she walks around now every night with something white smeared all over her eyes and nose giving her a striking resemblance to the Phantom of the opera. Man I think it runs in the family. I inherited insanity.

I had always known there was something amiss with my household. My sister has the brain to stand first in class right from grade 1 through 12 but when she was flying to London on a trip that she won in an oratorical competition, she almost missed the connecting flight because she thought the watches wind themselves up according to the time zones. My younger cousin is something of a mystery to all of us. She is quiet, which by itself is scary given that all of us are considering getting a second mouth because one cant keep up with our thoughts. She is petrified of lizards, so much so that she is recluse in her own house. Even when she has to go to the loo a swat team needs to clear the area before she will venture forth. Imagine her standing with her legs crossed while lizards were being chased out of all crevices.

My favourite cousin A, well he is a darling. But has this biological condition to fill up his bloodstream with sugar. I mean it has to be chronic because who eats idlis and gulab jamun? He out grew that of course but now he limits himself to a couple of pounds of mishti dhoi every other day. His grandmother, who has every ailment under the sun except diabetes competes youthfully with his appetite. I think it is a bonding thing. Gives them something to do together, fight over the last kaaju katli or stare ech other down across the dining table for the shrikand. I heard recently that she succumbed to diabetes as well. My cousin A is alone in his obsession now.

As for me,let me see, I talk in my sleep, just never enough hours in the day to talk I guess so I have to do it at night as well. I used to walk in my sleep, I dont think I do it anymore. Or if do I am covering my tracks very well. I name and talk to inanimate objects. Well not my spectacles and not my watch but my car, bike, bags and dictionary have their own names. I did name my computer but after upgrading him so much I really do not know if anything is left of the old him. He was Ritz for the record. Anyways I also have this morbid fear of losing all my hair in the front of my head. No where else, just the front portion above my right eye brow. I take special care to oil the portion and condition it after shampooing etc. I would talk to it as well but I think the rest of my body would feel neglected. And I get high on iced water or lemon juice. I know what you are thinking. Yo! Cheap date. Oh you dont want to go there. Imagine a nice dinner for two and the waiter brings in the menus and pours the water. Two glasses down and I cannot keep from slurring, forget about finishing dinner someone needs to drive me home!

I realised some thing was wrong when in the midst of a nasty argument with myself at a signal light, people on the bikes next to me started to inch away as inconspicuously as possible. They obviously didnt want the psycho to get more agitated that she already is while talking to her imaginary pillion. So I have a loud conscience, atleast I do not feel good after doing something bad. But lets face it. Aside from my crushes on 60 year old men and talking to my bike and bag (Sharon is my newest addition, she is a chic denim bag). Ok so I inherited insanity.

Childhood misconceptions

Wow, when I think back now, I am amazed at my naivete. As children we had these magical explanations for the most down to earth things. When I read Calvin and Hobbes I keep getting reminded of the silly notions I carried, some for a very long time.

I remember the first time I sat next to my uncle in his new car and he drove us around the city for a bit, I was truly amazed that his car knew exactly where my uncle wanted to go. Wow, every single time he wanted to take a turn it indicated perfectly. How does it do that? I dont really remember when I learnt about the 'indicator' but I do remember turning red in the face and feeling very silly about myself.

Another time when I saw a trailor of The bold and beautiful, there was this scene of two people kissing like it was the last day on earth and the word passion flew into the frame. I was immediately at my best friend's house telling him that another word for french kissing is passion. But we were a little confused about the verb usage. That didnt stop us from using it at school like two drunken braggarts until the teacher hauled us in and made us sit in a corner during playtime.

Owing to my poor memory that is all I can contribute from my childhood.

Excuse me...I am a girl!

I do not know if anyone has had similar experiences but I am going to brave it through. As a child having been born into a family of boys I dressed, acted and looked one. But as I grew older and my body got a mind of its own, the thrill of being mistaken for a boy was getting jaded. While I still had shortish hair, for heaven sake I even wore studs on my ears and still people mistook me for a guy. It gets a little annoying when your father's friend comes home and talks to the whole family for an hour or so and then muses " but Umapathy I thought you had two daughters". Time to leave the room or just sit there and laugh like a hyena, either way my pride left the room in a hurry.

I get into an auto and instruct the man to take me to Egmore. He retorts ' Enna time aachu thambi" I am stunned. Didn't he hear my voice? Oh well I play along because lesser chances of him kidnapping me or something. But when I stepped into the ladies compartment on a commuter train and this old lady gruffly informs me " this is ladies compartment" I really could have done her a favour. But I give a stiff grin and say "I know" afterall no reason to behave unladylike right?

Nowadays the problem has all but disappeared, mainly because guys have started growing their hair and people are a little more careful when they address youngsters . After a few months of being treated like a lady I went to my friend's house for lunch. His grandparents were visiting him and I joined his parents and his grandparents for the meal. It was a delightful two hours of laughter and anecdotes. Two months later my friend sounding a sheepish calls me up and tells me his grandparents had called and asked about me. I was thrilled " wow they actually remebered me?" "Yeah" he retorted "they remembered you alright, they just forgot you were a girl".

Aaah... what memories I have of school...

As I sit down to share my memories on the one and only school I ever studied in I am also a bit guilt ridden. Because the chief topic of discussion is regarding some teachers from my 14 years of education, well, not all 14 years were technically educational per se, but you know what I mean. So here goes, and teachers, if by some horrid luck you read this, no offense what so ever is meant by my words. Afterall, among the thousands that you have tutored what is the opinion of one very disturbed individual going to matter. That off my chest I feel like I just came out of confession, ready to sin again.

Mathematics is by far the most entertaining of subjects for me, I never fared well in them but can you blame me for having the two most colourful individuals for teachers that all focus was removed from the subject itself. First there was Mr. X ( ahem, journalism ethics to protect the source you see), a brilliant teacher who indulged in extensive facial archeology, if you get my drift. Never having paid attention in class, I was the last to catch on to my teacher's tunneling expeditions. The boys in my class used to go through more than their share of jumping out of the way, when Mr. X threw bits of chalk at them for talking in class. At first, naive as I was,I thought they just did not want to be smacked in the face by whizzing bits of chalk, it was only years later did I discover that those chalks held more than just white marking compounds and that my classmates were desperately avoiding all chances of coming in contact with my teacher's nasal residue.

I remember now watching Mr.X slide his hands and do a gentle wiping dance with his fingers on various surfaces he encountered. Unfortunately, my unsuspecting back was one of these surfaces too. I was a bookworm and used to sit in my school corridors oblivious to the world around me. On seeing Mr. X walking down the corridor all the students present used to nonchalantly move into the playground, whistling or just plain running. But as transfixed as I was with the blasted book, I never saw him coming. An affable man, he used to stop and enquire about my sister, his favourite student, do a gentle swipe on my back and be off to his next set of unsoiled victims. Sheesh, I wonder if my sister had similar experiences with the gold digger? But she was a good athelete, maybe she used to make a run for it.

Enough of Mr. X lets move on to Mr. Y. Another mathematician of swarthy complexion, he would come to class with the top two buttons undone. While for most men it is not an issue of hair raising proportion, Mr. Y was gifted with profuse growth of hair everywhere except his shiny head. I have to admit, I am something of a hairophobic, so everytime Mr. Y entered class, beads of sweat used to pop up on my brow on noticing his gold chain glistening from the depths of a hairy chest. But one incident stands out clearly and traumtically. While teaching calculus he blithely walked down the aisle between our benches and perched himself on my desk. With one leg bent upon my desk and the other supporting him on the floor. I looked up from my notebook and noticed a rip in his pants down the side of his thigh. Ughh, I felt emotionally violated. Why should I have to see that bit of hirsute skin so hig up on his leg? Wasn't I emotionally disturbed already? Needless to say I switched seats with my friend and never made eye contact with him again.

Now as a fifth standard kid I never really caught on to Ms. A's funny use of the english language, but as I grew older and my english proficiency increased so did my amusement with her statements. Once a physics teacher she was suddenly assigned to the computer lab when I was in the tenth grade. One day after a mighty struggle with the mouse, she turns to the students using the other computers and says in her breathy voice 'hey who took my mouse's balls eh?' This was the same teacher who one day summoned up so much courage and outrage that she stormed her whithered 5 feet 5 inches frame into our noisy, unsupervised classroom and screamed ' SHUT UP ALL OF YOU. DONT ANY OF YOU HAVE ANY SENSE ORGANS?' She obviously mistook our stunned silence for something of a permanent reaction and left us in a huff while we laughed it off quietly.

Our games instructor was somewhat of a mystery, he had a candy blue bullet for a bike. That by itself is an oxymoron, I mean the bullet is the epitome of masculinity, why would you paint it baby blue? And for a sports teacher he resembled a dumpling more than he did an athelete. But it was his comments that really made his classes fun. These are not the usual PT teacher jokes about 'Open the window,let the climate come in' no siree. After all on the playground where are the windows?After making us run two rounds around the school, he would segregate the boys and girls and send the boys off to play basketball. He will then turn to us girls and say ' ok girls today we will finger with our partners, here Shobana make sure everyone has balls.'

One of my friend's school teacher was just as amusing. She taught them Hindi and had that sleeping disorder where they nod off suddenly and wake up moments later like nothing is the matter. While writing on the black board she would gently rest her forehead on the surface with her chalk making a lazy downward path from where ever her last waking alphabet was written, a gentle snore would emanate sometimes, he told me. She would wake up a minute later and continue as if nothing happened, resuming from where she left off with no evidence of her mid-class siesta, other than the downward lines on the board one by her chalk and the other by her sleep induced drool of course. He told me that while flipping through his hindi notebook, he could tell exactly when she fell asleep while correcting the pages, they too would bear longer than usual tick marks on certain pages when her pen went unattended for a few moments.

Perilious Chennai Roads

From all of you who own two wheelers of some kind, I am sure I will receive a patient ear. For the roads in any city but due to my residence in Chennai, my accusations will be limited to this city alone, anyways, it is indeed a war zone out there on the roads. The front line soldiers are the interpid two wheelers who courageously expose themselves to the perils of nature and mankind. Alright, I got a little carried away there. This is not Braveheart I know. But lend me your ear and I shall recite you incidents that will scar me for life.

It was ten in the morning, the sky was clear and bright, I was riding on my bike to college. As I was passing Queen Mary's College on Beach Road, a whizzing blob landed square on my new Rs. 1000 dupatta that was draped across my chest. First I thought it was a freakishly heavy leaf that fell from one of the trees that I just passed. But when I looked down my worst fears were confirmed. It was those blasted birds. One of them pooped on me. Ok, explain to me one thing, so if you stand under a tree you are an easy target, all they have to do is sit above and do their business. But what baffles me is when I am travelling at 40 km per hour, and I am not the only soul on that road, it was after all office going hours, what are the odds of landing one right where your heart is on a day you wear a new dress?

Cursing like an inebriated sailor I pulled over and wiped as much of it off and continued to college. The day and the dupatta was ruined to say the least. Over the years I have realised that there is this sick magnetic force that draws birds to poop on me but this was by far the most ambitious and loose bowelled ave I had the pleasure of driving under.

Now my experiences do not stop there and are not limited to the animal world. It is four in the evening, as Chennai has it, the sultry weather is on medium simmer. Sweaty and caught in one of those freak traffic jams I slowly maneuver my bike into the shade of a bus nearby. Unfortunately it was at that precise moment some imbecile decided to empty his oral contents on to the road. Jeez, I have a tough time dealing with just watching people spit on the roads but when a stream of tobacco juice and god knows whatelse splatters all over my handle bars and my shirt, I was ready to throw up right there. But as luck would have it, the traffic decides to uncongest itself and move on in lightening speed leaving me, mouth agape in revulsion, coughing in the dense smoke of a baldly tuned bus with remnants of somebody's chew toy drying on my hands and shirt.

Now, when I describe the road as a war zone, do you understand the extent of my fear. Every morning, I do a mirror prep thing, running through all the hurdles I will face between my destination and starting point. Try to stay away from buses, and do not travel under any shady areas, stick to the middle of the roads and move in crowds, keep eyes open for manholes and ears open for chewing of any kind. Avoid gravel, sand, water and oil if it can be helped or do not brake when driving over these surfaces, even if it means running someone over. Because believe me a human is a softer surface to fall on than a heated tar road. I do not mean to sound callous but I have broken my bike several times trying to avoid those wobbly cyclist who decide to change lanes without a moment's thought. The best part is while I am lying on the ground wondering why a man is holding my scooter's engine on the other side of the road, I can the see that blasted cyclist wobbling in front another bike at the next junction, unscathed and indifferent.

Need I even have to mention the horn twitchy ambassador cars and call taxis that drive a millimeter behind my bike's bumper. I have an old and tormented vehicle that refuses to go above forty on a really good engine day, but when these agressive four wheelers start honking as loud as ships caught in a fog, it really pisses me off. Now what are they thinking that I am deliberately driving at snail's pace so that all the people behind me can get to their destination late. Or that I have this sick tendency to drive slowly and smell the carbon floating in the air while watching the blackened buildings on both sides of the road.

Thanks to the copius rains, our analytical brain needs to gauge the distance of oncoming traffic while passing puddles of water on the road as well. One needs to calculate the exact time you will pass that puddle so that you can determine whether another vehicle will splash by you at the same time, and if your calculations say that this is bound to happen, you either pray that the driver has the road manners enough to slow down or stop where you are and wait for the vehicles to pass first. Another concern is the possibility of an open manhole waiting for you in that harmless looking two inches of water across the road. For that the only solution is to follow the path of a vehicle in front of you, but nowadays there are thougtful bouquets of tree branches planted in these holes so that at night instead of falling headlong into a tunnel of sewage you merely topple over some flora and lie sprawled in some slush at the mercy of on road traffic.

In between checking out gorgeous people staring at you seductively from billboards above you, keeping the autos at bay from making spilt second U turns in front of your brakeless bike, I think for all us two wheeler drivers a mere driver's license is not enough. We definitely need a medal or certificate of some kind to voluntarily go out there and face the challenges fate has to put us against on road. It takes a preety sharp mind and thick skin to weather these abuses everyday.

Wading through muddy swirls

It was 26th Oct and the skies bled stinging needles, their agony the city shared the next day, when the roads were inundated and nothing seemed to stop the rains either. I woke up at 5 AM on the 27th to the deafening sound of water beating against anything in its path. The electricity supply had been revoked in many parts of the city including mine and the silence only intensified the sounds outside. I was starting to get worried, today was my TOEFL exam. How will I go? My bike doesn’t even work properly on a warm sunny afternoon with well kept roads to follow and the water had risen quickly through the night like a camouflaged army and surrounded all clusters of civilians, choking them in their own home. My poor Santro would definitely drown.
At six I called my trusted steed Peter who has a tendency to arrive three hours from the prescribed time and begged him to be on time. Come at 7:45 I told him and I planned that on his bike I will hold an umbrella above my head and we will somehow weave through the waters and rain and reach me safely to the test center. Everything was fine on my side, I had bathed and breakfasted and was eagerly dumping everything in my bag inside various plastic covers. It was 8:00 and my ride had not arrived yet. I started cursing and wishing for his painful death alternated with thoughts of 'if he died on the way then I would definitely not reach the test'.
Anyways by 8:20 the whole family was downstairs at the gate waiting for my ride, and in a desperate attempt I stomped through knee deep water that was swirling about outside my gate and made my way slowly to the nearest bus stop, which was in fact very nearby. Cursing under my breath and praying silently to the rain gods to let up I waited for a miracle to happen, i.e. an appropriate bus to arrive in the next twenty seconds that was not too crowded. By then Peter had arrived and at 8:30 I sat on his bike and realized the umpteenth flaw in our plan.
As soon as he started riding I was drenched with the water from my perkily colored umbrella. After traveling on the wrong side of the roads in Nungambakkam and splashing many helpless cops on the way I reached the test center with ten minutes to spare and a tiny hand towel to get me dry.
I was rushed into the exam hall where I squelched my way to my seat. Sat on it, drenched it as well and took my annoying TOEFL. I completed it in two hours, reluctantly got off the soggy chair, the AC had dried my sleeves by now and another ten hours here I could have been bone dry as well!! Hoping to be greeted by sunny rays I ventured out and voila!!! It was pouring even more. So I trudged through knee deep water again, praying I don’t stamp on something eeky or something doesn’t swim up my leg.
I made my way to a bus stop that had been shifted to the middle of Sterling road because the official site had long drowned under water. I stood next to a handful of others holding umbrellas, their black ones made them look like crows and my blue and white striped one must make me look like a pajama!!
The water had lost its horror factor now, it was just there. When heavy vehicles passed by us waves would splash against our waists, no worries at least I hadn’t stepped into an open man hole. The most embarrassing thing is when one does fall into a man hole and does not instantly disappear but is stuck in the hole at the hip with their toes gently grazing the surface of the rancid liquid underneath for the entire city to see!
After 45 minutes of looking at water and standing in it, I desperately wanted to go to the loo and god smiled upon me and sent a 47A bus my way. Gratefully I hopped on bought a ticket and gawked at the scene before me. Only busses and SUVs could make their way through these waters. It had turned the roads to rivers; seriously the driver kept saying he cannot see any part of the road at this point. Did he just admit to not knowing where he was going?
But long story short I reached home, drenched, exam less and humming ' ohoo megam vanda do’. Well after all Mani Ratnam does figure into all our happy state of minds but if my dancing girls do not arrive soon all this getting wet would go for a royal waste because my gate is just a few steps away. And like a messenger from above or below an imbecile came driving by me at top speed and splashed my one last time drenching me fromhead to toe in case the rains had missed a spot.