The Wandering Minstrel February 6, 2010

The minstrel wanders with his lute
He walks from town to town
There he sits down with his flute
And plays where there are none

He tells tales of men and myths
Of glorious lives long past
Of men ordinary save one deed
For which their names shall last

The minstrel smiles a rare smile
He knows men only too well
Some who fight, some who hide
Till death rings her knell

He has seen the many moods of men
And their dastardly deeds
He has seen life being taken instant
and new life given seed

Love, passion, death, life
He knows their petty secrets
He courts neither the rich nor the poor
Neither laughs nor frets

For years ago he too was young
And aflame from limb to limb
With the passionate haste of youth
That made his blood sing

He too loved and he too wept
Hurt, hid, sought and sinned
Year after year, moment after moment
Thrown to life’s buffeting winds

Somewhere he had grown wise
From hurt, pain and unmet need
Years of ups and downs taught him
The lesson of life to heed

That of all the peaks and the troughs
There is but one true source
And that source is the human mind
Which truth the minstrel knows

And so he sits down with his flute
And plays where there are none
Till he sets his lute to rest
With the rays of the dying sun

An Afternoon January 30, 2010

I sat down on the steps of the temple slowly supporting myself with one hand, a frown on my forehead. Almost unaware of it, I chanted the Lalitha Sahasranamam- a chant of the thousand names of the Devi- under my breath. It had become a matter of habit. Srimatha Sri Maharajni Sri Math Simasaneshwari…

“What is the matter, Anuradha?” asked a curious voice. A small child sat down there on the steps next to me.

I admired her tiny gold bangles. They jingled as she moved her hands to cup her chin, and the music they made was the sweetest sound I had ever heard. It was a sign of how disturbed I was that I didn’t think to ask her how she knew my name, or even to wonder at her easy familiarity with a woman over fifty years old. My friend Neelambari’s grandniece, perhaps..?

“It is my daughter”, I admitted, breaking my chant to answer her and resuming the chant immediately that I had spoken, finding it easy to talk to this beautiful child. Sometimes, adults asked too many questions. Chidagni Kunda Sambootha Deva Karya Samudhyatha…

Her eyes were bright. She tilted her head.

“So why don’t you talk to her?”

“Will she listen?” I wondered, worry lines creasing my face, murmuring gently beneath my breath.

“Will you know until you ask? When do we ever know?” She sighed, the sound so natural. Then her expression lightened and she laughed, a joyous sound. Her laughter warmed my thoughts. I smiled down at her… and felt, in the strangest way, that I knew her intimately. Udyath Bhanu Sahasrabha Chatur Bahu Samanvidha… As my lips moved almost silently to the chant, deep inside I felt the first stirrings of hope and a faint glimmer of a solution.

She seemed to sense the positivity.

“Now, stop calling out to me!”, she reproached and was gone in a trice, her long plaits dancing in the wind, vanishing around the nearest pillar, the sound of her anklets fading. For a long while, I sat there, mesmerized by her beauty. Then her parting words struck me.

‘Stop calling out to me?’

It was then that I realized my lips were still moving in earnest, natural prayer.

Ragha Swaroopa Pasadya Krodhakarankusojwala…

A Dollar, My Love… January 23, 2010

The little girl pushed the sand around, creating a small fence for her sand castle. Ahead, the waves swam gently to the shore and back in an eternal exercise.

“Mummy?”

“Hmmm?”

“You’ll come for the play, won’t you?”

The woman frowned. She didn’t look up from her magazine.

“We’ll see, honey. You know how busy I am…” she trailed off the cell phone tinkled. “Hello?.. Darling…? How marvellous! We simply must go shopping… it’s been such ages! Thursday?”

The girl’s head jerked up anxiously, her fair pigtails bobbing.

“But Mommy, the play is on Thursday…”

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t interrupt when I’m on the phone!… Yes, Maurie… Thursday afternoon.. Mm-hmm?.. Lovely… Goodbye, dear!”

The girl pushed the sand harder. The sunlight shone on her suddenly white face.

“Mummy, won’t you come?”

Her good mood restored, the woman replied, “Of course I will, sweetie… I did last time, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t”, the child said whispered fiercely. “Grandma did.”

Something in her voice made the woman look at her.

“That’s right.. I didn’t, didn’t I?… but I had this concert I simply couldn’t miss!” She pulled out a candy bar. “Here you go, for being a perfect dear today.”

The child took the bar and silently laid it next to her, without so much as a second glance.

Her eyes fixed on the uneven walls of the sand castle, she asked, her voice wobbling, “Mummy, you’ll come, won’t you?

“I’ll try, I told you I’ll try…” the woman replied distractedly. She took off her sunglasses, and shut the magazine.

“Guess what I’m playing?” the child asked, hopefully, looking up from her castle.

“Hmmm?” The cell phone began ringing again and the woman answered it with a sudden trill in her voice. “Jenny, honey, Thursday afternoon!” She began walking back. “You must, Maurie’s coming too… Oh, darling, what fun it’ll be!..”

Her voice faded into the distance. The little girl sat quietly, her tiny figure silhouetted against the vast sea, her hands stilled.

“I’m playing Tinker Bell, mommy”, she whispered, her face crunching as tears poured down her pink cheeks.

The candy bar lay unwrapped by her side, half buried in the sand, the $1 ticker on it gleaming in the sunlight.

blind January 16, 2010

tears are salty for a reason

that they may sting the wound in your heart

and envelop the blindness of your eyes

have you forgotten, darling

how we played with fire?

but it seems only one

of us knew the rules of the game

i, seeking

you, hiding

and in the dark, bittersweet end

i stood up in the cold night

and stood up alone

for it was imagination all along

was it not, darling?

so you say

a pretense i carved for myself

out of nothing and everything

nothing real and everything surreal

how could i have been so blind?

perhaps you’re right

perhaps it is madness

but if madness will so tender be

let madness consume me

let madness consume me…

The Silence of Yesterday January 15, 2010

Shells lie on the seashore

Some broken, some whole,

Lying at the fringes of my memories

They come alive, flipping over

Like dried leaves racked by the wind

Memories of people, places

Deeds, choices, feelings

Glorious lives and little deaths

So much goes into my busy mind

Raging a war for space inside

One news clipping after another

Peace is a forgotten word

In the black and white memories

In the silence of yesterday

My feet make impressions in the sand

Like my words did once in time

And the impact clings

Like grains of sand to my feet

Words that should have been forgotten

Words that still lurk

Behind massive pillars

In the eternal corridor of time

Words that scream mutely

In the silence of yesterday

White froth edges the wave

And washes my feet hesitantly

Receding in a moment

As though it never was, a moment ago

Merging back into the vast unfathomability

That is named the ocean

It calls itself by no names

It simply exists

And creates, and destroys

Like a gentle, wrathful god

I stand watching the infinity

Where sky meets sea

Thoughts recede like the wave

And the mind is calm

And in the certainty of nothingness

In the peace of the void

I, not my mind,

lose myself

In the silence of yesterday.

The Little Orchid January 12, 2010

The flower sat there, pouting.

“Of what use am I?” he demanded of the old birch tree. “No one uses me- I don’t really serve any purpose. To be sure, I smell good, but what of that? How do I make a difference to anything of significance?”

The birch smiled sagely.
“Wait. And watch.” That was his answer to every impatient question the little orchid posed.

The orchid took no notice of the reply, and turned on his side, bobbing his tiny head indignantly. He yearned to be important. It was hours since he had blossomed, and not a soul had taken any notice.

What this to be his fate then- a wayside flower who bloomed by day only to perish, having lived a useless life?

-

An hour later, he was rudely wakened by prying fingers. For a moment, he felt the sharp pain of separation as the umbilical stem connecting him to his mother plant was severed, and then he was free. Delighted, he wondered where the owner was taking him. She was a pretty lass, he could see as she screwed his head up and looked at her past his petals. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her face, set. The orchid’s heart twisted with pity- the poor one!

The girl lifted him up in the air and carried him. The flower opened his mouth wide as the wide world opened up to his curious gaze. Almost an hour later, he found himself suddenly deposited on a perfumed letter. Twisting around while she moved away, he began reading the letter.

Dear Brennan,

How my heart breaks to write this! I begin not with the usual pleasantry- what use is it? It had to be done sometime- and I shall do it now- hurt though it shall.

My country goes to war again against yours… And I will have to choose. I will have today to choose, between love and duty; affection and allegiance; between my heart and my honour. How many times? How many painful times have we met in secret, to plan our lives, knowing full well the futility of it? All I wanted was to love you for life, to bear your children- and today, cold as the winter morn, I know that will never be.

For, Brennan, my heart, Papa has fixed my wedding! It is to be with Charles- as you suspected from the start. And I will not go against it. I know. I know how you must ache, the shock, the pain – I can imagine it as though it were happening right in front of my eyes this minute… but forgive me, forgive my betrayal, I cannot go against my country now- when Papa himself goes to command our men against yours!

On the morrow, I am to be married. Forget me- and forgive this broken wretch, if your heart will be so generous: for you know not how I burn here this instant. You wage a war: you may die for a soldier’s death or live with honour at the end of the war- but I will live all my life, the wife of a man I do not love, condemned in my own heart by a guilt that will for ever burden my shoulders- the guilt of crossing an innocent man’s love… the price of a terrible choice that I will pay every living, breathing moment.

I remain yours in the depths of my heart,
Esmeralda

A single teardrop, glinting perfectly in the sunlight, fell upon the parchment and the orchid, his own petals bedewed with his tears, turned to look up into the girl’s tormented moist eyes as she scanned her letter to her beloved. Picking the orchid up and gently pressing his petals together, she inserted the flower into the fold of the letter and sealed it in an envelope. The orchid could barely make out what was happening- he was blinded by the thick envelope.

He could hear noises all around him, people, dogs barking, then silence. Eventually, he fell into a deep slumber, aware that in a matter of hours, he would be dead- but wondering sleepily what was to become of him after. What would happen to the man receiving the letter?? What thoughts would race through his mind?

-

“Brennan, this letter is for you!”

The man on the bed shifted weakly, his eyes brightening slightly. He was bleeding from multiple wounds and knew death would be a welcome visitor any minute now. It had been two months since the war began and though his men had fought hard and fought true, the English simply had wider coffers- and more men and arms.

Every day, he had waited for a letter from his beloved Esme. He knew she faced a terrible choice- to choose him and desert her country in its hour of war, or choose England over him and his love. Pain darkened his eyes at the thought that he’d never love his sweetheart with his words and lips again, but he willed himself to wait for the last words, as his brother held the letter- what had she chosen?

It was all important that he hear her choice before he breathed his last- was he to die alone, or was she by his side, sharing his burden? Could it be that she had given up her love? The pain of such a decision was almost too much to contemplate and yet- he desperately had to know. Sudden weakness and a very severe bout of coughing dimmed his vision, and he knew for a certainty that he would last barely a few moments longer. The coughing had turned bloody now…

“Open it, Seamus, let me hear what she has to say to me one last time before …”, he rasped weakly, urgently, anxiety tainting his last few thoughts.

His brother struggled with the envelope, urging, “Wait, Brennan, a moment to pry it open!”

It was almost too late and Brennan’s eyes began to dim when the envelope at last slit open – and in a slow dance, a dried, brown flower drifted out of the envelope. Moving in small spirals, it finally landing on the soldier’s parched lips. He could smell the fragrance and as his eyes shut one final time, he managed a trembling smile and edged out in a whisper, “An orchid… she must love me still, Seamus… she must love me still…”, unable to see the growing shock in his brother’s expression as he read Esmeralda’s true intention in the letter.

And in the next second, Brennan breathed his contented last, a slight smile lingering on his lips, underneath the orchid.

-

The orchid lay on the soldier’s lips- a dead, dried, crushed wisp, unaware of the drama that had played out around his withered little body, unaware of the weeping man by the side of the bed. But had the orchid survived, he would have lifted his tiny petals and shone with modest pride at his magnificent contribution: for in that small, cramped room, unknown even to himself, he had transformed one man’s anxious suffering and laid him to sweet, eternal sleep with the promise of hope, the promise of everlasting love.

The little orchid had at last made a difference.

The New Moon Experience December 15, 2009

Okay, let’s start this with some disclaimers.

1. I loved the Twilight books like only a woman can understand, and some sensitive men. Not spectacularly written, but still. Like a good friend said, We All Need An Edward.

2. Which brings us to Edward. Edward Cullen of Cullen Coven. Sigh. Topaz eyes? Heartbreaker smile? Cultured in a Victorian way? Sensitive and understanding? Handsome as hell? Debussy, for dammit’s sake? Decidedly dangerous? Less reasons to LOVE him??? *Sigh*

3. Bella. We’re all Bellas, aren’t we? And thus we connect to her. We’re all normal, everyday, slightly clumsy women with nothing spectacular to set us apart from the rest of the madding crowd, waiting for someone dashing to fall hopelessly in love with us and for the rest of the universe to Gasp! and for us to find true, perfect love. And in our minds, we’re all as beautiful as Bella Swan, which is why mirrors are doing brisk business the world over. Go, women of the world.

These standard T&C out of the way, I watched Twilight, the movie,and then New Moon.

And felt highly disappointed both times, the second more than the first because I paid Rs.120 for a ticket plus extra for popcorn and such. This is the sad story of my New Moon experience.

What on earth were they thinking, casting Robert Pattinson as Edward Cullen? I mean, one knows even if one is a child with water on the brain that the books sell because of a perfect character called Edward. When you cast this Edward, would you not apply the highest level of intelligence and ensure that the man can not just look pale but ACT? Pattinson does a good job of standing with his hands in the pockets of his elegant sports coats and jackets and looking at you from under his eyelids. The Gaze. Complete with hazel/topaz eyes. Works for me. But act? Marginal job. Not that Pattinson is a hopeless actor or even a bad actor- there are a few scenes when his eyes speak to you, the part when he realizes while dropping her off from her birthday party that he has to eventually leave her is very well emoted – but he just isn’t good enough. He doesn’t stand the test of a woman’s imagination, which is where Edward has been immortalized by women everywhere. At any rate, he’s better than Kristen Stunned Stewart.

I gave up on Kristen Stewart after repeated self-assurances for about an hour that she would act in about five minutes’ time. The woman is hopeless, utterly, utterly so. Beautiful, I’ll admit, but she can not act at ALL. Throughout New Moon, she wears a constipated expression, so much so that in the scenes where she is supposed to look dull and dead, the months of October, November etc, she looks much like she did before the months of October, November etc. Pre Edward Kristen = Post Edward Kristen. This was not supposed to be the case with Bella, but someone clearly forgot to inform Stewart. Every power-scene in the movie- Edward leaves her, Jacob turns into a werewolf, she gets back together with Edward, Edward proposes- our leading lady has the same, blank, ‘I know I should be doing something now, but I don’t know what’ expression, if one counts that as any kind of expression at all. It was so bad there were times when I wondered whether I was watching the making of the movie instead of the movie itself – you know, the whole, relaxed, let’s-save-the-acting-for-later feel.

The movie itself was remarkably faithful to the book, with minor deviations and adjustments to account for those who hadn’t read the book before they came to watch the movie. I particularly liked the way the scene where Bella discovers Jacob’s secret was picturized. As always with someone who reads a book and then watches the movie, the abbreviations chafed but a decent job overall.

And now the Man of the Moment.

Intelligent eyes, a body to die for, a quick, easy grin, casually hot, wonderful expression, mobile features, switching between expressions in a most natural way, and easily the best actor in the entire movie. Taylor Lautner, take a bow. What a Jacob he is! In the scene where he leans over into the car and pleads, “Bella, don’t go. For Charlie’s sake…. for my sake. Bella… I’m begging.”; I melted all over my buttered popcorn and for once in that movie-hall, I felt as though I were really into the whole Twilight experience. With a delightful unselfconsciousness that is the hallmark of a true actor, Lautner brings alive the character of Jacob Black, transitioning fluidly from a laughing, engaging boy to a tormented youth on the verge of manhood and battling his newly discovered secret. It is this precisely this unselfconsciousness that Stewart lacks. Never once during the books did I give two hoots for Jacob Black and in the space of two hours, I fell in love with the him (which only serves to reinforce that casting is a tricky business- movie history is full of instances where a small part played by a talented actor has outshone the protagonist). Lautner carries New Moon on his (muscled) shoulders and simply steals the show. The contrast with Pattinson is almost painful to note.

There are small, well performed scenes scattered here and there in an otherwise unspectacular movie. Ashley Greene is spontaneous as Alice and plays her part well. Except for a sparkling performance by Aro (Michael Sheen), the Volturi fail to make much of an impact. Emmett (Kellan Lutz) is engaging as always, in addition to looking hot. The werewolves are depicted in an ordinary fashion, and I found myself disappointed. Why the lack of special effects when there was so much opportunity? Terrible, terrible costumes and bad make-up. Some of the music is good, but for the most part nothing remarkable. Decent editing, nothing to write home about.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is New Moon for you. I paid 120 for the movie itself, and easily got 75 bucks’ worth from Taylor Lautner. Say, 15 from Pattinson purely because he played Edward. About -15 from Kristen Stewart for zero acting and frozen expression. Do the math. At least 40 rupees… mere paise barbaad ho gaye! Well, okay, not all of it.

Final Verdict: Worth watching for Lautner, some small actors and because we read the books and loved the Twilight saga – but only if you pay less than a hundred for the ticket- preferably, get your date to pay or freeride in some other way on paying altogether.

Deep Blue Like The Ocean, Warm Like the Wind December 14, 2009

The mind is a live thing, twisting and turning, slipping and sliding, laughing and frowning; incessantly gnawing at some or the other thought as an eternally hungry dog at an elusive bone; never completely happy, never completely immersed in sadness. Worry reigns supreme, the commander of a million unrelated thoughts, the common thread binding love, grief, pride, ambition. I sit uneasy on the scattered remains of countless memories and regret silently explodes, rich, warm and fresh with time, aways a reminder of that something I did or did not do, or did not see coming, or said or did not say, and my mind is weighed down with an odd little pain, all the more powerful for the fact that I cannot spot where it lies. Regret is all colours of the rainbow, the deep red of grief, the subtle salty blue of nostalgia, the deep verdant green of reflection, the sunlit yellow of what might have once been, but never was. How it teases and tickles, that pregnant possibility, heavy with meaning, that never ripened!

I rise and walk on water, each footstep washed away by orange waves whose fragrance rises to disturb me with it over-sweetness, and thousands of faces merge into a collage in front of my eyes until I can no more see. A ship sails to my right, bobbing gently. A child of six stands on the deck with hair in several shades of grey. Her green eyes look straight into mine, through mine, into a future I cannot see. She smiles, then frowns, then exclaims, then weeps and finally her face clears into a calm acceptance born of the wisdom of life and experience, like life washed over her in the space of a heartbeat. I reach out and my hand strikes a mirror, the strike resonating for a few moments in the air. My reflection laughs back at me, unmocking, joyous. Then my entire body swirls into pure white smoke and the only thing left, rich, warm and fresh with time, is regret.

At The Airport December 10, 2009

“Jet announcement for Mr. Suresh Iyer, Mr. Ramaswamy and Mr. Senthilandavan! Jet flight no. 646 departing for Bangalore in 10 minutes, please board the flight immediately.”

Sitting in the Kamaraj International Airport in Chennai and badly wanting to put up a post. But- Whatey joke! An international airport that has no working Wi-Fi connection that I can find after twenty minutes of hopping around with the laptop like a rabbit with an urgent need to use the loo, and mystifying fellow passengers considerably. This means this post is now visible to you in the evening, ages after I actually typed it out. Please to adjustment.

Several aunties in saree and designer shawls look at me down their noses and turn to each other. They look as though they might be complaining about ‘computer addickshun in the youth now-a-days’, which is a favourite topic for dissection at Maamis Inc (MI) meetings every alternate Sunday at Grandma’s place. I do the rabbit-needing-loo act for a couple of more minutes and desist, defeated.

Overhead, the voice continues to plead, “Mr.Ramaswamy!” it calls out emotionally. “Mr. Senthilandavan!”

Thala valikkudhu pa¹. Enna rubbish idhu. What are these Ramaswamys and Senthilandavans doing at an airport if not boarding the flight? Assuming they have arrived. I mean, there are not too many reasons you would go to an airport other than to board a flight, except to check out hot airhostesses if you belong to the Desperade Male category, or to use free Wi-Fi. On both counts, KIA disappoints unfailingly. The Wi-Fi – haha! But wait – hot airhostesses? Hahahhahaha!!

Well, yes, have you seen the Indian Airlines airhostesses lately? The more I observe the age, the layers of makeup, the dabara tiffin boxes and the three-fourth sleeve blouses, the more I suspect some MI members might secretly be airhostessing in their spare time. Highly likely.

A neighbouring maami seems to have spotted the words ‘hot’ and ‘maami’ on my screen. Her eyebrows are dangerously close to rising above her forehead.

Ayyayyo, I think she saw these last lines.

Haha. (*Ouch*)

(Hasty goodbye.)

——————————————————————————-

1 – Head aching pa!

And home December 9, 2009

NOTE: All lengthy Tamizh quotes notated with a series of * or ^ and translated at the end of the post.

I boarded the 6-30am flight from Cal on the morning of the 6th  and reached homeland, Chennapatnam aka Madras, at around 9am. Much rejoicing happened, followed by the inevitable TamBram Get-together At Grandma’s Place.

For the uninitiated, this is the general schedule of a Sunday TamBram Get Together At Grandma’s Place:

9-00am: Breakfast- idli/dosai/ponga/sambar/coconut chutney/filter kaapi

9-15am: Gossip and saree/jewellery discussion; “Yaen ma, enga vaangineL, pudhusa? Saradha-kkum thedindrukkom… mooNu kallu vecchadha dhaan vEnum nu maaplai aathla sollittA.”* At this point,the men start looking bored with mooNu-kallu modhirams and head to the other bedroom, where kriket and kaapi is served hot.

10-ooam: Music Show on TV with unmusical children trying to sing Rara Venugopala, in a ragam hitherto undiscovered. Wise judges beaming and nodding at the camera, and yawning when the camera turns away. Maamis Incorporated (MI) at grandma’s place- all chitthis, periammas, atthais (various varieties of aunts, basically) and co- nodding and putting thappu thaaLam** with vigor. Compliments galore when the rakshas kids finally finish their attempts because their breath peters out at ‘raajitha sadguna jaya sheela’. Thank God for small mercies.

12:00am: Lunch preparation on its last legs. Applam kaaching. Discussions about immediately finished/immediately due weddings, expenditure, trips to Saravana Stores, and eligible Brahmin boys. Growing discomfort amongst unmarried TamBram men/women in the vicinity, including yours truly, especially when some helpful maami from distant clan says, “Ellam vekkam dhaan maami ivaLukku! Neenga paakka aaramichudungo!”*** Why this kolaveri??

1:00pm:  Lunch, TamBrahm style. The best part of the day. Vettha kozhambu, pumpkin koottu, mor kozhambu (the real thing, not yellow muck kadi as served mess-style), payasam, pineapple rasam, paruppu sambar, thayir vada, puliyodharai (made famous by the kid in the MTR ad saying Pulge!), thayir saadham, oorga were among the dignitaries as far as I remember. There may have been significant others. I was too busy hogging like Kovai Sarala in the Vivek comedy track to notice.

Hehe.

2:00pm: Nap.

3:00pm:  Worshtu part, Maamis Inc starts to stir after nap and turns happy eyes on young girls. “Yaen ma? Why don’t you sing a song?” (Self: Cringe.) “So nice it will be. On a good day also. Mangalamaa irukkum^.” (Self:Yaarukku?) After a battle of wills (and mind you, I can ARGUE), MI wins. Defeated, I clear throat and start singing standard bhajan in Shuba Pantuvarali. MI in ecstasy, nodding head, more thappu thaaLam. Ayyo, andavaa. I close eyes. MI mistakes this for involvement. “Ch, ch”s ensue. “Kozhanda yenna azhagaa padardhu.”^^

As I stagger to a relieved close, one senior VP of MI, probably Rajam mami or something, suggests helpfully that I might want to wow the crowd with Maithreem Bajatha. Pochu da. I plunge into battle again and MI leans further back into sofa. As this number also concludes, all chorus of MI wants Kurai Ondrum Illai. I protest and my traitorous parents aid and abet the enemy. Thus cornered, I render requested song and gratefully pass the baton to cousin Abhi who is a disciple of Bombay Jayashree and as such in touch with music; unlike self languishing in the mega metropolis of Jamshedpur.

4:30pm: All thanks, curtains down, falling at feet, teasing newly married cousin Vinod dutifully, and taking leave. Grandma of the opinion that I have lost a lot of weight. I take offence and ask her from where. She is unable to point out any spot on self where weight might have previously been present. Discussion peters out. She brings kungumam. Keepings. Tatas and air kisses.

Thets aaal, folks.

Please do drop in at Grandma’s place in T Nagar, if you are in station, with a phone call. We will be happy to have you over. But! You have to sing for Maamis Inc. No escape routes for strategic retreat. (P.S. Food is usually worth it).

~~~~~ * ~~~~~

Translations for Tamizh non-knowers

* – Where did you buy this, is it new? We are also searching for one like this for Saradha… the groom’s side wants the three-stones ring only.

** – Very wrong taaL / beats for a classical song- not in rhythm with the actual singer, usually confusing the poor sod into singing terribly off beat

*** – “All shyness only, maami! You start looking for an eligible boy for her!”

^ – It will be auspicious.

^^ – How beautifully the child is singing!