THE CHILDHOOD THAT WANDERED AROUND CRICKET

People who had badly wanted to pinch me in the cheeks (neighbors I mean) when I was in school started running away yesterday with a blank stare that suggested they were intimidated. The location during the flashback as well as the present was the Valamburi Vinayagar Kovil. And, the reason they thought of running away was the beard. “Enna daa idhu asingamaa dhaadi ellaam vechundu?” says an aunt; “Indha kaalathu pasangaluku French beard, funk dhaan trend aayiduchu; thalaiyezhuthu”, remarks another uncle. Though it was a bit annoying, their affection towards all the children of the locality remains the same. The way they recall the incidents of the past and how we tormented the whole area with our hide-and-seek and cricket took me back to those days (Cue BGM “Nyaabagam Varudhey”)

Let us rewind to my fifth grade and above.

I have a sense of pride for belonging into the probably last set that played street cricket. The slender stem of some random plant became the stump at the non-striker’s end, and the Coca Cola grate became its counterpart at the striker’s end. With only one bat (rarely two, if a luxurious foreign relative gifts us one) and a Stumper ball, the arena would be all set for the battle and a car would honk from behind. We would have to clear the arrangements while being scolded by the driver and owner, and reset them back after the car is gone. This would happen at least 5 times in a session. Oh by the way, on weekdays, it was only one session from around 04:30 PM to 06:30 PM, while on weekends, there were two sessions – from 10:00 AM to 01:30 PM, and 03:00 PM to 07:00 PM.

We belonged to the three adjacent streets of Muthukumarasamy Nagar and Anna Nagar and were around 16 in number. Each one of us loved to play daily but not all parents were lenient enough to let their wards play in the “study time”. We would go and call them and they would scold us back. “All you people come and call my child to play and that is the reason he flunks in exams. Get lost”, would be the reply. The strength started coming down to 12 and then to 10. So we devised a strategy to bring these amma chellam guys into the loop.

The four of us (whose parents, including mine, were (and are) lenient), who would come to the field first - say half an hour before the scheduled time - would go together to the strict houses. Only one among the four would yell out the name of the boy to be called out. As usual, the mom would utter that trademark reply without even opening the door. So we would stand there for the next 10 minutes, silently talking to each other to pass time and then the second person would call that guy again. Now the reply would slightly be different. “Thambi, avan thoonguraan paa.” In reality, the mom would be half asleep while the poor guy would pretend to be sleeping while waiting to go out somehow. Even if she scowls on why he is being called again and again, we would be like, “Oh, he was called already? I was not aware. I come directly from my home.” The resilience of this mom would start coming down as the third guy calls in the next 5 minutes, and we could hear her scolding the locked up soul, “Poi thola, saniyaney. Correct ah 6 maniku vandhudanum.” And promptly, this guy would return only at 7, just like others.

Now playing was an easy task. But what if the ball finds its way into the compound of some houses? The answer was ME. The fate of being tall had its toll even when I played cricket; since my height enabled easy climbing of walls and posts, I would be asked to climb walls. The street we usually played was surrounded by homes of Vasantha Teacher, Manickam Vaadhiyaar, Sivakumar Tahsildar and the like (glad it was based on profession and not on caste). Vasantha Teacher was that strict woman who would not want even ants to enter her place. So naturally she blasted us away every time she found that we are sneaking in to take the ball away.

In order to overcome this “humiliation”, we formulated a plan. Since we had the advantage of all the houses being closed once we started playing (because of the noise and ruckus; it is not as if we were professionals who targeted doors and windows with our hooks and pulls), we could pretend to be playing as if nothing had happened even if the ball was not there. So everyone would start giving comments like, “Dei. Podu daa ball-a”, “Koomutta. Catch yedhuku daa miss panna?” to maintain the noise levels and make sure they do not sense something fishy. The wicketkeeper would meanwhile see from behind the stumps if there was any unusual door slams or window shuts; if there were even the slightest noise, he would say “Winning Declare”, which implied the man inside the compound (mostly myself) should hide somewhere behind the bushes.

One day, the lady found out this technique and caught me red-handed. As usual, the typical abuses to my family and forefather started coming out. “Don’t your parents advice you good? Does your school teach only bad habits like climbing walls?” As if school is the only way to learn. When my friends started smirking, I could not hold but ask her, “Did your school teach you to be grumpy?” That was the end of the story. I do not think I should explain what must have happened then.

I can still remember this 3 o clock protocol because of my History examination in the 10^th grade mainly. Mom was gracious enough to allow me play even the day before board examinations, and I was about to start the Charter Act question when the clock struck thrice. I thought I would study that later after playing, and eventually I forgot. On the next day’s paper, that was one of the questions asked. I knew the other answer (Explain about First World War or something, I forgot). But this Charter Act was just 10 points that I could have finished in a jiffy and scored 10 full marks just like that (because the school teachers were so fond of bulleted points) while this other stuff took me almost 40 minutes to complete. I had to hurry up at the last moment to finish the paper somehow. The others in the gang would also have had several embarrassing incidents like these every now and then. But nothing would stop us from playing daily till the start of 11^th grade, when tuitions and school would become the mornings and nights for us (That was a different kind of enjoyment, though!)

There were the hide-and-seek moments when we would climb walls in the nights and freak the house owners who would come to pee (the bathrooms were outside the house in the garden side); there were ass moments (Is the card game called Ace or Ass? I still have a doubt) when everyone would be afraid to get A Spade, because that person would have to open the account and almost 5 of the 15 people would not have Spades with them; there were ding dong moments when we would ring the bell in some stranger’s house and just hide at a safe haven from where we could spot how much the people at the houses got afraid and anxious, but could not spot us.

But cricket always holds a special place because of the fun that happened around the game; it was as if the 16 of us rebelled against this whole area of employed, orthodox people. Everyone is in different college now, and many have lost touch (Alas, those were the days without mobiles; I do not even know their WhatsApp numbers), several people have migrated to cities, some have started working, one anna has even married. I saw him yesterday at the temple and the first word he asked was, “Cricket ellaam ippovum aadriyaa? Shall we play here some time soon?” We may not be the clubs or the elite players; cricket was something that united us, that made us enjoy life despite public examinations, that which has now made someone who had torn me apart with her words earlier to ask about my well-being. Probably, that is one reason I do not want to move on with my life watching football (or some other sport) as many of my mates at college do.

OF MARRIAGES AND THE DEFAULT CHARACTERS

There are two reasons this post is being written. One, a friend had taken me to a wedding reception which was no way related to me and I ate to the fullest possible limit in the buffet (nature did not call this time though and nobody blocked me with a cup of coffee). Two, there are certain hilarious incidents that I always spot in at least the conventional marriages and catering services here.

Though the post points to characters of distinctive natures, any resemblance to any human being – either living or dead – is at least partially coincidental, and is not meant to hurt anybody psychologically, mentally, cranially, cerebrally and so many other –allys. Also please note that this post can be related only by people who have witnessed the Tamil Hindu marriage ceremonies.

The Moi Mama:

Moi Mama is usually that person who ages anywhere between 40 and 70, who follows current affairs of his local constituency to accurate details, who reads The Hindu (English or Thamizh) daily, and who always keeps fresh 100 and 500 rupees especially allotted for gifting to the newly-wed couples.

Moi Mama can be found collecting new bundles of freshly printed cash in exchange for old notes from banks very often, and the number of times he visits the bank is maximum during the months of Chithirai, Vaigaasi, Ani, Thai and Panguni (roughly April, May, June, January and March), when the marriages overtake the number of movie releases, and the bank visit count plummets down to trough position in a sinusoidal curve in the months of Purattaasi and Margazhi (roughly November and December), which are mostly regarded inauspicious for weddings.

Some of the other characteristics of Moi Mama are:

He wears perfectly starched and ironed formal shirts (mostly half-hand), neatly tucked in and belted with a branded pant. The pants are usually worn in a manner similar to the bathing gowns of women, thereby making even a full length pant look like a three-fourths or a trouser.

They maintain a stern face even while posing for the photo with the couple, and are found to exude a courtesy-sake smile while handing over the moi cover to the concerned party (I don’t know how to put it forth; I meant either the bride or the groom), and saying, “Happy Married Life” in a way similar to the newsreader in Podhigai channel. If an amplifier is attached to their throat when they utter these words, there will be no highs and lows and the pulse would go flat because there is no excitement in the tone.

MMs (let us call Moi Mamas this way from now on) attend wedding ceremonies like they go to their office daily. It is more of a compulsion for them to attend these social events because they are afraid to face the comments of some random person saying, “He did not come to my family function. I would not let his family function happen.”

With the rise in inflation on a year-on-year basis, the dosh in the moi covers of these human beings increase in a proportion that even Ramanujam would find difficult to calculate. To assume roughly, for a period of every five years, the amount doubles. For example, if MM gives 501 bucks for every marriage this day, it would mean he was giving either 251 or 201 between 2010 and 2015, and 101 during 2004 and 2009.

The Third Umpire:

As the wedding proceedings go on in the altar, this person’s gaze would be fixed somewhere else at an inclined position. A quick glance would misguide one to the conclusion that he is seeing some woman in the crowd, but a deep stare would clarify that this man is indeed looking at the visuals of the marriage in the digital screen.

The intent of this person would to be focused and concentrated to such an extent that his vision would pierce through even the most opaque object placed in the field of vision of his eye towards the screen. In hindsight, a marriage is nothing more than a live telecast of Kaarthighai Dheepam (in Thiruvannaamalai) in Doordarshan.

Over a period of time, his eyes would get fixed to the viewing angle and he would get hypnotized to such an extent that some random TV shows, if projected in the same screen, would also be imagined by him to be a part of the ceremony.

In most of the cases, The Third Umpires either eat exactly at the first pandhi of food, or would choose to go for the last one, because they are the male counterparts of those serial-watching ladies, who cannot afford to miss a single visual of their favorite series.

The Expressionist:

For the third kind of people, the bridal couple may be present or absent, and the food menu is not part of their bother; they come to marriages for the pleasure of music. During eleven out of the twelve months in the Thamizh calendar, they have marriages to attend to listen to music, and during Margazhi, there are always music festivals being telecast.

These people are the main culprits behind the chaotic presence of chairs after the marriage, because they tend to turn towards the direction of the naadhaswara vidhwaan, who will be crouched at another quadrant of the hall, far away from the main altar. As the vidhwaan holds his breath with great difficulty to perform an aalaap, the Expressionist would startle the others who would be sitting and chatting around, with his cries of “Aahaa…”, “Baley Baley” and “Sabaash”, which are commonly the outcomes of his carnatic inclination.

The Break Dancer:

These self-proclaimed dance divas are mostly uncles or aunts of the bride or groom, and they would get excited to such an extent that they start dancing to the tune of a saxophone or a recorded cine song being played in the sound system. Usually, their seating positions will be the fifth or sixth rows in the hall, and the way they run forward to the first row to get everybody’s attention is a must watch.

After some adjustments with their garments (like folding the sleeves of a full hand shirt in case of gents, or tying the dupattah diagonally like a poonool, in case of ladies), they would start ‘dancing’. This dance can be anything ranging from merely asking someone else to dance by blushing after coming forward voluntarily or clapping the hands incoherently out of sync with the rhythm of the song, to hopping like a kangaroo here and there or waving the hands from one shoulder to another. This saga would last for a maximum duration of 15 minutes, and all the really tiring movements would make the break dancers exhausted that they go for relaxation, much to the relief of the audience.

The “Rasam please, Mor Please” Maami:

Usually, there is a procedure for serving food. It starts with the plantain leaf being positioned correctly with the slightly longer side of the vertical edges facing the right hand of the eater. Then, water is being sprinkled over it to “clean” it, followed by the serving of sweets, and then side dishes. The final serving would be rice along with sambhar, succeeded by rasam and buttermilk.

The “RP, MP” Maamis would start yelling for buttermilk even before the sweets are being served (that is, immediately after the plantain leaf is being spread out). Not stopping with this atrocity, they would instigate the others nearby also with a snapping rhetoric, “See how careless and inhospitable these catering workers are these days. They do not even treat the guests with dignity.” Another mama would now hobnob this to a third person and this chain would continue till it reaches the sammandhi people who come and try to gauge control of the situation.

Meanwhile, the RPMP maamis would be going at full flow in their eating greed, as their preliminary process of creating some kind of scene has been achieved. The best part here is that after eating each item at least three times, they would exude a deep remark of dissatisfaction, stating, “Saapaadu nannaavey illa. Actually, I am dieting. I was shouting for the person who sat next to me. He was in need of buttermilk.”

Brofer:

Pretending to do some really gruesome work is one important feature of a brother or sister, who would wear valuable costumes and run from one end of the marriage hall to another without any reason (The title is inspired from Grofers, whose name is again sourced from a combination of Grocery and Gofer). The main purpose of this running here and there would be to project an illusion to their friends (from college or school mostly) that they are the pillars behind the marriage, and in their absence, no proceedings could take place effectively.

Brofers would promise their friends that they would be the first people to take photos with the couple, but that would never happen in reality because the elders would not pay heed to their implore at the backstage. So the friends would have to wait for a really long time to hand over the gifts (if any), before hurrying their way towards the dining area.

One happening that could easily be associated with a Brofer of recent times is taking selfies with his/her friends, which would soon be tagged and spread in the social media with meaningless, irrelevant hashtags.

So these are only a few characters that form a marriage hall set up according to my perspective. Comment with intricate details on the other categories of people, in case I missed out on any of them (I guess there are many more). Seetha Kalyaana Vaibhogamey!

OF THE SOCIALLY AWKWARD COFFEE-AND-TEA-AVOIDER AND HIS SURVIVAL

“Come, let’s have a cup of coffee at Starbucks”, said a friend of mine and I had to refuse politely stating I don’t drink coffee and tea. Thankfully, he smiled and left it as it is. But a day does not pass without me getting a stare from at least one person that seems to say, “Go jump off a cliff and die. RIGHT NOW. Because you don’t drink coffee.” I would want to hit back by smacking, “Dude, please. It is not like I am impotent or something just because I don’t drink this chicory-mixed, brown-colored beverage.” But then, the reality about my physique - and the effect it would suffer from if being stuck by the staring person - would sink in, and I would fake a nervous smile, trying to be diplomatic, gauging the situation and eventually moving away to a place with less awkwardness.

I hesitate to visit day scholar friends because all their moms would invariably ask two questions.

1.    What is your CGPA?

2.    Want some coffee or tea?

Some of the parents go to the next level by asking, “Coffee kudika maatiyaa? Avlo nallavanaa daa ni?” Again, words would start getting framed in my mind. “Hello, excuse me. I am trying to become the don of my college, and you are giving ‘nallavan’ title and all to me. This is injustice.” However in reality, I would be smiling (in this case, I cannot even leave that place, because it is a friend’s home and I have been taught to be civil towards elders).

I have justified reasons for not liking coffee and tea (or any beverage other than milk and kanji). First of all, there is this Complan flashback that haunts me till date. I had been drinking this Completely Planned food from the day I remember, but this was not the only drink I used to be fed with daily. I drank, and still drink, this kezhvaragu kanji for which mom really does a lot of background work (like handpicking various cereals and mixing them in the right proportion, leaving them to sprout and then giving it to the rice mill to get the flour out of the mixture etc.), I drink plain milk (sugar added, of course). Why? I even had booze more than most of my mates when we went to “Industrial Visit” to Goa (and did not vomit even once).

So coming to the flashback, “Dude, this guy is tall because he drinks Complan daa” became a common word in the school where I studied my primary classes. I would always be like, “Bloody bastards, are you guys sure? Why could it not have happened naturally? See, my great grandad was about seven feet. It might be the genes”, but all this would ring upon only in my mindvoice. Being the poor soul with the lean physique that would resemble Raghuvaran or Balaji (the guy who complains about a thousand diseases in a famous comedy in Vaali with Vivek), I got used to just smiling meekly and getting lost out of the offenders’ sight.

While this is the friends’ side of the flashback, the neighborhood comments were even more incinerating. “Jayashri, stop giving him Complan. He is becoming too tall for his weight.”

Neighbor: Dei Giri, always remember. More rice than Complan.

My mindvoice: Mr. Bawsthaord (decency maintained), did you see me eating a quintal of Complan powder yesterday? Or the day before?

Neighbor: Don’t stare at me. I am telling for your well-being only.

My mindvoice: Alright, thanks. Now, drink the coffee for which you came here and please fuck off, well-wisher.

Neighbor: Why are you looking at me like that? I think Complan is making you grumpy.

My mindvoice: Your face is like the ass of a God-knows-what creature. So please. The exit door is over there.

With each passing day in my high school, this “coffee-cat” phenomenon started hitting me harder and harder, and finally, I took the plunge to try drinking it once. It was in my 11^th grade. I used to go to a friend’s place after school hours (because his home was near the tuition center where I studied. Dirty minds, please stop your thought process), and his mom served me great chapathis (better than my mom, literally. Note to mom: Amma, this has been included within braces to mean you should not read it) daily. Her coffee was also being constantly praised by a lot of my classmates and hence I tried drinking it one day. I don’t know why, but the taste did not go well with my tantalizing buds in the tongue; when I spat it out, his mom – I call her “Maa” too – was clearly offended, and this made me averse to coffee forever.

I can never forget a betrothal, where I had to face a hell of a scene. First of all, my physical condition does not literally translate to the amount of food I eat (Where did you make a mistake, Lord Brahma?). So in this buffet, I tasted almost all the itineraries at least once and as a result, nature was calling. When I tried to rush out towards the restrooms, one server blocked me politely and said, “Sir, this exit door is under construction. Take the other exit over the opposite side.” I had to hurry my way towards the other side, which was some fifty light years away, before noticing that there was a long queue near the exit door. A sudden panic attack ensued on the imagination that all of them were waiting to respond to nature’s call. Only when I neared did I come to know that the queue was for coffee. I tried to by-pass the line when some random person said, “Sir, what is the hurry? All of us are waiting for coffee only. Don’t we look like human beings?” I could hear myself swearing at me for stuffing in so much into my belly, when I began asking “Excuse me” to everyone.

Just when I was about to reach the door, a server blocked the way with a smile and said, “Sir, coffee kudichitu ponga.” As I stood helpless, he thrusted me a cup of coffee and went away to oblivion. I had to grip my body tight so as to maintain the equilibrium between nature’s call and my lanky stature, and as I managed to step towards the door for one last time, another man blocked me.

Man: Sir, please place the cup in the tray over there

(points to a tub-like thing kept at 200 meters from the place I stood, directly opposite to the direction of the lavatory)

Me: Can you please do me a favor by keeping it there?

Man: Am sorry, Sir. I am afraid I have some work

(walks away)

Me: (muttering Thamizh swear words)

(placing the cup at its destined place)

(blitzing towards the restroom, overtaking Usain Bolt’s record in the process)

Thankfully, all was well and it ended well. But after that, I became very conscious about eating at buffets.

As this evergreen incident refuses to go out of my memory, another part of my brain starts processing a second happening. This happened in the month of January, and I, along with a few seniors, was supposed to meet someone from a startup to discuss certain things for a college function. I was fretting not because I was anxious about meeting those people, but rather because this meeting was scheduled at Café Coffee Day. As the discussions went on, all but myself started ordering Cappuccinos and Frappes, while I had no other option but to go for a veg puff. As I started crunching it, one of the CCD people came in.

CCD guy: Sir, would you like to have something to drink?

Mindvoice 1: Yeah, right. Give me a liter of salted buttermilk with some asafetida, dumbass.

Mindvoice 2: Sudu thanni eduthu en moonji la oothu daa venna.

Me: (smiling) No, thanks. I am good.

Eventually, the meeting turned out to be futile both personally and professionally. Personally because I was irritated and did not eat the veg puff fully (the seniors paid). Professionally because the startup did not agree to the terms put forth by us.

But thinking of all these, I guess my hate for coffee is more of a psychological thing triggered by societal happenings rather than the really awkward taste it has (yeah, it has an awkward taste only). So my love towards coffee and tea has stopped with admiring the beauty of the plantations and estates at Munnar and Ooty. This is also the reason I care more about eating at Rotiwala than at Rathna Café. This is precisely why I exert that peculiar, out-of-the-world stare when I see a group of people sipping coffee at a hotspot with that surrrr noise that comes out as the liquid passes on from the cup (or saucer) to their mouth.

Whatever it is, coffee and tea aversion and the really annoying situations that arise out of it has made me kind of resilient towards facing problems in a way. One bothering aspect that pains me somewhere at the bottom of my heart is that, though I have drunk all the juices at CEG canteen, I have not tasted coffee or tea even once. Man, it is just five or six rupees; one day, I might get the courage to taste it, spit it out and the person sitting opposite to me would slap me for dirtying his Peter England shirt.

இசை

ஆரோகண அவரோகணமாய்

ஓடி வந்து கால் நனைத்து

உள்வாங்கும் கடலலைகள்

சரளி வரிசையும் சரளமாய் அறியாத

சாதாரணனின் பாதத்தையும்

சன்னமாய்த் தீண்டும்

தள்ளுவண்டியில் சுண்டல்காரர்

கரண்டியைச் சட்டியின் ஓரங்களில்

அடித்து எழுப்பும் ஓசை

தாளம் தப்பாத தனியாவர்த்தனமாய்ச்

செவிகளை நிரப்பும்

ஆர்ப்பரிக்கும் அலைகளின்

ஆனந்த தாண்டவம்

அரங்கேற்றமாய் உருவெடுக்கும்

புல்லாங்குழல் விற்கும் வடகிழக்கு ஆசாமி

இந்தியையும் தமிழையும் இணைத்து

எழுப்பும் மெட்டு

பத்து ரூபாய்க்கும் பசிக்குமான போராட்டமென்று

அவரது

கண்கள் பிரதிபலிக்கும்

இவையனைத்தும் கேட்காமல்

கருவிகளைக் காதில் பொருத்தி

செவிப்பறை கிழிக்கும் செவ்வியல் இசை

கேட்டுச் செல்கிறான்

இசையின் மகத்துவம் அறிந்தவனாய்க்

காட்டிக்கொள்வதற்கு!

நினைவுகள்

பேருந்தினின்று இறங்கியவுடன்

அந்த ஊர் தன்

சொந்த ஊரா எனும் கேள்வி

மண் வீதியில் ஓடி விளையாடிய கால்கள்

சிமெண்ட் சாலையில் மெல்ல நடந்தன

கால வேகத்தில் ஏற்பட்ட மாற்றங்களினூடே

தொலைத்த அடையாளம் தேடி

சட்டென எங்கிருந்தோ வெளிப்பட்ட

குழந்தையொன்று

சிரித்தபடியே வழிகாட்டியது;

வீட்டில் அம்மா அப்பாவைத் தவிர

அனைத்தும் புதிதாய்த் தெரிந்தன;

தோட்டத்தில் சுள்ளெனக் கொளுத்திய வெயில்

வெட்டப்பட்ட தென்னை மரத்தினை – இவன்

சிறுநீரூற்றி வளர்த்த மரத்தினை – நினைவூட்டியது.

பள்ளிக்குச் சென்றபோது மனத்தில்

இனம்புரியா உற்சாகம்

துள்ளிக்குதித்த இதயத்துடிப்பைச் சுமந்தபடி

உள்சென்றவனுக்குப் பேரிடி

சிரிக்கும் ஆசிரியப் பெருமக்கள்

கூக்குரலிடும் மாணவர்கள்

”அவர்கள் இப்போது இல்லை;

காலம் மாறிவிட்டது” சொன்னது குழந்தை

கணினி கற்பித்துக் கொண்டிருந்தது,

52 எந்திரங்கள் கவனித்துக் கொண்டிருந்தன

வகுப்பறையெனும் மயானத்தில்

உளம் சிறுத்து – வெயிலில்

முகம் கறுத்து, முற்றும் வெறுத்துச்

சோர்வாய் நின்றவன்

“நல்லா இருக்கியாய்யா?” எனும்

குரல் கேட்டுத் திரும்பினான்

வழிந்த எண்ணெய்யும் கிழிந்த சேலையுமாக

காரைப்பல் தெரியச் சிரித்தாள் பள்ளி ஆயா,

“கொழந்ததான் கூட்டி வந்தானா?”

சிரித்தது குழந்தை ஆயா கேட்டவுடன்;

அன்னியமாய்த் தெரிந்த சுற்றுப்புறம்

அன்னியோன்யமானது அப்புன்னகையால்!

உடன் வந்த குழந்தைக்குப்

பாதையனைத்தும் அத்துப்படியாய்த் தெரிந்தது

ஆச்சரியத்துடன் அதனிடமே கேட்டான்

“உன் பெயர் என்ன?” என்று

“நினைவுகள்” என்றது.

THIS IS NOT A REVIEW, PLEASE!

         If whoever is going to read this have not watched 24, please do watch and then read (or don't read).

         When was the last time we saw Surya in a gripping movie with almost all check boxes ticked off successfully? I guess the last such outing was Ayan. Aadhavan was a sloppy story, Singam series were just routine cop sagas, Anjaan does not require any words to describe and Mass was a decently good story that got dragged down by chaotic screenplay. Even Ayan did not have scope for the actor’s abilities; it was the director (K V Anand), who made it a hit.

         With 24, it seems like Surya is back on track. May God protect him from the next release, Singam 3! This is not a review on 24; there have been zillions of them trending all over the internet. The following will be the compilation of certain aspects that would show the amount of groundwork the crew has done to make 24 a success. One could easily split the worth of the standard 120 bucks paid for the movie into five categories, each worth 24 rupees – screenplay, direction, cast, music and art.

         The lullaby song Aaraaro deserves a special mention for the lyrics and the way it has been tuned in by the legend. Each and every line of the track is about the baby, but also does it metaphorically imply time. ‘Kanney Nee Aala Pirandhavan Aaraaro’ ultimately means time is the boss; Don’t the lines, ‘Mannil Thondrum Uyirukku Yedho Artham Irukkumadaa; Endhan Artham Nee Dhaaney Endhan Andham Nee Dhaaney’ enlighten that time is the answer for everything? Coming to the perspective of screenplay, this song comes at a juncture when the time traveling device has successfully been activated. Now, imagine the ‘Aala Pirandhavan’ phrase and it gives away that time rules the world, and time can heal everything. I have hardly seen any movie in the recent times that had this depth in the first ten minutes. And, my belief about Madhan Karky that he is capable of only Googles and Selfies got shattered.

         For a movie of this sort, dialogues play an important role because B and C centre audience need to be satisfied only by explaining the concept of time then and there, while also taking care they do not become preachy. That moment when a random passer-by enlightens Surya on ‘Why don’t you travel forward?’ is just a sample. This random person is about to fall due to a banana skin that that lies in the road, but the protagonist warns him beforehand because he had seen already that this person would fall. The person thanks him and says, “Pinnaadi Paathutey Nadandhu Vandhen, Munnaadi Paakala”. I was wowed at this instance. Just a line. Just about ten words had conveyed the power of that time machine, just about ten words had informed the audience that this watch could perform wonders, just about ten words had educated us about the concept of time.

         There are many such junctures. Take this situation when Aathreya wakes up from coma after 26 years. “Ennaachu Mithra?”, “Vayasaayiduchu, Sir”. Consider this scene where Girish Karnad says, “Inimey Nadandhadhu Yedhayum Maatha Mudiyaadhu. Nadaka Poradhaavadhu Nalladhaa Nadakatum”. Imagine the scene when Saranya Ponvannan laments about the unexpected rains. Reminisce the visual where Surya asks Samantha to come exactly at 2’o clock. Think of the name of the watch mechanic himself – Mani. Everything has something to do with time.

         There were negative reviews about Surya using the watch for silly reasons, like pouring ink on Samantha’s sari, deflating the tyre in her vehicle, etc. But this is where reality sets in. This is not the Surya who fist pumps as Duraisingam. This is the character called Mani, a common man. As a human being of his age, he wishes to impress the girl. This could very well be compared to the scene in Baba when Rajnikanth uses one of the seven wishes for a trivial reason, like making Ramya Krishnan ask, ‘What’s the time now?’ One never knows about the potential of something unless the need arises. And, that need arises with TIME. These kinds of thin, underlying philosophies make the movie even more interesting.

         Coming to the art and visual effects, I am just stuck for words. From the mechanical contraption in the watch swinging back and forth to implement the change in time to that fiery-eyed bird that is a metaphor to the Butterfly Effect of the Chaos Theory, this is just too good. The cricket match graphics could have been done better but it matters about the creativity of the director to incorporate it into the flow of the movie. If the 360 degree view of the laboratory in the first frame does not make one dumbstruck and think, “Dude, I just wanna become a scientist”, with goosebumps, what else could? The house, the cradle of the baby, the secret cabin, the train and what not.

         What is the simplest way to indicate the motion of time along the lines of the screenplay? There comes a train. Somehow, this should imply ‘Time has come’. The rotation of the wheels of the train is shown in close-up shots, and after some time, the antagonist is found to utter a dialogue, which roughly translates as “180 seconds of delay in my birth from yours has transformed our lives by 180 degrees”. After sometime, the train wheels are again zoomed in, and the baby is handed over to Saranya. Again, a 180 degree paradigm shift. The baby gets a new lease of life. Masterclass! I would only request some TV channel to just organize some function as a tribute for this Kollywood’s Amma already.

         ARR has made music speak. There is a very similar background score to that of the Mausam and Escape of Slumdog Millionaire. Pleasant situation followed by stark ones are handled effectively by this style. The Aatral Arasey instrumental is not the same in terms of the tune in comparison with the Arima Arima instrumental in Endhiran, but both convey the depths for the positives and negatives. Look at the name Aathreya, the meaning of this name is ‘cunningly clever’. And, listen to the theme music that comes in. There’s a bit of a howling instrument resembling a fox’s noise. There are more such nuances. The camera that zooms out with that gradually ascending sound levels of the chords, along with that frozen bubbles of raindrops transports the viewers to a different feel altogether.

         As I type this in, that thought of ‘What next?’ keeps creeping in. In a different perspective (which is called frame of reference in the concept of time :P Just trying to be intellectual), this movie would have been appreciated like crazy had it been directed by Shankar. Not that it is being regarded less now, the magnitude is what I am reiterating. We have been trained to view movies for brands, for stars, for the glamour; very few movies teach us to look at them as an art form. And, 24 is one of them.

THE LETTER

Hi Cathie,

          We do not send memos and warning letters to parents unless we find their wards way beyond our diligent scrutiny and care. I know you are pregnant and thought I shouldn’t be disturbing you at all. But the situation is so much out of our hands. So I hope you take it in the right sense while reading the following.

          Home schools are meant to be fun and children in their toddling age get to know each other even before they are into the real kindergarten. The innocent friendships, the petty fights and loud cries all happen here only. But your daughter has been involved in the latter aspects more than the former ones.

          Toddling is characteristic of her but even then unnecessary running here and there on two hands and two legs disturbs the atmosphere of the school. You know how kind we are. So if I am being forced to write this as a negative, imagine the state of affairs your ward has created.

          I do not want to sound offensive but her voice has become too rigid. Her sounds make the other children scared, and when they run, she follows them and bites them all over. A fight ensues after which there are always nail marks on both parties. They just roll over each other and run out of the campus making themselves and most of the surfaces muddy. You also know that bathing her is different unless you are here, right?

          Whenever food – she is particularly fond of crispy munchies like chips and stuff – is taken out of the packet, or rather, whenever there is the tiniest sound of the tear of a polythene bag, she comes out of nowhere, screaming and waking the other kids up from their serene sleep. She doesn’t eat the diluted food that is actually the prescribed food for a kid of her age. I don’t know how you are going to manage with her health in the future.

          And, please do understand that we cannot keep track of each kid all the time. It has been almost 13 instances till now that she has been brought into the school from the nearby houses. I don’t know if she runs or walks or jumps or climbs but somehow she manages to create ruckus in the neighborhood by eating snacks from there also without their knowledge.

          There are also behavioral problems associated with her. She rubs her skin in walls whenever she feels itchy, and this is a bit awkward I guess. Considering all these, I request you to come and take your daughter with you for quite some time before she becomes normal.

Thank You!

With Warmest Regards,

Leo

This is a hypothetical letter written by a hypothetical caretaker of a hypothetical home where kittens are being taken care of. During pregnancy periods, the cats do not stay with kittens that are already born and go out somewhere for quite some time before they return back just before a few days of delivery. Regarding bathing, it will be really joyful to watch the mom cat licking and cleaning the fur of her kitten; new-borns are not familiar with cleaning themselves. And if you have noticed, cats often fight rolling over each other, giving awkward noises in the process, and the end result would be as mentioned earlier; this happens even among siblings. The snacks incidents were reminiscent of the pranks our kitten did. The itching issue is very common in almost all cats.

I bet you enjoy reading this again and again, especially if you have a cat at home. Notice the names of the sender and receiver, too.

This style of writing has become cliché now in my blog but I just love writing these kinds of things. Suddenly, this genre seems interesting. Following up are some pictures of our household cats.