Ganesha and the nut

The elephant God is a design delight. Expressions based on him, his form, shape and size, emerge practically everyday in millions, pan India. The Shravan-Karthik season is a perfect time for innovative designs to emerge from the closet.

My most recent find was something I chose not to pick up, but just admire at the craft stall. Ganesha.

Look close. This Ganesha is special, because he looks every bit the kind who is not assaulted with chemical paint, but emerged creatively from nature's own gifts - traditional ones at that. It's the areca nut, or betel nut as it's lovingly called in the South, that finds its way as offering to married women during festivities. The entrepreneur's knack of using it to carve out divine shapes did not go in vain.

This set, is of Radha Krishna. Some beads and sequins have found their way to adorn the otherwise natural looking deities. Beneath them, is a tiny Ganesha. These pictures are not of best quality, but I loved the way this artist put together divinity with things so earthy you would love to have on your showcase. They have the tribal feel, spelling brains at work with devotion.


On my second visit to the crafts bazaar at Valluvar Kottam, they had all vanished.

``woh ek aurat aake sab kuch le gayi - dusshera ke liye. kuch bhi nahin choda'', said the stall owner. Good work does have its takers! Only wish there were more such pieces!

Pic Courtesy: M Radhika

Should worship mean grandeur?

It's a question haunting my mind always. Should prayer and worship be austere or spell grandeur? I mean, are not those people who feel closer to God, those who give up mundane pleasures in life? Are not such people what we would term, simple in their ways of life? Should devotion mean having to own crores of rupees and donate it to temple in lieu of some privileges such as darshans, poojas and the like?

It's something I have been thinking of always, but with the festive season pre-occupying our heads now, and the general `herded' feeling in the bargain, am battling the arguments in my head. These are times when display of devotion seems to matter more than devotion itself. While I do revel in the doses of creative expression of such devotion, obsession with the what pleases the eye, too much love for glitter - these are things that sooner or later put me off. We humans hanker a great deal after symbolism. It's fine. The problem is, when we judge people by it.

I faced such a dilemma the evening before one of those important poojas, for me personally. The Saraswathi Pooja. The day, that falls around the time of Vijayadashami, is when people decorate their vehicles, pull out their books, tools and worship the lot in all earnestness. In Chennai, there were times I'd gape at cycle rickshaws, the most common mode of transport two decades back. Their wheels would be decorated with festoons that you would envy.

Shocking pink, lemon yellow, white, red, orange...shining papers! My eyes that usually got stuck with the glitter-gold mirrors of sweet shops would feast on these wheels that looked so lovely when they moved! So much in contrast with the grave faces of people who rode them or travelled in them! And so smooth when the rickshaw man pedalled them!

Why would not one want to decorate their home too on a festive occasion of this sort? And why not go more organic? Need of the hour! Your responsibility towards planet earth! Time to press the pause button....Oh no! Guilt has its ways!


The organic dream got shattered though. It's not like I had enough money to spare for strung flowers whose prices dramatically shot up from Rs 10 a foot to Rs 20! Overnight! It's not like I had the energy to travel all the way to places where they sold banana leaves and coconut-flower festoons! Goddess Saraswathi deserves worship. But when your body's so weak, all you can do is with what is around home.

Worship with love. Yes it happened. Worship with the internet to aid you. True true - it's possible! A few dining table mats - fabric and bamboo, that rarely got used because we have not bought a dining table, found their way for decoration. A bunch of flowers that hubby bought the day before still stood fresh to welcome the Goddess! He did manage to get me some flowers, though a lot less against what I'd normally use. Still, I knew we did not need a cartload of flowers to display worship! I spent an hour making a rangoli too, with some old packets of colours, some rice flour, kumkum and turmeric.

Am not sure how pleased she was with me that day. I hope she was! One only hopes Gods are happy. No measure to indicate it! But something good happened that day. I cannot remember what. Thanks to her!

I've had my share of symbolic worship. And liked it too.

Here are some pics:

- underneath the pale mustard colour cloth, actually a blouse-piece, are books my husband and I hold to our hearts, and a newspaper

- kumkum and turmeric - my saviours, for the day!

- these beads, my favourite rosary ever since I picked them up at Shirdi, are a treasure for chanting!

My mind does not rest still -the question continues to haunt, long after the pooja - should grandeur in symbolism mark worship, or austerity? If it must be austerity, why do we humans end up killing each other in the name of God? Why do we judge our own dear ones by what they wear and how they wear, to worship?
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Chennai Diwali Season means `shopping nightmare'

Kolu and Deepavali season is when Chennai comes alive. It's that time of the year when setting foot, I mean literally setting foot in the T Nagar-Mambalam area becomes a challenge. It's the festival of lights, but even if lights are not many, clothes rain for more money.

It took my bhabhi and brother two and half hours to manoeuvre their way in and out of Ranganathan Street, for some garden and zoo toys that they needed for their toddler son's school project. I am not surprised.

Andheri's station walk-ways in Mumbai get overly crowded and take a few minutes longer to get you out too. But the crowd their is multi-purpose seeking. You have office-goers, housewives, students, shoppers, businessmen and a whole lot else. Chennai's T Nagar-Mambalam hopping crowd has a sole purpose in life, in the run up to Diwali - Shopping.

I remember one of my own adventures with my cousin some years ago, prior to Diwali. That day, we took a train from Chromepet to alight at Mambalam, only to realise that the stairs connecting the platform to Ranganathan Street were so packed, it took us half an hour to do that one minute distance!

A trip to RMKV Silks this weekend reminded me of that nightmare. Standing near the elevator at the ground floor, I saw the shop's long array readymade garments spread out before me. But not quite. Human heads occupied every inch of space available other than those inches meant for the garments. Families. By families I mean the Thaathaas, Paattis, wives, sisters, cousins, brothers, brothers-in-law, babies, toddlers, school kids, and their shopping bags from the other big silk and garment stores out there in that half a kilometer stretch on North Usman Road. Such a sight makes you gasp. Don't ask me if it's merely for air, wonderment, exasperation, or dismay at such craze!

Human beings love clothes. Human beings in Chennai love silk. They love to wear silk to temples, weddings, birthdays, friends' homes, and even when they're cramped in crowded buses. Despite the sweat and thirst.

Stepping out of the air-conditioned comfort of the silk store on to the very warm and humid air outside, I noticed a family, probably from outside Chennai, bag and baggage, and bold-print covers and bags of clothes from other stores.Sigh! Another family out on a wedding shopping excursion!

A few yards on, is Saravana Store. Yeah, the all famous Saravana Store of the Saravana family, that owns restaurants in so many cities outside of India! Till that moment, I had thought RmKV resembled a vegetable market, all the noise and chaos included. Saravana Store, draped in the IT-firm like glass and metal, was different. With those garish Diwali offer banners, it invited you over to what I'd not call a fish market, but a bee hive. Once in, I bet you'd find it hard to get out before midnight. Such was the crowd! Such was the melee.

It's a store I have wanted to visit for the last few months. The mere sight of that bee-hive I chance-glanced from outside has scared me off. Am not sure if I will visit it for a few weeks more now.

As for the traffic on my way back home, hubby and I had to grumble through Pondy Bazaar's crowd for about half an hour before we finally breathed near Mount Road. To shake off that frustration, we actually headed to Elliots Beach closer home. Guess what! Crowds and more crowds here too. For a minute, I did not miss Juhu Beach of Mumbai. It looked every bit like Juhu Beach, except that this one had more people, but was spread out longer too. Hawkers, ice-cream carts, dogs, fish-fry stalls, beggars, rich and poor, restaurants and stand-by astrologers...

Yeah, I did manage some sea air. And liked it too -- watching the sea shine under white moonlight. Relief.

Navaraatri South style - dolls dazzle

I miss the dazzle of dandiya nights in Mumbai, where every housing society goes overboard to decorate its premises, and people decorate themselves in colourful dandiya costumes for the navraatri revelry.

Nevertheless, I decided to soak in the homely elegance of painted dolls that mark the nine days' revelry on the east coast. Dusshera, Navraatri and kolu are synonymous with the south. Gombe Habba in Bangalore, Bommalakolu for many households in Andhra, and simply kolu in Chennai.

During those early years when I spent a week at my granny's place in Chromepet (suburb in Madras - the erstwhile name of Chennai), I'd visit homes of complete strangers in our street with granny to gape at the floor to ceiling magic of painted dolls - Gods, goddesses, kings, queens, men, women, even dogs, besides the `park' made intricately on the floor.

I remember how one such `park' had a beautiful pond with ducks floating on it, apart from the mandatory hill temple, road and house, all fixed on sand spread on floor to make a big rectangle. My guess is, they used a kid's big sized lunch box to create a swimming pool. That image stayed with me for a long time though. Those days, a lot of homes used wooden planks to form the steps in odd numbers - of three, five, seven or nine steps.

Times have changed. Slotted angle metal racks that come in bluish grey have replaced wood, plastic boxes have replaced the brass and silver utensils that women gifted with the `vettelapakku' or `tambulam', the size of such steps has come down with the shrinking size of rooms at homes, and the next-gen IT employed nomads cannot as much as dream of lugging mud dolls from city to city.

Still, a lot of people have held on to the tradition rather ferociously. This time, I had the opportunity to visit three homes with kolu. Not a great score that! But the experience was lovely. I went with the wonderment of a Mumbaikar and familiarity of a Bangalorean.

My dream: may dolls made of eco-friendly material dominate the collections as soon as possible.

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this picture above is of kolu at my neighbour's home. Lord Balaji and Padmavathy stand tall on the highest step, followed by goddesses Lakshmi, Durga and Saraswathi.

this doll is the charming Goddess Annapoorna looking lovely in her green saree. It is something I have not  found in the many homes that I visited so far. Notice Ganesha and his big sized mouse beneath her. A lot of times, Ganesha idols bought for worship during Ganesh Chaturthi make their way to become part of the doll crowd.

creativity overflows at this time of the year. this picture is of my neighbour's intricately made rangoli, with - can you imagine what? Salt crystals! Rub in a bit of colour and salt tends to absorb it. All you need is a packet of those myriad rangoli colours that sell in our traditional markets.

This set of dolls too, is something I have never come across - Ravana Sabha. It's the scene from Ramayana where Hanuman perches himself on his own long tail in the court of demon king Ravana.

The park set. An innovation. My sister and I would struggle at roads for the park. We'd think of charcoal, but who on earth in an urban defence colony would sell charcoal! Those days, felt paper, or velvet paper as we called it, was in vogue for craft projects at school, so a black velvet sheet did the trick for us. This set, at the apartment of my neighbour who lives opposite mine, has recycled plastic that does the job. Just spread sand over a sheet of cut garbage bag and be happy! The hill-mound has Lord Ayyappa perched on top, with the 18-steps leading to him made of gold paper stuck on to a pale yellow chart paper. Notice the all swanky car parking lot, belonging to the household's darling, a shy boy of five.

Pandaripur's Krishna and Radha have made their way to this Chennai home - actually at my aunt's place.

No kolu is complete without Chettiar and Chettiamma, flanked either by fruits made of mud, or household utensils and provisions. This set of the classic couple has a fridge to cool them in Chennai heat!

Ganesha made of leaves, either as pictures or idols, has grown common over the years. This one at my aunt's place, is a flower design - all earthy hibiscus at that.

Displaying dolls alone is not enough to celebrate the nine days. Women have to offer food such as boiled and flavoured beans, channa that is locally known as sundal, peas, sweets and other such delicacies to the Gods. They have to be worshipped every day. Of course, even in this worship, creativity rules.

Pic Courtesy: M Radhika
PS: More related posts to follow

The power of a chocolate ad

My nephew, two years and a quarter old, is yet to pick up speaking. But toddler will just not stop trying. 

Ask him how a crow crows, and pat comes the reply `Khakha Khakha'. And does the usual `bow wow' when you ask him how a dog barks. He is not scared of dogs. He goes after them making noises that he alone would understand. And the dogs - they would rather sheepishly walk away than get messed up by the mini-sized human. The first time he saw a monkey on a recent picnic, he was curiosity in abundance. Like most of us adults, he does not like the `kaklaati' or cockroaches. A lizard could scare him off too.

His grandmother, aka my mother-in-law asked him how a squirrel makes sound the day before. His answer, `Ai Aao Uuuuuu' meaning, `I love you', his latest acquisition in vocabulary. She was confused and shocked for a minute. What on earth made the chit of a kid dole out these three all-romantic words for a squirrel?

That's when she remembered - it was that ad. There were hardly any squirrels around home, so when the Kitkat ad with animated squirrels played on TV one day, the whole family stood still to watch it those few seconds. She showed him what a `squirrel' was. When he gaped at the TV screen, little did anyone imagine he would associate those squirrels and the Michael Jackson style steps, the Kaate Nahin Kat-thi number and the crooning, with `I love You'. The ad is refreshing, among the hundreds of stereotyped images of housewives and celebrity infested ads we are forced to watch. But then, what power it holds!

If a 45 second ad could leave such a deep impression on a child's mind, imagine what the oodles of violence and sexist imagery fed to us 24/7 could do!

I miss this

An average Mumbaikar can quickly recognise this all familiar pic from the Malabar Hill. Overlooking Girgaum Chowpatty beach, it's a perfect picture postcard shot.

It's been over eight months since I set foot in Chennai to make it my `home'. It's a place I have felt close to even when away. After all, I was born here. I like the rides to Besant Nagar beach, the fact that unlike earlier when `beach' meant an hour's maddening traffic away, this one is a 10 minutes' hop skip and jump by a bike. I have in a sense, grown to accept the saree clad, sans make-up crowd out here, though I must admit Chennai's changing.

One look at the city I left behind haunts me still, never mind the fact that it takes just a night's train journey to reach my parents in Bangalore now. Nostalgia, madness, whatever you call it. I miss Mumbai. Madly at that.

Teachers are `powerful'

A well-behaved three year old returns to school after falling ill for a few days.

Since his digestion abilities took a beating over the sick days, the boy prompts his teacher exactly at 11 am, that he needs to use the toilet. So what's the big deal about a toddler alerting his teacher about this? The deal is: a school help or ayah must accompany the kid to the toilet and do the needful.

The teacher is irked. She summons the father and demands an explanation for the child's `outrageous demands'.
Her grouse: ``We hardly have a few toilets in the school. We cannot let your child alone use it everyday. Please ask him not to use the toilet here during class hours!''

The child's father is astounded at these ridiculous allegations against his three year old bundle of joy. After all, he had paid a hefty fee for these very things - clean toilets, good grooming, sufficient attention to the child! He gulps his anger and sends his wife over for a chat with the teacher. This is an elite school in Chennai, something everyone around assumes, is a passport to great life, education at its best and blah blah.

His wife fumes at the teacher's behaviour, but makes it the next day to school, for a similar lecture.

The child is told not to go `number two' in school back home. And he understands.

The next time his aunt asks him if he likes his school, pat comes his reply. ``No Number two in school.''

Teachers, are powerful! Three year olds have no right to keep using their school toilets! They `better' control their bowels.

Uh Oh!

After about a month of being on sick leave, nothing excites as much as the day you're returning to work.
That feel of being...normal, is so relieving!
What if the day wills otherwise, and throws you back into the spiral of ...problems! First, you set out of the house, and have to rush back because there is this gnawing dermatitis. You discover it has spread on parts of body you least expected it to.
After suffering a day, you want to revert to your dermatologist. She insists on seeing you again. But when you land at the hospital, she's not around. The nurse informs that the doctor fell ill. ``Could you please try tomorrow?''
The next day, you realise that the doctor, has been hospitalised. Whoa!
 I want to get back to work. And after four weeks of becoming bed-bound, and home-bound, the last thing I want is this.
But yeah, I wish the doc a speedy recovery, irrespective of my skin troubles.

Mahi shows way, bye the bye

It's been over a week since Mahi Way, the Yash Raj sitcom ended.

And for once, I loved the way a weekly soap ended! So unlike Jassi who was abused with a disappointing makeover, so unlike the ocean of serials we get bombarded with - shaadi, dulhann, jewellery, glycerine, phamily...joint family...

That clincher of its one liners! ``Khud se milke khushi huyi...'' (happy to meet myself/inner self whatever)

Thank God it did not quite end in the `happily ever after' (read married) style. Cleverly packaged old story. But a story narrated well. And so unlike Yashraj known for its chiffon clad heroines against snowy mountains! So unlike a banner that prided itself on doe-eyed beauties instead of real thinking women! Waiting for more from the banner.Chak De and Rocket Singh spelt hope...and so did Mahi...

Pic courtesy: Sony Entertainment Television

Five ways to sell your sitcom soap

Wanna make a TV sitcom and don't have that best-seller brainwave? Don't just worry. Here are five essential spices you add to that real boring elongated shots inundated daily soap on TV. It's been a couple of years since Kyunki... left TV, but the rules only got modified.

1. Have a cute looking, bright eyed kid breathing innocence. Avika Gor (Balika Vadhu) is passe. Kids rule just about everything on TV - soaps to sops, reel to reality shows! Comedy, tragedy, anchoring...they're goddesses, school kids, or sometimes merely accessories in a crowd of characters, but have them you must.

2. Cling on to that....`Cause'. You may use your soap to load oodles of glycerin, glorify the new villain-protagonist to hilt, show violence in just about every frame to get eye-balls, but just go ahead and mention generously before the episode begins, that `this serial is to depict ....cause', ideally about women or children.

3. This is a rule you dare not ignore. Always always always, begin your soap outdoors, Agra, a village, slums of Mumbai, the fields of Punjab, anywhere rustic and real enough. But do that only for the first few episodes. And quickly make sure you shift the protagonist to a grand haveli, a rich family, between oppressed household women with heavy make-up. Glorify everything opposite of the cause, but just mention that, for posterity's sake if you must.

4. Have five episodes of tears and one episode that hurts your nerves less - a dash of comedy. Never mind even if the comedy is drab.

5. If one episode of a sitcom has monologues of what the heroine/ hero wants to do further, no harm in getting them to repeat similar lines in the next episode too. After all, stretching those scenes is what matters! Of course, this must be with the all-necessary metal-beats that make it look like an epic war scene, while all you do is focus on the heavily made up heroine's eyes, or hero's boots. Now, that's a lesson as ancient as Ekta's soaps.

Pic courtesy: Rainbow Skill

Coffee woes in Coffee Day's hometown

On a rainy evening in the end of April, my friend and I caught up at her Infantry Road office and walked to Mast Kalandar for a bite.

Interesting: our choices on the menu card were simply not there, and the staff didn't seem to care.
So out we walked, to our `good old' coffee day a few yards away.

A man in his mid-40s was perched on the sofa by the counter, and got busy writing a report on plain paper, as his wife watched bored.

We settled down, in spite of my friend's anxiety to rush home to her baby. ``God knows how long it's gonna be before we catch up again...''

Five minutes. Ten minutes. The boys wouldn't turn up. We tried catching their eye. And they tried avoiding eye contact. When we did manage, my friend gestured to ask how long it would take...the staffer, instead of hurrying up requested for more time! Whew! It never never happened at Coffee Day before!

My friend was prompted to walk out. We wondered aloud who the guy there was. `Some big shot or their big boss I guess..' Speculation time. Was he `the great Siddhartha' who owned the Coffee Day chain? Am sure we'd not have been so unsure if the real Siddhartha (Buddha) was around. A few more minutes flew by. The staffers still didn't care. `It's probably their appraisal...pay hike or not kinds...' we continued speculating.

I mean, why would they be bothered if their customer was a mother wanting to rush home, and still hoping to catch up with a friend over coffee? Even if they didn't, they should have bothered to take an order.

``You know what, let's just leave. I am in a hurry,'' my friend decided finally. We walked out and noticed that those insensitive guys blankly watched us leave. It just did not seem to bother them! We were shocked. ``Look how nasty! I am not going to come back here,'' my friend declared, hurt like crazy by this.

I was undecided. A week later, am in Chennai, reading the Business Today cover piece on Coffee Day Siddhartha. It says he plans to become the market leader and add many many outlets more globally. Sigh! My friend who's seen the cover too swears it WAS Siddhartha at Cunningham Road Coffee Day. Am still not sure.

I've been a Coffee Day patron for ages and a loyalist specially when out of Bangalore. Does the man really care? I stuck on to Coffee Day despite the deteriorating service attitude over years. Call it that Namma Mannina Maga (our son of soil) sentiment. Looks like CCD just lost a customer though. (Or is it more?)

PS: Watch the Ranbir Kapoor starrer Rocket Singh once, for lessons on service in the market.
Pic Courtesy: CCD website

That 50:50 feeling

Today, my dad retired, two days short of his 41 years' government service. His boss, a no-nonsense person, described my dad, an `icon'. Must admit it's a proud moment one hears this about a parent.

Two days' on, my second innings at work begin, after a two year break.

On the same date as my dad began my first innings, 41 years back.

For the woman who I am, brought up fighting stereotypes, this is a moment I've waited for - when a parent leans on you for support. Yet, when the moment dawns, fear overwhelms every other possible emotion.

Can he, who rarely stayed away from work, manage without it! His colleague joked this evening, ``Welcome back!'' They know he'll rush back to work first thing after this. Still, official `super-annuation', as they fancifully call `retirement', is the thing.

As for me, it's divine forces that got me back to where I belong - work. And I officially re-start now. Whether fear of the new workplace is bigger, or that of shouldering responsibility back home, is hard to tell.

There's happiness too. When he received accolades from the boss of his organisation, I was not away at a workplace and pining for leave, or crying over not being there for him.

Despite this, swinging between fear, fervor, and joy, I look at the tired eyes below the grey mane that rest for the night, worry-lines intact.

Miles to go...before I sleep.

have not really been away

A great many have wondered aloud about my `absence' from Writing on Sand. I must admit I have opened the URL many a time, but something would deviously turn up just as I'd mull typing those golden start words.

In the meantime, have opened blog meant largely to put up my earlier pieces from Tehelka, and probably my future pieces. Starting May, I will officially return to what I love the most, journalism in a daily newspaper, although it never really left me in the two years that I've stayed away from newsroom frenzy.

It's strange that with the second innings too, I am as jittery and nervous as when I began, exactly 10 years back. It's all the more reflective when I note, that I'll join my new organisation exactly three days after my dad officially leaves his organisation after serving it for over 40 years! Hard to think of such a service span in these years of hop-happy professionals.

This time round, am counting on family support. When I was fresh from college, it was flight from family that triggered dreams. Will key in more in the coming days.

Finally, a home

At the moment, am sitting before the screen, surrounded by cardboard cartons still waiting to get unpacked.

A window by the workstation and a window ahead of it. The flowering branches of mango tree crown it close enough for a peaceful view from my second floor, a coconut tree and a curry leaves tree flank it.

It's a home my husband and I virtually grabbed. For, in this part of Chennai, a home advertised today is gone tomorrow. It's that time of the post-recession phase when companies begin recruitments `cautiously' in official terms, but robustly, in my view. The settlers arrive, despite a humid weather that keeps you perennially hungry. The settlers, are quick to grab homes, ideally closer to their workplaces. Adyar, Tiruvanmiyur and Velachery - this belt is the closest to the IT City near Sholinganallur. And represent what Koramangala went through in Bangalore a decade back.

Home rents, have shot up over the last six months. We had that bitter experience, of losing homes we really liked, while it took a couple of days to arrange the money.

We walked through 10 homes before settling for this one. The difference between them all and this, is that it has a soul. After a tired day, I can find peace here. It is airy, with even the kitchen boasting of three windows in all, besides wardrobes in the bedrooms.

The business of Home Hunting in Chennai

For the last week, my husband and I have split hairs in an exercise we should have ideally enjoyed. It has drained us out in a way though.

At the moment, as I mentioned in my previous post, we live in a matchbox of a house. It's not its area that bothers me, but the callousness with which the builder has put boxes called the bedroom, bathroom and kitchen together to give it the name - 2BHK.

It also bothers me, that of all the fixtures and fittings, the wash-basin tap in the bathroom leaks enough to fill up my 20 liters' bucket in the day. As for the kitchen sink that occupies a third of the kitchen work table, my maid has a tough time washing utensils. The pipe underneath it cannot take water gushing down. It simply gives way. As a result, that water spills on to the kitchen floor. Obviously, the home owner gave no thought to the plumbing aspect of it!

My workstation is a room that thankfully has breeze from the ocean flowing in. At times that there is no breeze, I can switch the fan on. For five minutes. The fan will stop rotating beyond that.

The all magical solution to our problems at the moment is about finding a better rental home to live in, so that we waste no time in the fixtures and fittings mess, and get on with other important things in life.

The house hunt bit has thrown up some interesting revelations about Chennai and houses here, in the last week.

Rental homes are up for grabs and move `faster than hot cakes', as an acquaintance put it. With the economic slowdown slowing down and IT firms on a recruiting spree, the settlers are here, and grabbing anything in the name of four walls that comes their way. Most of this workforce looks like bachelors. And that, has translated into an illogical hike up of rents in the suburb and nearby ones that I live in. These suburbs, are the closest to the IT Corridor that lies outside of the city limits.

Our trouble. We look for a home with a deposit anything under 13k, only to discover things amusing about how these home owners indulge in daylight looting! It is exactly what happened in Bangalore through the IT boom.

A home owner my husband contacted, spoke with ease about how he was choosy with his prospective tenants. ``I need people of my wavelength and am happy you match it,'' he said. The points mentioned in the internet ad were good too - accessibility to bus terminus, beach, shops and hospitals...the predictable sale punchlines.

A roller-coaster ride through the neighbouring suburb later, we discovered the directions pointed to a place hardly a few streets away from our current home. That was not what made us laugh.

Something eerie about the building we stared at, while the woman who had to walk us through the flat came by. The gate opposite that independent house was shut and so were the windows. There were inmates within but we had no clue who they were. Our guide led us through the compound's edge, into the two feet wide backyard that traditionally housed the toilets and wash area of that building. There, through a staircase, we were led into a 1 BHK that this clever guy passed off as a 2BHK.

I must admit the kitchen was `awesome' as my husband put it. I quickly opened another door to look into the wash area-cum-balcony. It opened into a common stairway, the door of another home staring at me on the face. We heard girly giggles and chatter from that room. What could this quite be?

``It must be a hostel,'' my hubby concluded. He was scared outright. We hastened out. On our way out, my husband looked at a notice pasted on the door at the entrance, that proved him right. Women's hostel!

``I don't want to get accused of leching at women,'' he panicked, and we rode away in hurry. To think of, the guy did not hesitate one bit in converting one of those hostel portions into a rent-worthy flat, instead of making the life of other inmates more comfortable!

We have still not been lucky on the home hunt after that, but discovered, that if you do not want to pay up a princely one month rent to the broker, you could try local tailors and watchmen who man apartments. They double up as part-time brokers, because they, after all, are in the know about vacant apartments more than neighbours.

Why I pine for my Mumbai Home

I have umpteen reasons to despise the present home I live in.

The most important of them is, that the windows in my new home make me feel a prisoner, literally. The hall window allows me air utility from its one by four feet vent. In reality, it's a shutter window but will let in only that much air! What a difference from that MHADA home's hall that had the best of windows I have known!

The kitchen is my other eyesore. For a couple who cook together, this kitchen is an apology. It allows only one person to stand comfortable and my gas stove occupies most of its slab space. If I were to do an about turn from the gas, the kitchen shelf is on my face. Negotiating this space is like opening a lock with handcuffs on. Is that what the builder perceived the kitchen should be like? A box of suffocation?

My hall window opens directly into the terrace of the building next door (hardly a feet away). I bear the brunt of the day heat, and am forced to pull the curtain when I find men around there.

A bedroom that looks more like a store room space with its crammed up walls, thankfully has a window facing east. It means cool breeze. Only, I cannot look out of the window. It opens into a dirty backyard of a building, and another hideaway home.

The terrace above my second floor home is a breather. I can finally dry my clothes in the open! And look at the Kalakshetra buildings popping out of the trees in that compound, to dream of possibly spending time there!

The other boon is of course that a ride to the beach is five minutes away!

Am back: Writing from Chennai

For starters, apologies to those waiting for a post from me at Writing on Sand. It's been a neat 20 days since I posted.

My world's turned topsy-turvy in the meanwhile. New City. New Culture. Newer People. I've known this city since I opened my eyes, and yet it feels like I have landed somewhere out of my world. And cry at every image I remember of those sweet Mumbai moments! Chennai. East Coast. Off East Coast Road. How does that sound?

Chennai, where if I chose to sit by myself in a bus, a respectable old man would come by, have the audacity to tell me where I `should' be sitting. If it was Mumbai, I'd have snapped at him, `Tumse matlab?''

It's Chennai, which has perceivably given such characters moral sanction to question women's choice in public spaces. After his consistent pestering, and words I get to hear like, `Looks like you are an educated woman. Why are you not listening to me?', I show him his place politely.

`Am new to this city and I feel safe in this part of the bus. I am comfortable here and am your co-passenger. If you want my seat, go ahead and take it. But stop torturing me like this.''

He is zapped some chit of a woman could talk back that way. I am equally perplexed someone had the time and cowardice to pick on a passenger!

Chennai's good side exists too! The suburb I live in, is vibrant, cosmopolitan, and yet, culturally rooted. The best part over Pongal festival was that I spent three late evenings at Elliots Beach in Besant Nagar, grooving to folk-fusion and classical-fusion beats by bands playing out as part of Chennai Sangamam.

The fire-cracker show at the end of the finale, was the best I've seen till now.

The temples, reverberating music, friendly neighbours, and some lovely local cuisine nearly make up for the civic harshness and that gnawing feeling on roads that I am watched by hungry eyes.

Yet, nothing like those precious moments at Marine Drive.