Domain Maximus

PALACE IN THE PREMIERSHIP!!!

Yes there is god! Crystal Palace back in the english premier league!!! My prayers have been answered. Football fans be prepared for some Palace action. (And do not tell anyone the fact that they finished bottom of the league the last time they were there.) Now if only Latvia could win Euro 2004…

P.S. The floppy drive in the cafe doesn’t work. So I will have to post my next article later tonight. Have a great weekend all.

Intertemporally Yours

Been getting tons of emails and the site counter has been zooming along famously. Long lost friends have been mailing in. But amidst that I again got a few mails/comments from people who said the post was trash and had factual errors and belittled northies. The Customer, alas, is king. So I confess everything. Yes dear world, I was trying to be funny, yes yes I got the castes of some of the names wrong. Yes in Tamil it is an “appalam” and not “poppadom”. Yes, I was trying to bring a little joy and cheer into the world. Yes (sob sob) yes I was exaggerating the truth, noone would throw their children off a window after naming them. DEAR WORLD I HAVE SINNED!!!

So shoot me.

(P.S. Currently working on a post on success in the workplace for new recruits and first time employees. I am trying to cut down the humour and bring it more true to life. It wil be co-written by a close personal associate, Miss Pinky, a ballet dancing elephant from Jhumri Thalaiyya. She is very good at reality checks.)

“That post that started it all…”

The response that the “Travails…” post got was mindblowing. Greatful to all who forwarded it to their friends. And yes Dun and Bradstreet Australia I love you too!!! But someone pointed out that while the post was funny it did tend to be a little parochial and refer to north and south indians as “us and them”. People all around the world I mean no harm or ill will. I have many many north indian friends. Alas all male, but very northie indeed. So no hard feelings. My next post will refrain from any such issues. No, next time I will be targetting an altogether more niche enemy. Vegetarians.:)

Peace and love people.

“Tubthumping” or “How FM Radio takes me back through time…”

There are few experiences as refreshing as skiing down the slopes of St. Moritz in the morning and relaxing over some caviar sandwiches, Chablis and a live Jazz band in the evening. The staccato of a crackling fireplace and the plush luxury of chamois leather armchairs. Pure heaven. And entirely beyond my means. So I had to make do with a drive down Marinedrive in Suddu’s Esteem. We had some Pav Bhaji and listened to FM radio. Not too bad really.

Mumbai is blessed with a number of well stocked FM stations. Theres always something playing to match your moods. Some of the RJs get on my nerves though. Forget supporting the excellent music, sometimes those guys just spoil the experience. Sort of like when you have Biriyani at some exotic restaurant. Spoon after spoon of rice and spicy chicken. And then you bite on a piece of well-meant but fatally toxic green chilli. If you are unlucky to bite a full bodied one head on, you can might as well have mirch masala for dessert. Your mouth won’t feel a bloody thing. I had a friend whose eyes would water and nose start running. Then he would walk around with his tongue out and his face flush crimson. He used to work for a decent company. Till they served chilli cheese toast at an annual board meeting.

Anyways, we merrily drove around, until the first strains of a song from “Rangeela” wafted in from the speakers. Suddenly I had images of St. Thomas College Thrissur and Ramdas Theatre looming in my mind. After some struggle they usurped the mental space devoted to yesterday’s page 3 babe. It all came back. I asked granddad for money to watch my first “official” movie. Told him I won’t be back late. It was a friday I think. After class I was off to Ramdas with a bunch of friends to see the movie everyone was talking about. I was of course was purely interested in the music. (Ladies, kindly note the dignified persona. And the extreme cultural bent of mind. First come first served.)

Now when I mean “official” it means the first movie I got money from home to see. 11th and 12th in Malluland was not too demanding. See it went like this. Monday the Congress Students wing went on strike because the food in the canteen got too expensive. Tuesday early morning one of the students got roughed up in a bus, so the Communist wing went on immediate strike. Wednesday the private bus operators went on strike state-wide over rising petrol prices. Which automatically meant that college stayed shut. Thursday we actually went to college, but by 11 in the morning the staff went on strike over alleged retirement age changes. Friday “Golden Eye” was released at Ragam Theatre, so noone turned up for class. In short what one would call a wholesome, undemanding two years of education. By the end we were politically aware, appreciated film and learnt to understand the needs of “The Opressed Common Man”. Where was the need to know things like Organic Physics or that Typhoid is cause by the Female DennisLillees Mosquito? Alas, not many of us made it to the IITs.

Some songs do that to me. Take me to a particular time and a place. If Rangeela reminded me of 11th, it was Tere Mere Sapne for 12th. I loved the movie. But more importantly, we had a tape player in college in which a Tere Mere Sapne tape got stuck for good. So we had no option but to play the same thing everyday. That song always reminds me of that paying guest place and that broken tape deck. And that one week when ants attacked my bed, I woke up everyday hoping and praying I was still in a position to secure my 10 lakhs and Maruti Car. (Ladies, especially gults, please note the extremely affordable dowry demand.)

Anything from “Pardes” rushed me back to first year engineering. Again one of the few tapes we had in our first year hostel. And our source of solace from the seniors. “oh blady dy dy, oh blada da da….” pansy lyrics but evokes memories of bulletproof chappatis, that first drink and finding shortcuts to town so that those seniors dont catch you. First year was also when many people learnt boy bands werent cool anymore. Floyd, GnR, Iron Maiden. “What!!!…” the seniors shouted..”YOU’VE NEVER HEARD OF LED ZEP???”. No sir I had not. I was too busy fitting strikes, morchas and first day first shows into my schedule in 12th. Though I still think it was all double standards. This heavy metal junkie is suddenly listening to his walkman.

“Why da machaan? Let me hear too na…”

“No da, today I want to listen to my rock alone. I feel thoughtful.”

Bollocks. He’s listening to “Baby you make my heart go phut” by The Pheelgood Boys or something and too chicken to admit it. I have no qualms. I too listen to Backstreet Boys, Boyzone, Blue once in a while. And don’t make fun of them people. If I got paid a million dollars to dye my hair blond, bleach my skin, trim my sideburns into a “W” and wear a yellow suit I would do it with pride. For two million I would lose weight too. For three I would wear an electric blue pair of briefs. Only.

Sultans of Swing and ofcourse Highway Star takes me right back to third year and final year. IIMA has to its credit has a melange of remix and punju numbers. And of course some excellent trance tracks. (Ladies please note the highly attractive taste in both native and foreign music. The balanced lifestyle every woman craves for. Its all there.)

But right the now the undisputed king of my personal airwaves is that remix spectacular. That song which is a classic response to the question: “Where do I dump my garbage darling?”. Yes indeed, “Bin Tere, Sanam”. Since I set my foot in the metropolis its been playing everywhere. In a disco it played 6 times in one hour. Like that stuck Tere Mere Sapne tape. I love the song. Perfect to drive to. Infectious and lively. I hope the DJ who made that gets tons of money in royalty. I can’t wait to get to campus and copy it off the LAN.

But for now I will have to listen to it in Suddu’s Esteem. Its a bad car, almost in pieces. But the radio works. You people keep mailing in and thanks for spreading the word. And remember Sensex up or sensex down, India Shining or not, whether you like Yuva or not, aap “Feel Good” rehne ka, tension nahi lena ka. (Ladies, what did you say? He knows Hindi too??!!, handsome, educated AND multilingual??!!!. All I can say is offer valid till stocks last.)

“Weather, Cynical Singaporeans and the Bible” or “Why Sidin?”

First of all thanks for the tremendous response to the previous post. Tons of people wrote. In fact after two days I had tears in my eyes. “All those people had so much fun reading it… and I didn’t make a penny”, I thought. The tears turned into a torrent. A big thank to you all those cracking enthu IIMK people too.

Hiding between the warm comments were a few people asking me what my name meant. Now I was on the search for a succulent topic to write about next. And something besides depressing lack of female company. So I had my criterion set for a new post. Something enjoyable, popular but without involving women. Which left very few things to write about, all illegal and most of them gross.

Thats when the idea of revealing the history of my name was suggested. And indeed I had something that should keep that hit counter ticking over. So here goes. Revelations by the pint. Dear family please forgive me.

Sidin. My name. And that of an italian company which went bankrupt. Sidin is also a name popular in Indonesia I think. I keep finding the word on Indonesian websites. Even assuming I am popular and dont know it, they all can’t possibly be references to me. But who knows, the Japanese I hear love Rajni movies. Indonesia may have a thing for fat mallus. (All of you who thought “Shakeela” when I said fat mallu raise your hands)

My father’s name is Sunny. Yes as in the weather. And yes the tams out there will mispronounce it. At REC Trichy (which is in tam land) I joined the NCC in first year. I wanted to lose weight and develop character. And it was cumpolsary to join one of the NCC, NSO or NSS. The NCC was better fed. At our first parade the tams had much fun shouting out my name wrongly. I was miffed and left the outfit after a day. The indignation was too great. Also I passed out while jogging round the footer field and had to lie down senseless for an hour in front of 50 people.

Now my mother’s name is a whole different story. My grandfather is one of those journeymen types. Hitchhiked to Bombay when he was young. Worked for an Englishman, then the railways and finally retired as a civil servant. He watched a lot of English movies in his heyday. Many of them being biblical classics. Thus when his first two kids were born their names were inspired by the movies he saw. My mother’s elder brother was Samson and my mom became Dilaila. Such things happen.

Fast forward many years. I am born!! (Jarring isnt it. Like when you board a superfast long-distance nonstop bus, and 5 minutes into the trip you suddenly want to pee.) Now Mallus are the most evil minded baby-namers in the world. Being a mallu myself I can write volumes on the strange ones I have come across. All names have stories too. Of course there is one name I can never forget. I was one of the judges for the long jump competition in school and was marking distances for the girls event. (I was a very sporty guy in school, judged long jump, discus, umpired cricket and hockey and water-boyed for the basketball team.) Half way into the day I notice the next jumper’s name. And couldnt hold myself anymore. “Shitty Abraham, 7A” it said. I ran to a teacher and showed it to her. She nodded gravely. “We have told her parents about it. They are changing it soon”. I dont even want to know the history or inspiration behind that one. Wonder what they renamed her though. Anything is better than “Shitty”. Even Purity, as a nurse in Hinduja Hospital is named. Sometimes its as if Mallus have a cynical sense of humour. I know a guy who is over 6 feet tall and as broad as a blast furnace. Whose name was Baby. Oh he had a big beard too.

Anyways in April ’79 I erupted with life and all the wheels started moving. The unthinkable happened. Now it seems quite scary being a nameless kid in mallu land. Anything could have gone wrong. Imagine being called Bright Sunny. The perpetrators decided to derive a name out of Sunny and Dilaila. So they took parts of both, rearranged it added an I and N for garnishing and voila!! Sidin was born. A harmless name indeed. But Dinny, Dilly, Linny etc. were all considered before the goodwill of my ancestors or past life or whatever prevented me from sounding pansy my enter life. Ladies and gentlemen being overweight is bad enough.

Of course many things have happened as I grew up to keep reminding me that I have a pretty interesting name. A teacher used to call me “Sudden”. Then there is that story that has the house roaring everytime my dad narrates it. After much penny pinching and brochure reading the family flew to Singapore and Hong Kong for a few weeks in 1986. We landed at Changi airport and walked out briskly as our travel agent had adviced. We would be welcomed by a receiver holding up a placard with our names. That was a little corny in itself. But after half an hour of frantic craning of necks and searching we still couldnt find our placard. Then my Dad huffed a bit and took us to a cute oriental lady (Even when I was 7 I knew a cute one when I saw her. At that age I called her aunty of course. Things are not too different today though.) She held up a placard in bright orange.

And on it were emblazoned the words “The Funny Family”. Like it was a sitcom or something. My dad cordially clarified the error “That’s Sunny Family madam”. We had orange sticker badges in case we got lost which said “Funny” too. Needless to say we were quite a hit in the tourist buses. But even in moments such as those I count my blessings. At least we werent those kids from the “Shittys”.

Picture shows helpless player Ian Wright being manhandled by frustrated single south indian player Varadarajan Shivapathasundaram.

“The Travails of Single South Indian men of conservative upbringing” or “Why we don’t get any…”

Yet another action packed weekend in Mumbai, full of fun, frolic and introspection. I have learnt many things. For example having money when none of your friends have any is as good as not having any. And after spending much time in movie theatres, cafes and restaurants I have gathered many insights into the endless monotony that is the love life of south Indian men. What I have unearthed is most disheartening. Disheartening because comprehension of these truths will not change our status anytime soon. However there is also cause for joy. We never stood a chance anyway. What loads the dice against virile, gallant, well educated, good looking, sincere mallus and tams? (Kandus were once among us, but Bangalore has changed all that.)

Our futures are shot to hell as soon as our parents bestow upon us names that are anything but alluring. I cannot imagine a more foolproof way of making sure the child remains single till classified advertisements or that maternal uncle in San Francisco thinks otherwise. Name him “Parthasarathy Venkatachalapthy” and his inherent capability to combat celibacy is obliterated before he could even talk. He will grow to be known as Partha. Before he knows, his smart, seductively named northy classmates start calling him Paratha. No woman in their right minds will go anyway near poor Parthasarathy. His investment banking job doesn’t help either. His employer loves him though. He has no personal life you see. By this time the Sanjay Singhs and Bobby Khans from his class have small businesses of their own and spend 60% of their lives in discos and pubs. The remaining 40% is spent coochicooing with leather and denim clad muses in their penthouse flats on Nepean Sea Road. Business is safely in the hands of the Mallu manager. After all with a name like Blossom Babykutty he cant use his 30000 salary anywhere. Blossom gave up on society when in school they automatically enrolled him for Cookery Classes. Along with all the girls.

Yes my dear reader, nomenclature is the first nail in a coffin of neglect and hormonal pandemonium. In a kinder world they would just name the poor southern male child and throw him off the balcony. “Yes appa we have named him Goundamani…” THUD. Life would have been less kinder to him anyway.

If all the women the Upadhyays, Kumars, Pintos and, god forbid, the Sens and Roys in the world have met were distributed amongst the Arunkumars, Vadukuts and Chandramogans we would all be merry casanovas with 3 to 4 pretty things at each arm. But alas it is not to be. Of course the south Indian women have no such issues. They have names which are like sweet poetry to the ravenous northie hormone tanks. Picture this: “Welcome, and this is my family. This is my daughter Poorni (what a sweet name!!) and my son Ponnalagusamy (er.. hello..)..” Cyanide would not be fast enough for poor Samy. Nothing Samy does will help him. He can pump iron, drive fast cars and wear snazzy clothes, but against a braindead dude called Arjun Singhania he has as much chance of getting any as a Benedictine Monk in a Saharan Seminary.

Couple this with the other failures that have plagued our existence. Any attempt at spiking hair with gel fails miserably. In an hour I have a crown of greasy, smelly fibrous mush. My night ends there. However the northy just has to scream “Wakaw!!!” and you have to peel the women off him to let him breathe. In a disco while we can manage the medium hip shake with neck curls, once the Bhangra starts pumping we are as fluid as cement and gravel in a mixer. Karan Kapoor or Jatin Thapar in the low cut jeans with chaddi strap showing and see through shirt throws his elbows perfectly, the cynosure of all attention. The women love a man who digs pasta and fondue. But why do they not see the simple pleasures of curd rice and coconut chutney? When poor Senthilnathan opens his tiffin box in the office lunch room his female coworkers just dissappear when they see the tamarind rice and poppadums. The have all rematerialised around Bobby Singh who has ordered in Pizza and Garlic bread. (And they have the gall to talk of foreign origin.)

How can a man like me brought up in roomy lungis and oversized polyester shirts ever walk the walk in painted on jeans (that makes a big impression) and neon yellow rib hugging t shirts? All I can do is don my worn “comfort fit” jeans and floral shirt. Which is pretty low on the “Look at me lady” scale, just above fig leaf skirt and feather headgear a la caveman, and a mite below Khakhi Shirt over a red t shirt and baggy khakhi pants and white trainers a la Rajni in “Badsha”.

Sociologically too the tam or mallu man is severely sidelined. An average tam stud stays in a house with, on average, three grandparents, three sets of uncles and aunts, and over 10 children. Not the ideal atmosphere for some intimacy and some full throated “WHOSE YOUR DADDY!!!” at the 3 in the morning. The mallu guy of course is almost always in the gulf working alone on some onshore oil rig in the desert. Rheumatic elbows me thinks.

Alas dear friends we are not just meant to set the nights on fire. We are just not built to be “The Ladies Man”. The black man has hip hop, the white man has rock, the southie guy only has idlis and tomato rasam or an NRI account in South Indian Bank Ernakulam Branch. Alas as our destiny was determined in one fell swoop by our nomenclature, so will our future be. A nice arranged little love story. But the agony of course does not end there. On the first night, as the stud sits on his bed finally within touching distance and whispers his sweet desires into her delectable ear, she blushes, turns around and whispers back “But amma has said only on second saturdays…”

In one last effort here we attractive young men have taken on alter egos which may interest some of you women:

1. Gautam Kumar Raja, will now be known as Joshua Perreira

2. Sidin Sunny Vadukut, henceforth will be known as Dev Chopra

3. Ashwath Venkataraman is now Vijay Desai

4. Sudarshan Ramakrishnan no more, from now he is Barath Sharma

5. Gautam Chandrasekharan will now respond to Alyque Shah

Do mail me any time for a meeting with one of the above. One week notice if Italian or Chinese food is involved, or if the individual is expected to dance.