optical illusion puzzles that give you a
headache if you stare at them long enough. Tamil women, all of them, wear
flowers in their hair. Tamil men don’t believe in pants and wear lungis even in
shopping districts. The city is filled with film posters. The heroes’ pictures make
DX @ www.desibbrg.com
you feel even your uncles can be movie stars. The heroes are fat, balding, have
thick moustaches and the heroine next to them is a ravishing beauty. Maybe my
mother had a point in saying that Tamil women have a thing for North Indian men.
‘Hey, that’s IIT?’ the auto driver said a word which would have led to trouble if he had spoken it in Delhi.
I looked at the campus wall that lasted for over a kilometre. The driver recited the names of neighbourhoods as we passed them – Adyat, Saidapet, Mambalam
and other unpronounceable names so long they wouldn’t fit on an entire row of
Scrabble. I felt bad for residents of these areas as they’d waste so much of their
time filling the address columns in forms.
We passed a giant, fifty-feet-tall poster as we entered Nungambakkam. The
driver stopped the auto. He craned his neck out of the auto and folded his hands.
‘What?’ I gestured.
‘Thalaivar,’ he said, pointing to the poster.
I looked out. The poster was for a movie called Padayappa. I saw the actors and recognised only one. ‘Rajnikant?’
The auto driver broke into a huge grin. I had recognised at least on landmark
in the city.
He drove into the leafy lanes of Nungambakkam till we reached Loyola
College. I asked a few local residents for Chinappa Towers and they pointed us to
the right building.
I stepped out of the auto and gave the driver a hundred-rupee note. I wondered
if I should give him a ten-rupee tip for his friendliness.
‘Anju,’ the driver said and opened his palm again.
I remained puzzled and realised it when he gestured three times.
‘You want five hundred? Are you mad?’
‘Illa mad,’ the driver said, blocking the auto to prevent me from taking out the luggage.
I looked at the desolate street. It was only nine but felt like two in the morning in the quiet lane. Two autos passed us by. My driver stopped them. One of the
autos had two drivers, both sitting in front. The four of them spoke to each other
in Tamil, their voices turning louder.
DX @ www.desibbrg.com
“Five hundred,’ one driver who spoke a bit of English turned to me.
“No five hundred. Fifty,’ I said.
‘Ai,’ another driver screamed. The four of them surrounded me like baddies
form a low-budget Kollywood film.
“What? Just give me my luggage and let me go,’ I said.
‘Illa luggage. Payment…make…you,’ the Shakespeare among them spoke to
me.
They started moving around me slowly. I wondered why on earth didn’t I
choose to work in an air-conditioned office in Delhi when I had the chance.
‘Let’s go to the police station,’ I said, mustering up my Punjabi blood to be
defiant.
‘Illa police,’ screamed my driver, who had shaken hands with me just twenty
minutes ago.
‘This Chennai…here police is my police…this no North India…illa police,
ennoda poola combuda,’ the English-speaking driver said.
Their white teeth glistened in the night. Any impressions of Tamil men being
timid (influenced by Ananya’s father) evaporated as I felt a driver tap my back.
‘Fuck,’ I said as I noticed one of the drivers take out something from his
pocket. Luckily, it wasn’t a knife but a pack of matches and cigarettes. He lit one
in style, influenced by too many Tamil movies. I looked down the street, for
anybody, anyone who would get me out of this mess.
One man came out of the next building. I saw him and couldn’t believe it. He
had a turban – a Sardar-ji in Chennai was akin to spotting a polar bear in Delhi. He had come out to place a cover on his car. Tingles of relief ran down my spine.
Krishna had come to save Draupadi.
‘Uncle!’ I shouted as loudly as
headache if you stare at them long enough. Tamil women, all of them, wear
flowers in their hair. Tamil men don’t believe in pants and wear lungis even in
shopping districts. The city is filled with film posters. The heroes’ pictures make
DX @ www.desibbrg.com
you feel even your uncles can be movie stars. The heroes are fat, balding, have
thick moustaches and the heroine next to them is a ravishing beauty. Maybe my
mother had a point in saying that Tamil women have a thing for North Indian men.
‘Hey, that’s IIT?’ the auto driver said a word which would have led to trouble if he had spoken it in Delhi.
I looked at the campus wall that lasted for over a kilometre. The driver recited the names of neighbourhoods as we passed them – Adyat, Saidapet, Mambalam
and other unpronounceable names so long they wouldn’t fit on an entire row of
Scrabble. I felt bad for residents of these areas as they’d waste so much of their
time filling the address columns in forms.
We passed a giant, fifty-feet-tall poster as we entered Nungambakkam. The
driver stopped the auto. He craned his neck out of the auto and folded his hands.
‘What?’ I gestured.
‘Thalaivar,’ he said, pointing to the poster.
I looked out. The poster was for a movie called Padayappa. I saw the actors and recognised only one. ‘Rajnikant?’
The auto driver broke into a huge grin. I had recognised at least on landmark
in the city.
He drove into the leafy lanes of Nungambakkam till we reached Loyola
College. I asked a few local residents for Chinappa Towers and they pointed us to
the right building.
I stepped out of the auto and gave the driver a hundred-rupee note. I wondered
if I should give him a ten-rupee tip for his friendliness.
‘Anju,’ the driver said and opened his palm again.
I remained puzzled and realised it when he gestured three times.
‘You want five hundred? Are you mad?’
‘Illa mad,’ the driver said, blocking the auto to prevent me from taking out the luggage.
I looked at the desolate street. It was only nine but felt like two in the morning in the quiet lane. Two autos passed us by. My driver stopped them. One of the
autos had two drivers, both sitting in front. The four of them spoke to each other
in Tamil, their voices turning louder.
DX @ www.desibbrg.com
“Five hundred,’ one driver who spoke a bit of English turned to me.
“No five hundred. Fifty,’ I said.
‘Ai,’ another driver screamed. The four of them surrounded me like baddies
form a low-budget Kollywood film.
“What? Just give me my luggage and let me go,’ I said.
‘Illa luggage. Payment…make…you,’ the Shakespeare among them spoke to
me.
They started moving around me slowly. I wondered why on earth didn’t I
choose to work in an air-conditioned office in Delhi when I had the chance.
‘Let’s go to the police station,’ I said, mustering up my Punjabi blood to be
defiant.
‘Illa police,’ screamed my driver, who had shaken hands with me just twenty
minutes ago.
‘This Chennai…here police is my police…this no North India…illa police,
ennoda poola combuda,’ the English-speaking driver said.
Their white teeth glistened in the night. Any impressions of Tamil men being
timid (influenced by Ananya’s father) evaporated as I felt a driver tap my back.
‘Fuck,’ I said as I noticed one of the drivers take out something from his
pocket. Luckily, it wasn’t a knife but a pack of matches and cigarettes. He lit one
in style, influenced by too many Tamil movies. I looked down the street, for
anybody, anyone who would get me out of this mess.
One man came out of the next building. I saw him and couldn’t believe it. He
had a turban – a Sardar-ji in Chennai was akin to spotting a polar bear in Delhi. He had come out to place a cover on his car. Tingles of relief ran down my spine.
Krishna had come to save Draupadi.
‘Uncle!’ I shouted as loudly as
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