Selective Amnesia

A very simple Madras story

You’ve been in the office for two straight days. And before somebody gets smart-alecky, you remind them you’ve also been in the office for the nights. And no, we were not talking about the sexual orientation of time.
It’s just one more important client presentation, and you picked the short straw.

Today, you’ve actually sat at the same chair, in the same position for over 6 hours. You tell yourself that if you had to replace one more word with its synonym, you are going to turn homicidal. That’s when the idea of, you know, getting out and grabbing a cup of coffee strikes you. So you do.

This is the Saravana Bhavan you’ve been to often. You could perhaps even get here blindfolded. And given the way Madras stinks, it wouldn’t be hard. There, motorcycle parked – just enough space between two pointy handlebars, to sidle out of. Even from here, you can smell the Cauliflower Chops that somebody got along with his Idiaapam. The ‘bhayya’ who mans the ‘Chaat’ counter is getting ready for the evening ahead – potatoes peeled and tiffin-box-ed. You tell yourself that nothing in the world trades up to an evening in Madras. Not very far away, in-fact right down this road, the sea meets Gandhi and his horribly wrong walking posture. And salt is in the air.

You smile that half a smile of yours. The one you know is patently false, but still sits well on your face. Or so you think.

Oh, all right. No time to idle away. As you walk towards the self-service area, an old man is putting the finishing touches on his speech, two not-so-middle-aged listeners nod heads.
“Adhaan sir solrein. Every south Indian should read this book.”

Harmless old man, you think, as he turns to you.
“Thambi. Chettah nillu. Thappa eduthukalaina, onnu kekattuma?”
You stop, shake head appropriately.
“Nee brahmanan thaane?”
You are amused at the question. The smile is more genuine now. You again nod head, neither agreeing, nor challenging his motive.

“Nammava ellam avasiyama padika vendiya putthakam ithu…” He pushes a book into your hands.
The man who knew infinity. You tell yourself it’s just one more in the long, long list of books you are supposed to read.
The old man continues: “You see, it’s about Ramanujan. He was a genius, theriyumo nokku.”
You wonder if he will try to sell the book to you, perhaps citing a poor daughter’s wedding or a broke son’s education. But you tell yourself it can’t be. The old man, for he is old, is comfortably middle-class. He had to be, a Mylapore brahmin in his 70th year has at-least 2 generations of NRI’s sending money home.

You tell him you’ll try to read the book as soon as you can manage to buy it. You agree that every brahmin should know about the ‘mahaans’ before our times. You agree that people now-a-days have no respect for culture, tradition and knowledge. You tell him, yes, you do know the Gaayatri mantram. Finally, you are allowed to proceed to your coffee.

Saravana Bhavan makes a mean Bread-peas-masala. And nothing you say will ever begin describing the coffee.

Newly recharged, you swagger back to your bike. The old man is still around, and he smiles at you as you near him. That girl you noticed a few minutes ago is also close-by. You hear her voice. “I am in a hurry. Can we do this some other time? Sorry”
You know the sorry is only third-thought. And you can see the old man knows it too. You notice his smile fading out, and coming back on.
You notice his hands hurriedly closing the book and pushing it back into his ‘jolnaa’ bag.

The Hindu tomorrow will carry the news of a young girl from Alwarpet found murdered in her apartment – the one she’d just moved into. Her face will strike you as very familiar, only you can’t recall how. Three days later, as you finish your late evening coffee, the old man and his friend are talking about the younger generation having no respect for ‘namma parampariyam’

That’s when you should hold on tightly to your change.