Selective Amnesia There was a point to this. But I forgot.

Breaking News

In the wake of the recent terror attacks in Bombay, comes this latest development. A spokesperson for the hitherto unheard of All India Irony Deficient Progressive Party (AID-PP) has asked for the Tata Group Chairman Mr. Ratan Tata to take responsibility for the terror attacks inside his hotel and resign from his post. Meanwhile, Maneka Gandhi has called for a nationwide bandh to protest the atrocities committed against terrorists. In an announcement to the press, she is quoted as saying “the police and army have acted harshly and irresponsibly. Terrorists are humans too and deserve our love and respect.” Meanwhile Mamohan Singh has stunned critics and admirers by acting impulsively, and without consulting Sonia Gandhi, by rushing to a coffee shop near the Taj for a cup of tea. The Income Tax department and the ministry of Information & Broadcasting is planning to introduce a new tax on news channels overusing screen space to put meaningless logos like “Warzone Mumbai” and “Mumbai under siege”.

The NSG commandos are still hard at work.

Writing advice

Words and sentences are like strings. You can either stretch them tight, taut. Like guitar strings. So you, the writer, can pick them and make music. Then again, sentences can be nice and long and untied, so you can wrap them around things – say, a top – and make them do things to others. How you treat your string is up to you. Play the guitar, spin the top, have fun.

Genius Loci

Madras at night is special. Most humans are asleep, as are quite a few of the dogs and cows that litter our streets. The occasional thump as a watchman keeps up pretences of protecting his territory. A lonely dog somewhere barking at its own shadow. Crickets chirp their regular patterns, broken only by the sound of the man snoring one apartment below me.

I? I cannot sleep. I haven’t slept, let’s see, in 20 days this month. The 10 days I did sleep, I clocked 3 hours a night and a barely sufficient catnap during lunch hour. So I stay awake and listen to my city at its quietest.

My city? Yes. I think I can call it mine.

360 odd years old and 1000 years ancient. That is my line, you know? I once wrote it for a magazine that, not surprisingly, butchered my piece. And didn’t pay me the money we agreed on. Oh, who am I? Just another failed writer ranting on about his muse and his mice.

So I avoid the city and its people during day, commuting 30 kilometres to an automobile factory where no one reads and don’t really care if I were the cat’s whiskers and sweat my frustrations and repressions away. I want a muse. But I’ll settle for sleep.

Madras at night. Yellow light shroud like over dusty trees and patina-ed walls of this tenement. Down below, metal cot creaks as the old rickshaw puller turns in his sleep. Buzzing mosquitoes which give our local cricket team their name can do nothing to disturb his sleep. I wish I was him. One bottle of Brandy and lights out. I hate brandy. I hate drinking.

This flat is one of 100 that the government in all its benevolence built for the people of the city. They called it Thendral. We know it is anything but that. Nedi might be more like it.

Madras at night. My neighbour below snores with unfailing accuracy. Even the dogs have gone quiet. Nothing stirs, except the mosquitoes and the Mambalam Canal not 100 yards from my window. By day, it will be unbearably dirty. At night in this half light, it looks beautiful. A thin trickle of dirty water that cares not where it goes, fulfilling a karma – reaching for the seas. Thorn trees and reeds clogging its already diminished channel, plastic bags and beer bottles and yesterday’s food claiming their share of space. In a city that sprawls 2000 sq. kms, space is still at premium.

Space. There was talk yesterday or was it last week about our Design Engineer renting an apartment somewhere in Venus Colony for Rs. 1.5 lakhs a month. Long ago, that girl I knew (the only girl I knew) stayed at a farm house in Kottivakkam. Her father had bought that place and about 2 miles of sand around it for 1.5 lakhs. Space.

I am ranting. You must excuse me, please. My memories and my mumblings are the only things I can call my own.

Madras at night. Madras at Day. Madras in twilight. Madras. Madras! MADRAS! Can I for one moment not talk about this city? Why do you drive me so? Why am I obsessed about you? Ethukku?

To her.

தேவி! நின் னொளிபெ றாத
    தேயமோர் தேய மாமோ?
ஆவியங் குண்டோ? செம்மை
    அறிவுண்டோ? ஆக்க முண்டோ
காவிய நூல்கள் ஞான்க்
    கலைகள்வே தங்க ளுண்டோ
பாவிய ரன்றோ நின்றன்
    பாலனம் படைத்தி லாதார்!