Urban Opera

Metropolitan morning
A well orchestrated, systematic
Waltz of movement
Within the walls of this
Mirrored-glass amphitheatre
The bel canto of the newspaperman
Sounds the opening overture
Collecting change in classical rendition
Choruses in suits and skirts
Pouring out of train cars
Scissoring down city streets
Balancing cardboard coffee cups
And digital librettos
Scores of tight-pant castratos
Clutching mobile phones
With dramatic furore
Prima donna figures
Cat-walking at intersections,
Heels clicking on cement sidewalks
When suddenly
A car is cut off by cyclists riding
Hands flying, voices rising
The shrill soprano of the ambulance arriving
Sirens sounding, traffic honking
A flash-mob freeze
Of pedestrians gawking
Slowly the crowds
Continue on commute
Promising young professionals
In crescendo parting
With a pitch-perfect kiss.

An usual ride to IIT

‘Beep Beep’ –  The mobile alarm penetrated through the many layers of slumber in my ears, and I woke up with frustration; not because of the alarm, but because I had to wake up when the majority of the city was still asleep. With a multi-protrusion surface of hair and a shaky body, I made my way to the bathroom. A look into the mirror gave me a sense of happiness, because every morning, though my hair looked like a disturbed bed of weeds and my face still carried the lazy notes of musical hibernation, (I call it musical because songs of my relationship and detachment with my bed keep playing within my mind) I loved the way I looked. After having done with my bath which was a spine chilling and mind waking encounter with cold water,  and also other rituals, I was now standing in front of the mirror in my room. My hair was wet, and my face contained waves of freshness. After getting slipped into my usual casuals, I was off to my IIT classes. One good thing about IIT classes is that they don’t look at your dress, but at your performance; and I was pretty bad at the latter, but I really didn’t care. (I always used to give importance to the way I dressed)

I ordered a plate of pongal at the small hotel where I usually have my breakfast. Pongal came hot and delicious, and I began to dive into it with peace. Sambar and chutney gave me company. I paid the bill and left for the bus stop. One very good thing about Chennai is that you have a bus running and coming every half a kilometre and half a minute respectively. My bus arrived in less than ten minutes, and my mind was filled with bliss when an array of empty seats presented themselves before me. A cool morning plus a seated bus ride equals a day of energy and enthusiasm. And such a ride, I would say, would be one of the best in the world.

‘One, Ashok Nagar.’ I told the conductor. He plucked a ticket from the ticket pin and handed it over to me. ’6 rupees’ He said. I pulled out a hundred rupee note from my wallet and was about to give it to him, when he looked at me as if I have done one of the most stupidest things in the world. ‘No change.’ He said with a scowl and left. I realized right then, that ‘Change’ is definitely a problem in our country. An elderly man beside was kind enough to exchange my hundred for ten tens. I bought the ticket and pushed it into my wallet. And then, my head turned to the outside, where I could see tea stalls and parotta shops, flower ladies and cobblers, washer-men and petty hotels opening for their daily businesses on the great Indian pavement.

I got down at the stop, and a ten minute walk to the coaching centre awaited me. The traffic had come out alive for the day, and as I walked, everything under the sky except IIT danced in my mind. I reached the coaching centre, unchappalled myself, went to the classroom and had myself seated at my traditional desk; the one that is located at the farthest point from our professor. Minutes began to melt, and soon the room was full. ‘Surprise Test,’ our professor said. I tasted shock for a second, but then had this beautiful realization that having a  test is the same as no test, as all the IIT stuff always flew over my head. I smiled within myself and looked at the vast multitude of nerds before me, who, as usual, were discussing either mathematics or physics or chemistry; it was all the same, no change. Never in my life have I heard someone talking about dreams and visions at a coaching centre. ‘Change’, is indeed a problem in our country, I thought.

Shoot These Animals!

The recent news of the ruthless gang rape of a 23 year old woman, by four people, in a moving bus in Delhi has shocked the country. I really do not know how these people have the guts. 2013 is going to be born in just over a week. Is this really the way we are going to sign off this year? Definitely no. If anything, it should be in style. But alas, this incident has brought shame.

What pleasure do they obtain in doing such a heinous thing to a woman! Instead they could go to a brothel to satisfy themselves. These people are mad and crazy. No, they don't come under the category of people. They come under animals- animals filled with raw, carnal lust. Probably, these animals look at women, as if they were toys. This outrageous-ness must be put to an end immediately and for all the years to come. It is high time, women can walk freely in this country at whatever time they wish without fear. Installing CCTV's in buses and other public transport systems, as said by the government can help but a more stringent and severe judgement must be made in this case, so that in the future such incidents won't happen again.


Shoot them up !

You know what I think should be done to these animals? Not hanging them. They must be stripped down to the core and shot by multiple executioners. This should have a video footage so that the world could watch it. I read in an esteemed newspaper that suggested chemical castration which takes out the sexual arousal in men. But, in my opinion, this shooting thing seems a more appropriate and severe verdict. Infact, I think this must be passed as a bill or brought into effect for all rape cases to prevent such incidents.

In addition to this, I must add one thing. This is a note to all young ladies and women :

"If you still don't have faith or hope in the government and men, then I suggest you practice some kind of martial arts or carry a stunning electrical device (I don't know its name) with you always to protect yourselves from any dangerous 'animals' ! ".

The Summer Revelation

‘How long for Ampa Skywalk?’ I asked one of the men at the bus stop. It was summer, and the sun was at its peak. The middle aged man shifted his look towards me, ‘By bus?’ The glance of irritation on his face suggested that he had been waiting for his bus for quite sometime. ‘No, by walk.’ I said. The change in his expression seemed pretty much visible, as the guy began looking at me as one would look at a fool. ‘Around 1 hour.’ He said and gesticulated that I needed to cross the road, and then turned away. His intense expressionism was absolutely justifiable. No one with brains would make such a goofy decision of taking a walk in the afternoon, that too for one hour, and again, that too in summer. But I chose to do it. Now, wait; before you begin to draw instant conclusions about the levels of my empty-headedness, I would like to make something clear. The reason for this decision of mine, which appears to be silly and stupid, is that one of my chappals’ straps came off, and I was in an ardent search for a cobbler. And you don’t get to see cobblers in buses, do you? Hence the long walk.

One more reason is, it does not look much decent when you end up limping because of your handicapped slippers, especially when you are going to Landmark to purchase novels. Oh yes, forgot to mention; I have recently fallen in love with the habit of reading, and presently I am in the habit of making this habit my daily habit. After having spent hours debating with myself and Google on which book to buy, I figured out that according to my ‘crime-suspense-thriller’ bend, Agatha Christie should be the apt choice. I hurried in excitement, and that was when the chappal mishap happened. I footed myself through the thickens of the heat waves of the sun and the smoke lines of the traffic, and reached the other side of the road. One hour to Skywalk, I said to myself, as I began the journey with my disabled chappal slipping off my foot once a while. In less than twenty minutes, I sensed my bodily fluids getting depleted at a drastic rate. I bought myself an aavin chocolate drink and began to relish its thickness. I tossed the tetra pack into the garbage bin, and as I was about to walk away, my eyes landed on a young boy with a row of shoes in front of him. He was engrossed in his profession, which seemed to be too big for his age. The hands that were meant to carry books were mending chappals, and the feet that were meant to be placed within school shoes were bare and bloody. My heart withered for a second as I took off my torn chappal and placed it before him. The boy picked it up with a smile and impressively manoeuvred his fingers and brought it back to shape in no time.

‘Patthu rubaa.’ (Ten rupees) He said as he returned my possession. With a pitiable heart, I deliberately pulled out two ten rupee notes from my wallet and placed my hand before him, waiting for him to take the money. He made alternate glances between my eyes and the notes, and he too, deliberately, pulled out just one note from my hand and placed it in a steel box. His head didn’t move up again, as he  immersed himself back into his work. That moment, I understood the real difference between the educated and the uneducated. One is not educated if he has a string of degrees attached to his name, or has the capability to master anything that comes under his eye, or has profound knowledge about everything in this world; or whatever, if he does not have the basic dignity to refuse anything that comes for free.

The rest of the walk lasted for another thirty minutes, and comprised of two more soft-drink stops. I could experience a temporary escape from the scorching heat once I stepped into the shopping mall. I made my way to Landmark, the books section, and whisked my eyes across the vast array of books stacked in numerous shelves all over the place. I found Agatha Christie’s books stacked in a separate section. It took me four mighty strides to reach the Christie section, and my eyes devoured the very scents of all the books that stood in front of me. Keeping in mind the idea of following a disciplined budget, I restricted myself to three novels. (Oh yes, one thing, the concept of budget happens only when one is in lacking of money, and I seem to embrace this concept quite often)

The payment for the books went over the bill counter, and I walked out of the mall with my literary extravaganza neatly packed in a shopping bag. The roasting behaviour of the summer sun seemed to resume once I stepped out. I crossed the road and walked towards the fourth soft-drink shop of the day, and placed a thirsty order for a bottle of sprite. As I was draining the bottled drink, my eyes landed on a huge hoarding on the other side of the road. The hoarding carried the picture of a politician with folded hands on one side, inconspicuously begging for votes, and the scattered pictured list of all the items that would be provided for free if voted to power on the other. In a way, I could see a ‘bureaucratic beggar’ in the making. The cobbler kid came to my mind.

Those who should be beaten up with shoes are in the parliament, and those who deserve to be in the parliament are on the roads mending shoes.

I gave out a sarcastic sigh, paid for the drink and left the place with a sense of revelation; the very revelation that showed me the similarities between beggars and our government.

Enchanter Market - Part III

Tender Lizzie could not bear
To watch her sister's cankerous care,
Yet not to share.
She night and morning
Caught the goblins' cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy."
Beside the brook, along the glen
She heard the tramp of goblin men,
The voice and stir
Poor Laura could not hear;
Longed to buy fruit to comfort her,
But feared to pay too dear.


She thought of Jeanie in her grave,
Who should have been a bride;
But who for joys brides hope to have
Fell sick and died
In her gay prime,
In earliest winter-time,
With the first glazing rime,
With the first snow-fall of crisp winter-time.


Till Laura, dwindling,
Seemed knocking at Death's door:
Then Lizzie weighed no more
Better and worse,
But put a silver penny in her purse,
Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze
At twilight, halted by the brook,
And for the first time in her life
Began to listen and look.


Laughed every goblin
When they spied her peeping:
Came towards her hobbling,
Flying, running, leaping,
Puffing and blowing,
Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
Clucking and gobbling,
Mopping and mowing,
Full of airs and graces,
Pulling wry faces,
Demure grimaces,
Cat-like and rat-like,
Ratel and wombat-like,
Snail-paced in a hurry,
Parrot-voiced and whistler,
Helter-skelter, hurry-skurry,
Chattering like magpies,
Fluttering like pigeons,


Gliding like fishes, --
Hugged her and kissed her;
Squeezed and caressed her;
Stretched up their dishes,
Panniers and plates:
"Look at our apples
Russet and dun,
Bob at our cherries
Bite at our peaches,
Citrons and dates,
Grapes for the asking,
Pears red with basking
Out in the sun,
Plums on their twigs;
Pluck them and suck them,
Pomegranates, figs."


"Good folk," said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie,
"Give me much and many"; --
Held out her apron,
Tossed them her penny.
"Nay, take a seat with us,
Honor and eat with us,"
They answered grinning;
"Our feast is but beginning.
Night yet is early,
Warm and dew-pearly,
Wakeful and starry:
Such fruits as these
No man can carry;
Half their bloom would fly,
Half their dew would dry,
Half their flavor would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us."
"Thank you," said Lizzie; "but one waits
At home alone for me:
So, without further parleying,
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits though much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I tossed you for a fee."
They began to scratch their pates,
No longer wagging, purring,
But visibly demurring,
Grunting and snarling.
One called her proud,
Cross-grained, uncivil;
Their tones waxed loud,
Their looks were evil.


Lashing their tails
They trod and hustled her,
Elbowed and jostled her,
Clawed with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,
Twitched her hair out by the roots,
Stamped upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeezed their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.


White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood,
Like a rock of blue-veined stone
Lashed by tides obstreperously, --
Like a beacon left alone
In a hoary roaring sea,
Sending up a golden fire, --
Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore beset by wasp and bee, --
Like a royal virgin town
Topped with gilded dome and spire
Close beleaguered by a fleet
Mad to tear her standard down.


One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Though the goblins cuffed and caught her,
Coaxed and fought her,
Bullied and besought her,
Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,
Kicked and knocked her,
Mauled and mocked her,
Lizzie uttered not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in;
But laughed in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syruped all her face,
And lodged in dimples of her chin,
And streaked her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people,
Worn out by her resistance,
Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot.
Some writhed into the ground,
Some dived into the brook
With ring and ripple.
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanished in the distance.

Life in the land of the Black Sun

It could have very well been the introduction scene of the protagonist in a clichéd Indian flick. Dressed in a black t shirt and black jeans, I slowly emerged out of dense fog(?) as crows and ravens fluttered in the background and flew past me.

But before you make all the wrong assumptions, let me put things in perspective. When I got out of an autorickshaw with two of my friends on a Sunday morning, I was at the centre of what I assumed to be a surreal white jungle. But microseconds later, two things happened: I got a grip on the fact that I was standing in Kodungaiyur, north Madras’ garbage capital. If you’re a Chennaite, this sprawling 269 acre enclosure is your garbage’s destiny: your garbage travels all the way here before it rests in peace and attains Moksha alongside its brethren.  Secondly, my heart instantly went out to those residing in and around Chennai’s largest garbage dumpyard (no, not Perungudi), people who have had to wake up to smoke emanating from the filth forest in front of them for the past 25 years.

“The dump yards automatically catch fire,” said Mr. Manivannan, who was standing amidst a sea of women waiting to sign their “attendance sheets”. These women who clean up the entrance to the dumpyard, travel all the way from Mylapore in buses that ply alongside lorries that overflow with rubbish destined to reach Kodungaiyur. Mr. Manivannan, one of the men in charge of the dumpyard who was briefing us about the proceedings at the entrance, also claimed that the rag pickers who were spotted atop the plateaus of garbage, were innocent people trying to eke a living out of rubbish.

“Rubbish,” screamed Gokul, as he stroked his hair standing on top of a pile of freshly deposited waste, as his gang burst out laughing in the background. We had made our way into the dump yard through an alternate, unguarded entrance as we were refused entry through the main entrance. “We set fire to it to extract iron, copper, aluminium and masala,” he said, his face gleaming with joy and pride.

“Masala?”

“Masala is tin and plastic put together,” instructed Gokul, a high school dropout. That was one of the many chemistry lessons we were to take that morning. He went on to practically demonstrate how the colour of the flame changes according to metal encapsulated by the flame.

It was quite obvious from the way Gokul spoke that he was quite intelligent. His sense of humour would put the likes of Santhanam and Vadivelu to shame. He relentlessly took digs at a friend who had accompanied me. It is a shame that he doesn’t go to school. When I causally asked him why he doesn’t go to school, he answered in his typical inimitable style that he terminated education to support his family after his dad died. “This dump yard is my school. I learn everything here,” he added.

The cliché “Gold from garbage” got a justification during the course of my interaction with Gokul. He recounted incidents of discovering gold amidst the dirt and elaborated the process of extracting the same by melting the parent material in which it is entrapped. He also narrated a hilarious incident about another person who discovered gold, loads of them. “A colleague (he said that) of mine, a notorious alcoholic, accumulated close to 500 grams of gold. He offered to buy a whole wine shop in exchange for the gold from a shop keeper. The police soon came knocking on his doors as they were suspicious of the drunkard’s “rags to riches” story. He is behind bars now.”

Gokul occasionally gave us instructions in English and kept us motivated. “C’mon guys, lets go, lets go,” he’d roar, after achieving a comprehensive lead. He claimed to have picked it up from the movies he had watched. He listed “The amazing spiderman” and the recently released “Thupakki”, which he watched in “cassette” (DVD), as personal favourites. When I asked him if $he was a fan of actor Vijay, he promptly replied “Lawrence fan naa.”

Karthik, a 12^th grader and an aspiring doctor, briefed us about the exchange rates for the materials dug out of the dumps. Iron fetches 18 rupees a kilo whereas copper and aluminum fetch 350 and 60 bucks respectively. Masala fetches them 30 per kilo while water bottles fetch them 35. Other than this, the rag pickers also accumulate medical waste, plastics, e-waste and used needles. “The prices are set by ‘market forces’,” said Karthik.

In spite of the abundance of waste, biodiversity here is light years away from extinction. A lot of migratory birds hover over the vast expanse. Crows and cuckoos are commonplace. “During a particular season, tomatoes and mushrooms grow here in abundance. We pluck them and eat them. We also kill the birds and eat them,” said Gokul, who was briefly busy posing with the plants and mushrooms. When I expressed my apprehension about the possibility of the toxic nature of the plants, Gokul gave me a typical satirical look and moved on.

We waded our way through the garbage mountains and struggled to say afoot. The locals meanwhile jumped from one plateau to another. Gokul wasn’t even wearing a pair of slippers. The glass particles on the ground hardly perturbed him.

We then moved on to the business end of the dump. Cranes were busy transporting debris from one crest to another. This was forbidden zone for us. This is where we were initially refused permission to enter, through the main gate, by a bunch of bureaucrats, who are alleged to have been treating privately-owned corporate lorries full of garbage differently.

As we lay low and watched Gokul take a dig at his friends, two short guys whisked away Karthik’s Sony Xperia and silently captured the busy cranes on the mini screen. Karthik then transferred the video to my phone.

It was then time for us to head back. But when we set out to explore the dump yard, we passed through a human settlement termed Panakaara Nagar (Rich man’s colony).Panakaara Nagar is located inside the dump yard compound, which is actually out of bounds for civilians, especially rag pickers and journalists. But flouting rules and flirting with danger is a daily routine for the residents of Kodungaiyur.

Panakaara Nagar is actually a not-so-panakaara nagar. In fact, it is not at all aPanakaara nagar. Imagine being surrounded by monumental heaps of trash and waking up to the same every single morning.  “We’ve been here ever since MGR died. Have you come here to help us get jobs? We are dying to find ourselves an alternative livelihood,” Rajesh, a sexagenarian, asked us. Gokul promptly answered that question, “These people are unemployed, stop joking about them being able to give you a job.”

In spite of its notorious geographic location, Panakaara Nagar gets free electricity, thanks to one man, Sekar. Sekar was handed over the responsibility of regulating the dump yard from within. So, the government setup a residential office for Sekar inside the dump yard, thus necessitating pylons and electric cables inside the compound. Sekar made use of this opportunity and “sold” government land to people and thus Panakaara Nagar, equipped with electricity 24*7 drawn from cables extending to Sekar’s house,came into existence.

The government eventually came to know about Sekar’s transgressions and he was suspended and arrested. The illegal settlements in Panakaara Nagar were evicted. Today, a few residents have come back to live in Panakaara Nagar, albeit unwillingly. So has Sekar, who is out on a bail. He even has an entry level government job, which he managed to get because of his influential contacts.

“Are you all Hindus?” asked Gokul. The randomness of this question took us all by surprise. “Yes, all of us are Hindus by birth.” I said. “I became a Christian two days ago.” He replied. The Christian missionary school he used to go to had “converted” him to Christianity. “Gokul, given a choice, would you go to school now?” “Yes,” he said. “Things are quite stable now. It’s been sometime since appa passed away.”

“Even my dad was a victim of alcoholism,” added Karthik. “Not just Gokul and I, but the two short guys who filmed that video for you also lost their dads to the perils of alcoholism.”

“Given an alternative avenue for earning, would you still pursue rag picking? Aren’t you aware of the dangers of such a toxic environment?” I asked.

“Obviously. Who would want to accumulate garbage for a living? 40-50 families depend on this garbage dump for a livelihood. Right now, we just don’t have a choice. Be it the nature of work that we do or the air we breathe day after day.”

“Will you come back here?”

“Yes, I will. I plan to shoot a documentary here.”

“Oh wow, please come back soon.”

We walked away, wishing for change and wishing to come back to shoot a documentary here, to let the world know about Gokul and his friends. The residents of Kodungaiyur watched us disappear into the smoke, in despair as always.