Reality, Bites

Yesterday was my first day in the office (since I had cleared my CPT/Chartered Accountancy entrance test, with distinction may I add, I was eligible to start my internship).
Coming into the whole “professional” scene right after school was quite a big change for me.

This is what I have learned after 2 days in the office.

Incident 1)
When I went in to the Senior Partner’s room, for my one-on-one interview, the peon guy bought some tea and placed it in front of him. Apparently he was not in the mood for tea so he asked the peon to give me the tea.
Now I was super doubtful on whether to have it or not.
My doubt must have shown on my face because the Senior Partner looked at me, smiled and said “Have it, you wont get this chance again when you’re working here”

Incident 2)
Going to office in a kurta & a pair of jeans only to learn that the workplace has a rather strict dress code of “Salwar-Kameez only”.

b] Beverage Break
Every morning around 11 and every evening around 4 all the articles get coffee/tea shots.
Not the fancy espresso shots (now, thats romba over) but piping hot, milky, super sweet coffee/tea in tiny tiny plastic cups.
Its a special formula devised by the firm to keep us interns going. And its quite successful at what it aims at, provided you chug it. And not taste it.

c] ITRs
I filed some income tax returns, all by myself (*pride*) and finally realized why CAs everywhere are cursing P.Chidambaram.
Its a long, painful process and hence dumped on the interns.
But I didn’t mind doing it, after all, how else will you learn that if a firm spends money on promoting family planning among its employees, that expense is exempted from taxation?

Just 2 days and already so much wiser. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?
Watch this space.

The Indian Suitcase

*This is a short story I wrote for some competition in school when I was in my 11th standard. I found the file when I was checking through some very old emails and I thought I’d spread the joy.
Do tell me if you liked it/didn’t like it/think it could be better though. And by the way, I did not win.*

*All characters in this story have originated from my head and resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely co-incidental.*

“Haven’t you heard?” My brother came running to me, breathless.
“Billoo anna” he wheezed, “is going to America! He’s got a job there!”
This was a reason for excitement. No one had EVER gone abroad in
the entire colony, even for a holiday. Even people who went to cities
in nearby states were sent off with much ado.
Coming to Billoo. Many people don’t even know his real name – Kumar.
It’s an Indian tradition to confer a nickname, which is nowhere near
the real name. My friend Shreyas got stuck with an embarrassing ‘Jikki’ and his sister Sapna (not far behind) is joyously called ‘Duggu’. Whether it is an unfortunate sense of humour or a warped way of parents showering their love and affection, nobody knows.
My brother tugged my skirt and pulled me back to reality. “So you going?” he enquired.

“To help Billoo pack for the trip! He’s leaving tonight!”
“Is amma there?”
“Obviously” he said, rolling his eyes. “So you’re going?” he enquired again.
“I don’t really know…” I began. It was not everyday you got to watch
TV in my house without interruptions every two seconds. It was quite an event by itself.
“If you’re not, amma told me to tell you that the keys are with Sushi aunty!” he announced, with his eyes shining, quite a contrast to my own blank face.
“Yeah, Ok”
My brother flashed yet another of his famous toothless smiles and ran across the colony ‘playground’: A piece of land which was constantly in a legal tussle between two brothers who refused to own up as the proprietor because of the colossal amount wealth tax associated with that property.
As usual, the Indian system of “If its not private, then its mine” had taken over and the area had been converted into a thriving business area (‘china market’) where you can get everything, from the DVD of the latest ‘Tam Cruize’ film to ‘Sonya’ CD players to ‘Raybon’
The area not occupied by these superior entrepreneurs was transformed into a playground.

WHO WAS I KIDDING? I wouldn’t miss Billoo’s send off for the world! It was the one ‘event’ where he would have to face every kind of uncomfortable question possible, not to mention his mother’s unbelievable samosas and jalebis which would do the rounds. Packing ‘ceremonies’ (that’s what I’ve decided to call them) are dreadfully hilarious and if you can survive them, you can survive anything.
I ran to Billoo’s apartment, only to tumble upon the entire colony squashed into the 1500 odd square feet, which was his apartment. Aunties swapping recipes, Uncles giving advice to Billoo, and of course, the ‘things you can’t get in America’ (Mango pickles and Garam Masala and what not) getting packed in four-inch thick bubble wrap (“So that those vicious customs officials don’t try to steal it.”) and Billoo’s grandmother doing puja for his passport.
After about fifteen minutes of small talk, the real fun began.

First, it was pickle politics. Both Billoo’s mum’s sister and his dad’s sister had sent in their ‘love’ by giving the same kind of lemon pickle to take to America – the kind which burns your tongue and ruins your appetite because of its grisly taste.
“Billoo!” his mother bellowed. Billoo turned, unfortunately interrupting his uncle’s discourse on avoiding stomach disorders. “You have two jars of lemon pickle. Which one do you want? The one which dear Sunni aunty sent or that Sashi’s?” The word ‘Sashi’ was enunciated with a look of pure revulsion. Billoo’s father put the newspaper down on the table with a thud that generated more noise than it normally would. The hall turned deathly silent. Billoo was in a REAL pickle now. He had to choose between two warring tribes (read families) who would do anything to deny the other family their pride.
“Umm…” began Billoo. Nearly fifty pairs of eyes looked at him eagerly. “I’m sure both the pickles equally delicious,” he said, carefully choosing his words.
“And? Whose are you taking?” asked his mother impatiently.
“I think five jars of pickle are enough, thanks.” He concluded breathlessly.
The entire room exhaled and the clockwork of the room buzzed back into life. Almost at the same time the entire room broke out into effervescent chatter.
By the time the five jars of pickle (Mango, lemon, coriander, chilly, garlic and onion ‘pickled to perfection’) were bubble wrapped (‘customs officer free’), by the time all the masalas were
‘zip-locked’ and by the time I polished 3 plates of jalebis and samosas, Billoo was ready.
Ready to pack in his clothes, that is.
“Ma! There are only five hours left for me to get to the airport!” howled Billoo.
“Billoo my son, don’t worry,” comforted one uncle with a mustache, which bore a striking resemblance to a certain Indian brigand.
“When I was posted to Kashmir…”began he, resulting in a tumultuous groan from the rest of us. This uncle had only one story, but managed to add more and more characters and stunts to it each time he delivered it.
What he had done was nothing out of the ordinary. He left his suitcase in the taxi and had twenty minutes for his train. All he had to do was run back and get it. Somehow, in the passing months, mysteriously, the story had details about him battling fifteen policemen who thought he
was smuggling cocaine single-handedly and a damsel in distress whom he saved from her jealous lover AND a baby whom he saved from the railway track by doing a triple somersault. All of them, absolutely out of the blue.
You can see now, why we groaned.
“This is an emergency! People! EMERGENCY” hollered Billoo again.
“Don’sh shoush dear, plenshy of shime lefsh,” said Billoo’s Grandmother, mouth full of Jalebi.
“Leave ish shoo us. We’ll have you in the airporsh in no shime. Everyone! Pleash fick an ishem of closhing of Billoo’s and help with the packing! Pleash!”
Would you believe it, we actually managed to pack, no, stuff his clothes inside the gaps left by the pickle jars and masala packets.
HONK! Was the sound we heard after the final zip had been zipped.
Everyone was breathless, even me.
I mean, WATCHING all this packing was so exhausting.
I walked to the door only after I received looks from these aunties who had been packing when I was munching chips on the sofa. I’m not really good in reading faces, but I figured out that this one spelled something close to infuriation.
The taxi had come to pick Billoo up and take him to the airport.
The taxi was a rickety old Ambassador. The Ambassador was the perfect example of Indian industrialism: Big, fuel guzzling, out-of-date, slow and yet powerful.
It was like a scene right from a magic show. Fifteen aunties fitted inside the car with no difficulty, one after another, along with Billoo’s parents and suitcases. I managed to grab a space between Billoo and the driver and a bulky set of gears.
The entire trip to the airport was silent, which totally surprised me.
Only on climbing out, did I realize that the aunties didn’t chat because of the deficiency of air in the backseat. Many of the aunties were, in fact, blue.
Well, this was it. Billoo seemed to have realized it too. “Well, this is it.” he shrugged with an aura of macho-ism, and suddenly, out of the blue, he started bawling. “I’ll miss you so much appa!” he
hollered. “I don’t what I’m going to do without you, amma!”
Billoo’s parents and the aunties accompanying them also burst into tears.
I didn’t know whether I had to giggle or join them in their sob-a-thon.
I just tried really, really hard to keep a straight face (which was not simple considering the amount of attention we were getting).
I awkwardly broke the sobs. “Its time for Billoo’s flight, aunty. I think he has to go now.”
“Oh yes” she sniffed.
“Billoo, you be a good boy ok? In the blue suitcase I have packed a mug in case you don’t know how to use that…what’s that called again?” she asked
“Toilet paper, aunty” I offered.
“Yes, whatever that is and call as soon as you reach there ok?”
Billoo nodded his head vigorously, unaware of the people who were listening and having furious fits of giggling.
After all the sappy bits were over, Billoo pushed his trolley towards the terminal.
Beyond, the “Visitors Not Allowed” sign.
He turned. He gave a big wave. All the aunties opened their tear faucets again and flapped their arms in reply with such strength that it was amazing that they didn’t just pop off the ground and fly.
We returned home in the taxi, and this time, everyone was able to breathe normally.
Billoo may have gone to the USA, but he was the talk of the colony ever since he left.
Billoo had become the “standard” by which everyone compared kids with, sometimes, even their own.
He had become the epitome of perfection and the very mention of his name brought tears
to all the aunties’ eyes as they wove dramatic stories of how they were the first ones to recognize greatness in him.
This was how it was, or at least until he came home with that annoying accent and his white wife.
But that, is another story.

Adjust, Please.

Updated 2015: 
It’s been 8 years since this was written so I thought I’d give it an update. I am a Chartered Accountant, have been one for 3 and a half years now, and presently a contributor with The Hindu. Apart from that, I’m still spoiled, impulsive, and occasionally toss coins to make life choices. Reading this blog won’t change your life, but writing in it has changed mine.  


Coconut Chutney, whose real name you can figure out quite easily was born on the 8th Day of March in the year 1989.
She toes the fine line between extreme intelligence and extreme insanity. She is now pursuing a career Chartered Accountancy and her motto in life is “Screw it, Lets do it!”.
Extremely impulsive, she strongly believes that thinking about anything or its consequences is a waste of time, which is why she uses powerful, foolproof decision making tools like the 8 Ball and 1 Re Coins.
She was born with a very very fat silver spoon stuck down her throat and has been spoiled from a very young age, which is evident from the fact that her first public-bus ride was when she was 18.
Her sense of humour is mildly warped and ably complimented by her mostly demented mindset.
Reading her blog won’t change your life, but it might make you laugh.
So read it.


I’m it.
Yay for mayth, who has given me this opportunity to exhibit my inner whack.

1. Pick out a scar you have, and explain how you got it.
Interesting question. I have a rather nasty scar on my right toe, its pretty medium sized for a scar and makes a lot of people’s faces twist into a variety of amusing shapes whenever they see it.
The day was like any other Saturday and I was like any other 8 year old, happy for no apparent reason. The local ranga-ratnam (mini ferris wheel) guy was patrolling my street and me being the ever-enthusiastic thrill seeker just had to ride it. The ranga ratnam guy was in a particularly good mood as well that day, he let me have 4 rides for 5 bucks (I was a very loyal patron, hence the perks).
After those 4 rides, I was pretty dizzy. But I was one who was always in pursuit of adventure. So when my driver, Sada “I-should-be-driving-F1-cars-but-I’m-driving-Maruti-Esteems-but-let-me-
drive-at-300kmph-anyways” Sivam offered to take me on a joyride in the neighborhood rickshaw [the rickshaw man, Kichchaami (actual name was Krishnaswamy, but it was too big for me to pronounce when I was 3, so kichaami it became) had gone to lunch), I jumped at the offer.
I sat on the side chair of the rickshaw and pretty soon Sada was really speeding up. I was already dizzy from the ranga-ratnam marathon, so I wanted to shift to the main seat in the rickshaw. I got up, but lost my balance, fell out of the rickshaw while it was still in motion but managed to grab on to the railings but my toe got stuck under the wheel and got run over for a full 5 seconds. And yes, I was screaming my lungs out at the same time. The wheel had pretty much scraped off all the flesh in my toe and missed the bone by a whisker. Which was a good thing apparently. I was rushed to the hospital, Suriya Hospital to be precise, where they cleaned the wound (capital torture) and everybody was crying and I vividly remember asking my mother if I would die.
The doctors did a plastic surgery on my toe, where they patched it up with some flesh from my thigh.
I couldn’t walk for two months, but I got royal treatment at home. I do believe thats when my spoilt-bratness began.
But that, is a story I will save for some other time.

2.What does your phone look like?
My phone is pink. Very pink. Very, very pink. So pink, its the envy of every girl who sets her eyes on it. Very few admit it though. But I love my Moto-Razr. Although its dying a very slow, tortured death right now and will be replaced very soon, I love my gorgeous, pink phone. It’s been with me through the thick and thin of everything and I doubt my coming-soon phone will ever see the excitement my razr did.

3.What is on the walls of your bedroom?
Glow-in-the-dark stars, hearts, a lone moon, few posters – Anime, Winnie-the-Pooh, Kim Possible and My Little Pony (I share my room with my ten year old sister, hope that clears things a bit), one small picture of Lord Hayagriva who is supposed to help me in my academics and oh yes, a picture of me when I were a wee child of four.
There are a couple of bookshelves fixed on my walls as well, they’re a perennial mess.

4. What is your current desktop picture?
A black and white background, something I Photoshop-ed. It’s a peacock, its very Indian, very eclectic and very much proof that I have sort-of mastered the pen tool.

5. Do you believe in gay marriage?
Well, I used to not believe in same sex marriages, used to think that they were against nature and used to be convinced that they were downright unnatural. Used to. Until some hotshot philosophy-taking undergrad changed my mind. Now I’m ok with it, what the hell, you only live once.

6. What do you want more than anything right now?
A baby penguin would be nice.
Oh yes, and throw in a helicopter, that I’d like too.

7 . What time were you born?
Hm, I’m not too sure, but I think it’s late evening. But the world must have recognized the birth of a great soul, it soon came to be known as International Women’s Day. No shit.

8. Are your parents still together?
Who the hell comes up with these questions?
And yes, they are together.

9. Last person who made you cry?
You know who you are. Yes, you do. Don’t think I’ll let you off the hook that easy.
Oh and I cry whenever my dad screams at me. He hardly screams at me, but when he does he makes me cry big time. Plus he’ll get full guilt over making me cry and buys me something cool. I got a new computer last time, so its cool.

10. What is your favorite perfume / cologne?
Tommy girl by Tommy Hilfiger and Burberry Brit.

11. What kind of hair/eye color do you like in the opposite sex?
Natural colours. NATURAL. Please, none of those highlights or green hair dye. And I like short, poke out-y hair. I really like Stuart Broads hairstyle right now, its downright awesome. Forget the hair, he’s downright awesome.
Eyes, well, its either a deep mahogany brown or hazel green.

12. What are you listening to?
“If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me and just forget the world? “

Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol. Download it, please. You’ll thank me later.

Oh and the song I was listening to before this track came on was “Idhu enna Maayam” from the movie Oram Po, music by GV Prakash. I think its sweetest song to have come my way in the longest time. Highly recommended.

13. Do you get scared of the dark?
At times, yes, when its raining really hard and theres thunder and lightning. Thunder creeps the hell out of me.

14. Do you like pain killers?
I’m not against them, Combiflam has been very useful in curing all my tooth-related owwies. but I don’t like them, I mean its not something you have on a regular basis. If you do have them on a frequent basis, see your doctor now, there is something very, very wrong with you.

15. Are you too shy to ask someone out?
Vena. Valikudhu. Azhudhuduven.

16. If you could eat anything right now, what would it be?
I’m having this sudden craving for Poondu Rasam. Not with rice, just the rasam, clear (without the tomato bits) and in a big tumbler. Ah, bliss.

17. Who was the last person you made you mad?
The moron who leaked the CPT paper and foiled all my after-CPT plans, plus gave me added pain of studying extra 2 weeks.

18. Who was the last person who made you smile?
My dad, sister and mother crack me up all the time. My dad’s lame jokes are something that should be experienced first hand, as do my sisters ramblings and my mother’s commentaries on the deteriorating cultural values in society. Priceless.

There we are. This took me a lot of time to type out and I hope you had read the whole thing and not just scrolled till here.
If you scrolled, well, I don’t blame you, at least you tried. If you read the entire thing, yay!

I hereby tag Niyantha , Ravi and Lemonade. Ensoy.

And before I forget, happy happy birthday to my dearesht umaachi, Krishna. I love you, lots. Thanks for everything and have an awesome day.

—-> Be Happy. Ghee Happy.

T.Nagar Drift

All of us, sometime in our lives, wish to seek adventure.
Adventure, the likes of rafting down the Amazon, climbing the Everest or bungee jumping Down Under.
We want to travel, to far off exotic lands and meet people from all over the world.
Yes, Adventure is a wonderful thing and for me, its a street away.
Yes, I live in T.Nagar.
You want adventure? You come to Usman Road.

Amazon? Phoo-ey. Usman Road has its own Amazon, River Usman. Its a magical river, its enough if it drizzles, it will appear and is ten times more powerful than any Amazon.
You want to climb the Everest?
Try climbing on to the platforms in Usman Road. Even if you do find space (considering all the enthu entreprenuers who set up shop in the platforms due to sky-high rent rates) to put one of your feet there, you will be pushed off by either a sotta mama whos screaming at his pondatti for buying too much at Nalli or by a “Thaenmoli” whos trying to by “jens phant” in RmKV for her “morey mamaen”.
Now this, is a real challenge.
Many people have given up, which is why they prefer walking smack on the middle of the road.
This is also a new form of transport. One doesnt have to walk in this road. You will automatically be transported to any shop you want by the crowds. Just make sure you know where you have to get off. Otherwise you might end up in Koyambedu. Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.

Bungee Jumping is something is that is pursued by a lot of people, just for the adrenaline rush it
You want adrenaline?
Enter Saravana Stores, Bramaaandamai.
You enter that place, you can feel hopeless, helpless, confused, crazy, and a host of other emotions you never even knew you could feel before. But unless you really want to experience this major adrenaline rush, don’t go in, because once you do, there’s no looking back. You will
be pushed into its deepest throes by the few million fiercely fierce bargain hunters who throng that place.

If you do come back from this place in one place, and still in the mood for adventure (or have gone insane) the next thing you should try is driving down usman road.
You will experience the finest in Indian infrastructure, not to mention half the population of the
world strolling on the main road, without a care. Your car will be tapped, bonked and you will be screamed at in words you never even knew existed.
But at the end of the day, when you come back home in one piece, you can take pride in yourself. You are a survivor of Usman Road.
Beat this, Indiana jones.


Goodbyes are something I’ve never been quite fond of. Of late there have been one too many goodbyes that I have had to say, and trust me, it’s hard.
One of the most significant goodbyes however was to a certain teacher.
A teacher who went by the name of Natrajamurthy B.

Natrajamurthy sir or Nattu Sir as we used to call him taught me Accountancy, among other things.
I had joined his classes early Eleventh standard, a few weeks into school, after a couple of recommendations from some of my other classmates.
The first few classes, were a lot of fun, with random bits of advice and the basic principles of accounts and we shared a great student-teacher chemistry, especially because I was looking forward towards a career in accounts (CA).
It took a few more classes and my over-enthu doubts (which were usually out-of-syllabus) to figure out that he knew my father pretty well (“You’re Mohan’s daughter?!!” I can never quite forget that incredulous look on sir’s face).
A few days later, I failed my first unit test in accounts.
Not surprisingly I threw a hissy fit, cried and deemed myself unfit for accountancy. It took one and a half hours of counseling from Sir to register the fact that this test was of no consequence to what I would be doing in the future and neither was it any sort of indicator of my intelligence.
But I still didn’t believe him.
Atleast not until the midterms, when I actually started scoring.
The feeling of “Yes, this is exactly what I should be doing!” where accounts was concerned grew with everyone of his classes.

Honestly, there would be a lot of diversions in his classes, mokka jokes, wuzzles, “life” advice and stories of our seniors and most importantly he kept reminding us that we were some of the best brains in the country (which I didn’t believe, still).

He tried to drive us out of the beliefs that there was no way that we could take over the customary school, er toppers (y’know, the people who come first in everything).
And in the school final, much to our own amazement, we did, leading to a “told you so” dialogue with Sir.

We loved the way in which he taught us, he always called us his “buddies” and for every right answer we gave, we would get a Hi-5, which was later changed to “halfway” and finally “halfway buddy”.

I am not a punctual person, I have always been sloppy where that was concerned and used to come late pretty often which irked Sir. He would shout at me, for a full ten minutes, made me skip tests because I was late for them, and yes, he was hard on me. It really pissed me off at one point of time considering he wouldn’t be as hard on the other kids who came late as he was on me. And I remember telling him that too, “Sir, you’re partial”
He called me aside that evening after class and told me, “I’m extra hard on you because you’re extra special to me.”

At that point of time I thought it was the worst bit of logic on the planet. But I was determined not to give him any more excuses to shout at me. I started coming on time, not only for his classes but for everything else. That made a world of difference in my life, considering I was always running late for everything.
Now, if I’m punctual or even early for something, I owe it to him.

Twelfth was a year we drove him crazy. We’d bunk a lot, me especially, what with Elections, Reverbs and a whole lot of cultural hopping. This showed on my preliminary tests where my marks were pretty dismal. I didn’t settle down until as late as October and that was when all the learning had to be redone. It was quite frustrating for both sir as well as us because in some classes we never did get anywhere and on top of that, sir would keep saying that we had the talent to top the school when we would have been more than happy to scrape a 90.
But January, February we shifted gears after constant prodding and began our hard work, and those tests which sir gave were like God-send, especially because they were these short, snappy tests which tested only particular areas, which meant it didn’t take too much time to prepare but then again, Sir had this super knack of picking out questions that were usually in some remote corner of the book.

I came back to my “usual form” in those tests and that really pushed up the confidence meter.
Two days before the Accountancy Board exam sir had called us for giving the test papers that we had written the previous day. I had come third or something, I don’t really remember.
But what I do remember is asking Sir (after everybody had left) if I had what it took to top the school in the Subject, paavum face, et al. What I got in return was this total dressing down of what an unbearably stupid question I had asked. (“Lavanya, what are you saying? What are you saying? Look at you! This is NOT the time for you to get self doubts ) which basically implied that I could.

As far as I was concerned, my boards were a disaster – a balance sheet didn’t tally (calculation mistake of some sort) and there was a mistake in the question paper, plus i had spent too much time on the sum in which I was stuck that I didn’t have too much time to complete Part B.
I came home, threw one of my famous fits again, threw my mobile phone on the wall and tore my question paper up into half. And you think YOU have issues.

Took me a day to move on, but I did, and before I knew it, results were around the corner.
I couldn’t sleep the day before my results came so I moved around all the furniture in the house until I was bone tired and finally fell asleep.
Turned out I got 99.
School First in Accounts.
Sir was the first person I had called, not even my father who was in Malaysia at that time and our conversation went thus:
Me: SIR!!! 99 SIR!! 99!!
me: SIR!! 99!!

That 99 hangover lasted for a week, FINALLY something to brag about, after 15 years of schooling (Actually I had topped commerce as well, in fact my board performance was pretty awesome, 469, school third, and oh how I love saying that)
This July brought the end of our “professional” ties (we forced him to take CPT classes as well), we had to say goodbye to man who was almost like a father figure to us.
I will miss you, your teaching and also the whats-for-dinner game.
To the man who taught me punctuality.
To the man who taught me confidence.
To the man who taught me how to drive out insecurities.
To the man who taught me how to take failures in my stride.
To the man who taught me Corporate Accounting.
To the man who had more belief in me than I ever will.
To the man who said “I dont know about that Lalu but this Lalu is a Prasad” 😀
Sir, Thank You for the memories.

Nattu Sir is not the only special person to whom I’m saying goodbye.
I wish I didn’t have to.
You’ll always be special to me, I hope you know that and I will always remember you whenever I have thaenga chutney.
Or Paruppu sadam.
Or feedback forms.
Or Veerasamy.
Or Mirrors.
Or Chemistry.
Or Pavada dhavani.
I have lots more to put in here but I can’t remember some.
Damn you.

My CPT got rescheduled because of some moron in Delhi who leaked the paper for a paltry 60,000. There are 82,000 kids writing this paper, even if each one had contributed one buck each, he would have got more.
*insert expletive here*


[I wrote this review in my first blog, The Evil Autorickshaw. Now its back on popular request and also to help a friend who will be seeing this epic movie shortly]
Vijaya T Rajendhar is back with his latest offering to us quality-movie-ridden souls : VEERASAMY (Although it would have been more apt to title the movie as “Brother Bear” ) It contains all the necessary ingredients of his trademark movies – A] Himself – as the swashbuckling, righteous, witty, educated, strong, back-belti-doing, karate kicking, never shaving MLA who goes on these random sprees in the city to “correct” the wrongdoers and bring justice to the poor & problem having. He is accompanied by 2 sidekicks constantly, and one of them (Santhanam, of all people! We can only hope he was drunk when he accepted this part) is armed with a camera making TR this mobile tehelka. For example, when a traffic policeman tells the commuter, “konjam vettu”, TR appears from nowhere (which is quite a feat considering his size) and cuts the policeman’s arm with his trusty aruval. When the police guy squeals in pain, TR tells him “nee dhanapa vettunnu sonna, adhanaala vettinaen” and walks the walk while the commuter guy is left wondering about who/what he is. Another time, there is a man who is pissing on the road even after reading the sign saying “siruneer pogadheer”. TR once again jumps into the frame from nowhere and pisses on him!! His reason? There is no sign on the man’s pants saying “don’t piss”! TR thus amazes the audience with his incredible logic and social message. B] Thangachee – The sun rises in the east. Delhi is the capital of India. The sky is blue. Therefore, TR will have thangachee who is nearly 20 years younger, doesn’t resemble him even one inch and will be the sole purpose of his existence. Hence proved. C] Kaadhal – TR’s lady love is none other than Mumtaj. They share a Punidhamaana kaadhal, (peer louwe/pure love) which means she has to keep removing her dhawani in his presence, give him lusty smiles, use his poster as a bedsheet, share a bathtub of aarogya paal, tattoo his name on her chest, steal his soap and use it with aching desire and (this one is the ultimate) drink the water that drips from his beard like “perumal theertham”. GIVE HER THE OSCAR ALREADY!! D] Meesic – TR is the music director of this movie, need I say more? It is like a bhagavatar padam, with songs every two minutes. The re-recording is also of the same quality – the bg music is the same line in different tempos/tunes (avaru mood-a capture panraaram) – “unna kaadhalika oru aayiram paer varuvaanga, aana ennamattum neenga yen therndhetitheenga” TR dancing is the highlight of this movie. One can see that he is quite a trained belly dancer considering his thoppai has a life of its own when he’s dancing. The movie is 150 minutes. If you come out after seeing the whole thing, congratulations. You are truly made up of strong stuff. The city is being run by a corrupt dhadha minister. He is spurred by his keep, Rousu-Rani (the only woman who can give our jackpot Khushboo competition in wearing wacky saree blouses), to try and do some KD things in Veerasamy’s area. His assistants warn him of our jambavan but the minister turns a deaf ear to them. Rouserani comes to his thogudhi but is left insulted by TR who bashes up her rowdies and comes up with his own version of petta-rap : ey, nee porandhadhu pudhupettai
valarndhadhu vannarampettai
sight-adichadhu saidapettai
kalyanam pannadhu kannamapettai
Raid aanadhu Ranipettai
Unga aathalukku kaaryam pannadhu chromepettai Etc etc which displays TR’s geographical knowledge of our city. TR is the much respected MLA in his thogudhi and spouts wisdom to all his loyal katchi-kaarans every two minutes and is on a mission to make India the most prosperous country in the world. He is noble and has great respect for his traditions, so much so that he doesn’t allow his thangachee to wear to jeans to college. However, his sister falls in love with the “cool dude” of her college – Arun, a guy (I’m actually not too sure about that) who has a broken natraj pencil going through one of his ears (and thus amplifying his coolness). He is actually Rouserani’s brother, hence causing kozhappam in kudumbam. However, it just so happens that the “glaymer gul” of college, Meghna Naidu is also after him. She wears only itty bitty clothes to college and has hundreds of guys behind her although she wants only Arun. She is the minister’s daughter, gets away with anything that she wants and says stuff like “daddee, enakku idhu veynoooo!” . Charming. TR is facing problems of his own, though with a Veeramami living opposite his house. She is Mumtaj’s mummy who is trying to force her into the family business. Hence veerasamy has to constantly save Mumtaj from perils and romance her. TR however does not commit himself even after sharing the bathtub (they were dreams remember??) and takes a promise from her to never commit suicide. In fact, the theatre people must get a hint from this scene and ask the audience (if any) to not commit suicide before they proceed to watch the movie. Mumtaj is married off by her mummy to the new MLA and leaves our hero in shambles. Mr.Mumtaj and TR contest in elections but TR loses. So TR gives himself morale boost by comparing himself to Sachin Tendulkar. (Ignorance is bliss, truly) Now, due to kudumba prachanais, TR’s thangachee’s and Arun’s marriage don’t go according to plan. This is basically because RouseRani loses in a game of musical chairs with TR during the engagement. So TR will conduct his sister’s marriage with a “handsome” doctor boy whom he prevented from going to the US because he has to do sevai for country (this doctor boy is none other than Rajiv, a PSBBian, Std XII C, batch of 2002-2003…..ack!) However, Meghna Naidu thirundhifies (after rolling with Arun on the bed) and oppadichifies him back to TR’s family. Now TR is in the state of great mental trauma and starts crying, leaving the audience in splits. However, he decides that he is a “veeran” and goes out to kill all those bullies of the minister’s. He then decides that he has to save energy for his sister’s marriage and simply removes his veshti, thus leaving the thugs dead on the spot. His dhoti also falls on Mumtaj (fresh from murdering her hubby), who also dies, naatham thaangamudiyaama. When actual samandhis reach the spot, TR is faced with a barrage of questions that he cannot answer and drops dead. Such is the acting of TR that even after dying, he is able to give expression. “A film by Vijaya T Rajendhar” Me and my father cheer. Turns out we are the only two people left in the theatre. Note: Kindly do not watch this movie if you have heart problems, BP etc. I cannot guarantee
that you will be alive after seeing it.

I cannot believe, that I’m doing propaganda for a 11 year old.

Anyways, my sister, is now a blogger (joy).
Click here to take a peep into the madness that is Varsha Mohan.
And don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.

Innocence, Interrupted.

The CBSE is all set to introduce “Adolescent Education Programme” for school kids from 6th standard upwards.
This is to include stuff like Sex Ed, Protection, STDs and other stuff that made us giggle/snicker during tenth standard biology class.
Sure, in light of the current lifestyles, “lets-do-it-NOW” attitude towards sex you’d think learning the right way to put on a condom is necessary.
It is, no arguments here, a little bit of knowledge does go a long way.
The thing is, how adept are our teachers in conveying it across to the students?
The rotten truth is that our teachers are NOT our friends, not now, not ever.
We don’t like approaching them for doubts concerning adolescent issues, we are uncomfortable with them, and we hate the way they stare at us when we say the word “sex”.
I CANNOT imagine any of my teachers who taught me in school trying to teach me how syphilis is spread or discussing topics like condoms v/s spermicide (which is part of the syllabus).
I remember one particular incident in school as well, when one of my juniors got caught in school for bringing, erm, sexual apparatus to school.
It was a HUGE hullabaloo, the boy’s parents were called and screamed at, he was slapped, we didn’t have class for 7 continuous periods and everyone started calling him “condom boy”. Not pleasant. It brought a couple of issues to light –
a]A tenth grader with a condom. Wow.
b]I could sleep through 4 continuous periods, a new record
c]A tenth grader with a condom. Wow, GROSS.
d]If he had a condom, who did he intend to do it with?
e]A tenth grader with a condom. Wow.
Moving on.
Where the CBSE is making a mistake is bringing it in standard 6. Thats not when hormones surge. Thats when kids still think that a lesbian is actually a person from lesbia.
Loads of schools (esp PSBB-esque schools) are still in two minds over this whole adolescent education module.
Is it really necessary in a country like India?
What about our culture?
What about our famous social values?
Ah, thats where we all make mistakes.
Hormones don’t have nationalities!


18 years of existence. Correction. 18 years, 3 months, 3 and a half weeks counting.
It’s all a big blur.
I mean 15 years back, I was perfectly happy trying to figure out the simple pleasures of life, like gurgling, sleeping all day, and pissing anywhere I wanted to.
Ah, that was the life, yes?
But now, I’m suddenly 5 ft 6 or something and have responsibilities and other worldly burdens of that sort.
I have to study *groan*, get good grades *groaner* and make mummy daddy proud *groanest*.
Not that I can’t do any of those things, but you get my drift.
Sometimes I wonder.
How it would be to break free and live in a world where there are no ties, no boundaries, no responsibilities, no obligations.
How it would be to go where I wanted to, when i wanted and in whichever way I wanted to.
No rules, No limits, No mum and dad behind my back.
And then, I remember, why I’m doing all this in the first place.
Its because mum n dad do something that makes me feel so fuzzy inside.
They pay my bills.