Saithan Cycle la Varuthu Ft. Me

I’ve been in Chennai all my life. There are lots of things to point out to Chennai for its glory and specialty. But, there are tons of directors that talk about it. Why am I here now? To talk about traffic- the one thing no one seems to want to write about… or have I missed it? My travel through the city can be divided into three major modes: Walking, Bus and Cycle. Riding in a/a Bike or a car is unbelievably rare for me, because I’ve got a mediocre knowledge of both. There is a very little to discuss about Nada-raja service because, to get caught in traffic when you’re walking is a skill. Either you must be “yo momma so fat” fat or you must be well, have lost your screws up there.
Coming to Bus travel I have already written about it in my previous posts and blogs about all the jannal seat conundrums and ticket kashtams. People who know me, must’ve read it. Here I’d like to tell about my general adventures of Chennai traffic and with my cycle too. Before I start off, I don’t know if bikers and other two wheelers face the similar or even more difficulties, if so, let the Road-u madha bless you with all the chilra you’re gonna vaarify.
Going on Chennai roads is an art. Oru vela athan namma aalungaluku varaliyo? Probably this is the only place in Tamil nadu where the “left la indicator potu right la porathu makes sense”, and might become legal soon. Enna? people want to ban momos, why not ban logic? My cycle has two blinkers, one in the front and one in the rear. I almost always never forget the blinkers when there is no sunlight since I met with a small accident. But I’m not sure, if all these people can see the blinking light. There will be this uncle in a Fuel economy bike whom I think might have asked his wife to make murungakka sambar, murungakka poriyal, murungakka kootu and all, oh and aththi pazham juice too. He will be in ulaga-maga rush to his home, when? When sun is out kolthing. Dei it’s 11.30 da, enga mela otitu nee veetuku poi o… seri okay avarukum vazhi vittuta there will be this couple on R15. She will be sitting in 1st floor and he in basement. I often think that this setup is a sly technique by boys to make the girl hug them during brakes since oru front brake will lead to angry bird action of launching the girl into the air.
Okay da, neengalum ponga, then there will come this share auto driver who must’ve been this kid who didn’t get to ride a cycle. He will take all the inch gap and centimeter gaps and will do his best to do the “Cycle gap la Sindhu paaduvan” thingy, with his share auto. Seri share autovum pogatum nu vitta then, his younger cousin, Auto will come. He will be blessing everyone with all the cuss words and profanities known to mankind and dinosaurkind. I even feel his skills in kazhuvi oothing your family is better than his driving skills. Though these auto annas are better maps than google but they give off more heat than a Redmi phone. Beside this auto there will be one guy in lungi on a RX-100 who will have a 90’s bgm as his horn and will scare all the pazhaya aunties and thathas. Sometimes there will be a girl in his pillion seat who’s face will be mummified in the dhupatta. He will give her heart attack instead of orgasms by driving through all the sandhu bonthu. Dei that is not the gap you must… okay.
Somehow coming past all this, we come to a Major signal in that direction of the city. And past that signal will be your college, home, hostel, bathroom ellam. That signal is the ultimate barrier for all the things in life and I’m pretty sure everyone knows what signal I’m talking about. This signal is designed such a way that, all the following things will happen.
  1. You’ll reach your college for 3rd sem arrear exam if you start for 11th half yearly.
  2. You’ll reach for your child’s 3rd birthday if you’re going to meet your 1st ex-girlfriend.
  3. You start for an interview and reach for your Junior’s promotion. Wait, that won’t happen! Avanukum vela kedachirukathu.
  4. You start during Sherlock Season 5 and reach when Sherlock season 6 promo comes out.
  5. You start for Saravanan Meenatchi… uh… you’ll still end up there.
Then there are these roadu janthus, the maadu-Ola, aadu-Uber, Chinna yaanai-Tata ace, The Karadi government bus who will be ruling the roads and they might even have a will stating, “This is my Grandfather road”. You somehow pass that “ootla soltu vantiya” scooty guy who scolds us for going by rules, and the “kanna enga vechitu vara” XL aunty, aiyyo I meant TVS XL. Barry Allen eh confuse aagura alavuku timeline changes nadanthu eppadiyo green signal vizhum.
When the Signal turns green there will be these idiots who will start honking 0.0001 seconds after green goes off, why da ivlo avasaram? In a nutshell, the only possibility where you reach your destination in time is when your destination is The Signal itself.
Once you’ve time travelled through this signal you’ll then face the bigger demons of the road, oh not the direct contractors of Mr.Yeman – The elemental combo – the Mannu Lorry and the Thanni Lorry – But the all cosmetic imperfections of the road which the cosmic entity in itself would not know why. First there will be a speedbreaker, but it will be taken because it would be too bumpy for vehicles, so they will remove it half-heartedly, apparam when sky goes chucha, the bad digging will lead to potholes which will lead to plot holes in our life. The hole will develop and they will announce it as metrotrain works soon. Escaping all the holes you’ll definitely be bound to find yourself to the surprise pan missiles from bus and lorry windows. Even Kaaka does kakka on you. Onnyum panna mudiyathu.
If you have somehow crossed all this to reach your destination, then the gods bless you with a splash of mud from the rain, and the rain itself to wash it off. Ivvalavum mudichi antha edathula poi sentha, oruthan kepan, “Dei nee innuma cycle otitu iruka?”.
Tyre oda senthu namma heart layum kaathu pogum.
#CyclingSambarthayam

The Marriage

In an event of rare occurrence a Swami and a Nun we’re engaged to each other. The best man of the wedding was their best friend, a Fakir.

But the Nun’s followers didn’t want him to get married, so they deviced a plan to stop the marriage. Some big shots manipulated the fakir to plant another woman’s inner wear in the Swami’s room so that his fiancé thinks he is cheating on her.

The Nun knew there was a conspiracy going on from her followers and was very alert. They gave him multiple items to plant on the bed that the Swami was sleeping in. But the fakir being Swamiji’s best friend had a last minute change of mind so he made a plan. The fakir didn’t notice the Nun who was hiding in the balcony and her brother, a Pastor, who was hiding inside. He tiptoed silently up to Swami’s bed and began placing the clothes and a paper hidden inside telling all the details. They both caught him red handed, but he confessed. At that time The Swami woke up and saw the clothes and misunderstood the situation. Angrily, he attacked his best friend. The fakir now irritated, stopped Swami and showed him the note which explained everything. Now the followers who were waiting outside from outside the room were ashamed and asked for their forgiveness. The Swami directed them to his Fiancé but she didn’t forgive them and told them the Lord will take care.

A writer was was seeing all this from the next building. He was sleepy but his deaf wife wanted to know what happened. So he shortened the whole climax and said in his own comical way,
“You fakir! She Swami!, I ran Pastor”
The wife asked about the woman, he replied
“Fucks given: Nun”

How (not) to be Sharmaji’s Son


Pre-disclaimer– This is my attempt at portraying the difficulties of being a male child in a typical Indian family in a comic tone. There is some cringe worthy stuff inside this blog which you might not want to read, then kindly like the blog and shoo away. If I’ve hurt or if there is a lapse in logic or if I’ve made mistakes, I’d try my best to correct them when pointed out earnestly.

Unless you’re a boy child you wouldn’t know how difficult it is to be one. Ever since you’re born, shit ton of things are expected from you. Right from the moment your head stands on its own and you say, ‘chuchu’, there are a lot things people want you to be and it is not a simple feat achieving them. I have tried my best to compile a comprehensive and humorous blog on how (not) to be an ideal Male child or Be Sharmaji’s son. Also let me tell you the two reasons why I’m writing only about men and not women,

  1. I’m a Male human.
  2. Sadly, I’m a son too.

The difficulty of being a son starts early, you’re expected to be cute, intelligent and still hold the baby charm at the same time. You should know how to spell long words, know rhymes, thirukural, tell poems, write novels, solve calculus, become scientist and go to mars. Dei how da? When I was little I didn’t even know how to wear jetti(underwear) properly, how would I know how to pronounce lorry? The best I could do was Rolly, Sorry Mum and Dad. First patient eh baedhi baby.

Udaney comes the pre-school and primary. By now we should’ve been excelling at sports, studies and arts, but the tables turn when we grow up though. I’ve heard from modern parents that they’re upset that their child is unable unlock the phone by itself. Aiyo paavam

Then Comes one of the most difficult stages of being a boy – The puberty (don’t imagine flashing lights and big banners, that’s strictly for girls). For girls it’s a function for us boys it’s a hard time getting up (boys will know). Dei they celebrate you growing into pretty people and give you all kinds of jewellery, but what we get called, ‘kada maadu’(grown cow) of increasing frequency. Yes, we understand your difficulty in puberty girls, with the period and cramps and all, but there is certain stuff where men find it difficult to cope with too. One of the major frustrations is body hair, it grows everywhere, like all over da. You do not know how many times it gets caught in your clothes and punishes you every time by stripping away chunks of hair. And there are times where hair doesn’t grow where it has to, Poor bald men. May lightning slip on your heads and you never be called vazhukupaarai.

Don’t even get me started about clothes, nothing fits. In a span of 3 years you grow more than 3 sizes, I can see the eye roll from the other gender. Hey you have so many types and styles of clothes to try out! All we have is four clothes- two inners and two outers. Pants which used to be loose barely fits your arm, Zips? They’re a nightmare. Threatening to reduce your shot at making family every time you use that Zip. Maatna Margaya. Our shoulders become broad that neither L or X dresses fit. XL makes us look like a blown out balloon. But there are a few who seem to stay little even after the growth spurt, aama growth-u spurt-u.

Grow up a little more and you’re forced to become an engineer, and I can assure you that men are forced into Engineering more. Engineering goes away in a confused state whether to love or not. Don’t worry mostly Single than. You somehow manage to get a date and go to some restaurant, Anga pona etho Chivalry aam, Men must pay. Pocket money, Saavu Mani.

While you’re here trying to comprehend the stuff that’s going around you there will be a particular boy who will get more marks than you and do more internships than you, that idiot is your best friend from school. Aapu begins there. If academics is in this state, your ego takes a hit when you see a guy younger than you with more certificates. Ippovey kannakattuthey

Appadiye shifting to home, your chance of getting new things and clothes reduces if you have an elder brother or elder male cousins. You are the one that get all the second hands. After evading everything in home and college you come out. There stands a group just to brand you, the society. And I share this with our opposite gender humans, we both get judged.

Poriki if you have beard, pazham if you shave, rowdy if your haircut is snazzy, loosu if your dressing sense is different. Talking about haircuts one single mess-up can make you move to a different state and change your identity. I have seen guys skip school and college after having a bad haircut. We don’t have bad hair days, rather we have bad-hair-months-leading-to-identity-crisis situations. Beards are a lost cause, your friend has a sage beard and buys beard wax and mush oil while your chin has a single hair which you’re forced to be proud of. Ushabbba.

Seri, when you come home amma wants you to fix her grinder. You wonder why, Nee Engineer da mundam, says your brain. But how? Just because you do engineering doesn’t mean you can fix it, amma doesn’t know this. Avlothan. Appa comes over to questions you to boredom and gives career advice and life lessons, free of cost da!.

Then comes the working stage. Suddenly from being super broke you’re blessed with your own salary, wait wait, mom and dad make you responsible by handing you some bills, pfff yeah, ‘some’ bills. At the end of the month after trying your best to be a good son you’re left with spare cash which is enough only to buy two plates of paani poori.

Jumping over all this, you’re not even allowed to choose your favourite color, Men like blue da macha, No. I like purple, cyan and mauve. Maavu ah? Aama, Maavu than.

Added to this is a list where men are frowned upon if they don’t know to ride a bike. Once my relative gave had a culture shock reaction with vaai aaa open until his wife closed it. Dei I know cooking, you knowva?!, I make very good Pongal and vadakari.

All this also okanynga, the most difficult thing is managing people from your own gender, if you don’t smoke you’re a wuss, if you don’t drink you’re a loser. “if you don’t try all these then what’s the use in living life?” echoes a question from the past. Apparam, Who said all men are strong and courageous? Yov I have been in a very few fights all my life and what nambikkai you send me with mom at 10.30 pm ah? Dei road dogs da, they bow bow once and bite twice da, please no.

Sports, yet another head ache. After receiving multiple frown-downs, I found out that all you have to do is say,’oh aama la, what a great match’ to everything related to sports, believe me it works. Also men are not allowed to cry, Boys azhakoodathu man.

The worst one happens to be the judging based on physical presence, your accidental bumps can lead you to police stations, beware. After all this there is a statistics that say men have a shorter life span. I was not ready da moment.

With all this being said, being a man is as difficult as being any other Gender with all due respect, sometimes in lesser and sometimes in greater magnitude. Let men be men.

Post-Disclaimer – The events, characters and relatives depicted in this blog are fictitious (summa luluvaiku). Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or firms is purely coincidental or unfortunate (looking at the bald and short men, sorry)”. Wait what? Doesn’t that negate the whole point of the blog? Either that or some of these things is a lie. This is merely a try from my side. Any kind of comment is welcome.

What the Bus!

Today I was met with a peculiar situation whose ending left me searching for questions for which I knew the answers.

I got onto a local bus today evening. My stop was at least 50 minutes away from then, and I was frantically waiting for an empty seat (the bus had a few standees only) as my laptop bag was heavy. A stop later I got a good seat opposite the front doorway. In the next stop an elderly man, probably around 65 years got into the bus, he had a small lunch bag and a shoulder bag in his hand. He politely asked me to hold his lunch bag and went to get ticket from the conductor who wouldn’t step down from his conductor throne.

By the time he came back I had put on my earphones like I usually do. He came and stood near the pole beside me. No interactions between us after that except one. In the next 5 minutes I had the most intense conversation with myself. As I began fidgeting the strap of his lunch bag, my mind wandered and a question rose into the void, that was my mind.

What would a man of 60 odd years be doing with a lunch bag? Shouldn’t he be ideally retired, or at least be at home at this age? if he is working who would he be?‘ Maybe he had his own company, or maybe his car broke. No, no, sounds too far-fetched. I tried to Sherlock his appearance and deduce his background.  The Lunch bag looked like a branded one, one that middle class people could afford with some hesitation. His attire was also decent, with crumpled yet neat dress, so I was assured that he was working in some kind of office. I tried and failed guessing his exact job from his bag and his phone, which was a mid-range smart phone.

At this point almost 20 seconds had passed, believe me when I say this (because you have no other go, sorry). In the silence between the song change, I heard him cough. It was a fierce, vehement cough and there was faint scent of cigarette every time he coughed. I judged him almost instantly. ‘What kind of old person smokes even after having a cough like that. Doesn’t he realise it time he should let go of the habit’. Then I noticed his lips were darker than usual and his teeth were unnaturally yellow, which led me to the conclusion that he must smoke often or for a long time now (getting better at Sherlocking ain’t I?).

His coughs were louder now that I was conscious of this human’s presence. Now that I heard an old man in distress, my morale bot had come out, replacing the detective bot. Then began the profound conversation between myself and the morale bot. ‘You should stand up and let the old man sit, irrespective of his habits you should be kind. That is you. That’s how your parents raised you.’

I became indignant with myself. ‘Even you have shoulder pain from your heavy bag, plus with this traffic and the newfound crowd you won’t know when you’d be able to sit again next. You might have to travel for another hour (my selfish logic bot was taking various factors into account, that scumbag) Do you really want to offer your seat. If he is coughing, it is probably because of his smoking habit, why do you care about that? Just sit down. No one is going to bother even if you give your seat’.

The Morale bot used its important weapon, future. ‘Imagine yourself in the same situation 40 years later, wouldn’t you want a seat to sit, hell you we’re scrambling for a seat few minutes ago.’ (My bad joke bot tried to cut the tension by saying that there might not be bus seats in future, but it was shut off).

After an internal groan and an eye roll, I agreed to offer my seat.

He had moved to stand beside the seat in front of me, I tried to call him but he was not at arm’s length. So I got up, but before I could utter another word he turned and got back his lunch bag and asked me, “Eranga poringala, Sir?” (are you going to get down, Sir?)  and got down in the next stop and went his way.

In these few moments I didn’t realise that my seat was occupied by a middle aged woman.

I was standing there staring into dead space, thinking how stupid I was to let my seat unguarded in this Warfield. After asking my Morale to ‘kill and laugh’ a few million times I stood there awkwardly looking at the woman who stole my seat. Maybe she was judging me too. ‘Dear, George R.R. Martin look at the real Game of Thrones here’, I thought.
Almost 55 minutes later, I got down and came home.

In all this ruckus, I never took a ticket.

Moral: You tell me.