Hanging in There

Wild Things

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 20:50:00 +0000

To be born free, wild and unchained. To own the world you walk in and not be afraid of anyone. To command the path your feet take and not have to be at someone's beck and call. To go boldly where you want to go, not where someone else leads you.

How would you tame the wild beast? No chains can weigh it down. How can you hold on to what was meant to be free? How would you try to live your life the way it wasn't meant to be?

Heil Mary!

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 17:31:00 +0000

And the Virgin Mary was born and lived in Kodambakkam and worked for an IT firm.

I am not kidding. The mother of God apparently works in my company and, eager as I am, I have failed to catch a glimpse of her yet.

My friends and I speculated briefly on why anyone in their righteous minds would curse their child with a name like Virgin Mary; I mean, no offence to the faithful, but what would Ms. Mary call herself once she'd had sex? I mean, it would be a lie to continue telling people she was virgin.

Wouldn't it?

And at cocktail parties, she must be one hell of a confused woman, especially with teetotaller friends around. There she'd be, sipping her bloody mary, when her friend yells for a 'Virgin Mary! On the Rocks!' and she'd look up alarmed for a minute wondering where the nearest cliff was.

And when they make out, does her husband, in a state of heightened excitement, yell, "Oh sweet Mother of God" only to hear her shout back,"That's me! That's me!"

What would they name their kids? Is her husband's name Joseph? Did they ever visit Nazareth? Does she have any Protestant friends? Does the Pope know she's in Chennai? And what would happen - heaven forbid - if she should someday decide to change her religion? I can't imagine a Hindu Virgin Mary no matter how much I try.

And this is why, friends, parents ought to restrict themselves to corny baby names books rather than letting their self inflated creativity loose on their unsuspecting progeny.

You Swine!

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 17:43:00 +0000

Swine flu is the most perfect disease for the recluse; finally, here is a disease where people are advised not to mingle with each other and to stay at home. What more could anyone want?!

Dos or Don'ts

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 13:13:00 +0000

I do...
... agree to live with this sloth-filled human being for the rest of my days, cleaning up after him and cooking for him while all he does is go to work, watch tv, mess up the living room and snore through the night.

I do...
... promise to not flirt with the cute guy at work even though he's much nicer to me than my husband to be and buys me flowers or a chocolate everyday while I haven't even received my birthday gift from you-know-who yet.

I do...
... vow to have his babies and change their diapers and put up with their tantrums and lose sleep over them while my loving husband snores on and asks me to 'keep it down'.

I do...
... aim to abide by his views on the friends I keep, the places I go to, the things I buy and adhere to his principles on life and how it ought to be lived.

I do...
... do I?

Misunderstood?

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 14:58:00 +0000

In the virtual world, it is very easy for people who don't know you in person to misjudge you. A statement devoid of ten exclamation marks and five smileys can be misinterpreted to be coming from a cold, dark soul with misanthropic tendencies. This can therefore only be repaired by inserting said exclamation marks and smileys, in order to make your intentions more positive.

For e.g.:

Without exclamation/smileys:
India is a nice place but not as nice as certain parts of Europe.

With exclamation/smileys:
India is a nice place!!!!!! :) :D but not as nice :) as certain parts of Europe!!!!!!!! ;)

There. You see what I mean? Now you try it.

FYI

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 14:57:00 +0000

Be warned.

A solar eclipse can make a pregnant woman miscarry. Sick leaves advised.

Drinking cold water after an oily meal will give you cancer. Drink Pepsi instead; all you have to worry about is the pesticides.

Today five rich Kenyan uncles you never had will give you six million dollars. Aren't you a lucky person.

Watching a movie in a seedy theatre can give you Aids. Wear really thick clothing.

Tomorrow there's going to be an earthquake and a tsunami. Sunbathing at the beach not advised.

You have been warned.

Requiem for Change

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 14:56:00 +0000

The Gujjars are staging yet another protest, Manmohan Singh has shocked and silenced Indians all over once more, the Delhi Metro Rail project is turning into a joke with more cracks on the pier and Chennai's still hot despite the rains.

Some things never change.

Most people don't change either.

Just when you begin to think it's time to hang up your boots and start the quiet life, something comes along that challenges you and eggs you on to seek anew the thrills life has to offer.

Just when you think you've learned from your mistakes and do not wish to succumb to the destructive decisions of your past, you indulge in the same whims all over again and think why not; too late will you realise why you had vowed never to let yourself go out of control again.

Some people never change. It's circumstances that change that make them behave a different way: new commitments, new goals, new reasons to look forward to the next day. Yet the old desires lurk beneath the seemingly calm exterior, waiting to break out once more.

Why Buy a Music CD When You Can Travel by Cab

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Fri, 07 Aug 2009 14:52:00 +0000

No cab journey is complete without the driver of the cab assaulting your auditory senses with the same boring repetitive local numbers.

Want to listen to some rock? Or in the mood for some hip hop or jazz? Too bad! You will be forced to enjoy the songs of the local dialect that plummetted out of vogue, from the last fifty years.

But not to worry, they can be very addictive. The best part is you don't have to buy the music album; travelling by cab is so much easier. And cheaper!

Why We Object to Bangaloreans

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 18:46:00 +0000

I love winter. Unfortunately, in Chennai, winter does not exist.

The seasons in Chennai, as the old joke goes, are hot, hotter and hottest. There is no cold season. There is no time of year wherein we are shivering in our boots and puffing out clouds of steam from between our frozen lips. Heck, we don't even have a clearly defined monsoon. The rains here are a mere sprinkle. If the sprinkle goes on for a whole day, we get floods. And then you have to get a boat out just to get to the end of the street.

The only time I wear a jacket in Chennai is when I am riding my two wheeler, to protect me from the sun. A five minute walk down the road during the daytime in Chennai results in a deep tan and profuse sweating. As we mop our brow, we curse our choice of birthplace and/or settlement.

And when we reach our offices, we have to clean up and douse ourselves with deodorant afresh as we move into our - thankfully - airconditioned offices.

Which is why we who live in Chennai object fiercely to Bangaloreans describing to us the wonderful weather out there. Have a heart, people, and think of those who are less fortunate than yourselves...

Mobile Appendages

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 18:45:00 +0000

Sometimes mobile phones feel like extra appendages. I'm not talking about the women who are on calls for seemingly the whole day long at ought to have them sewn onto their ears. Bluetooth headsets are good enough for them.

It's not even about the constant attention they demand: needs fuel - keep it charging; feels out of sorts - run to a mobile technician and spend three woeful days without it till you wonder how you'd ever survived without one in the first place; buzzing every other few minutes - you feel at ease for you know that all is well with the world.

No, it's just about how personal they are. When someone fingers my mobile phone, just to check out the model, I can't help but be taken aback with a short catch of the breath. Then I see them unlock it and the uneasiness grows. They're violating my precious. Some people don't think much of going through your pictures either without so much as an if you please. That's ok till they get to the embarrassing pictures I'd clicked of myself just to check out how my hair looked (but of course).

The worst are the text message readers. I don't think they exist anymore, now that cellphone users have evolved. But in the early days of cellphone communication, they wouldn't think much of rifling through your messages for any 'interesting forwards' even if the only interesting messages in there were the extra-private ones sent by your boyfriend.

Once it is back safely into my hands again, I let out a little sigh of relief and run my fingers over it vowing to never let it out of my sight again. My precious... ahem.

My Sister's Homework

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 07:02:00 +0000

Which I got to do again because my job is only an excuse for me to make money. Here's the speech I had to write for her:

Ten fun things to do during an exam

Three whole hours and nothing to do. Especially if you haven't studied for it. Time is very important and noone should ever waste it, right? Friends, I will tell you what you can do when you're stuck in a boring exam hall.

1. Build a tranformer out of erasers. You might need a lot of erasers. It's ok because you have three whole hours to borrow erasers from everyone in the room. You can even go to the other rooms to borrow erasers for your pet project. If teacher tries to ask you what you're doing, shush her with a brow furrowed in deep concentration.

2. Try to think about what Darwin really meant by his theory of evolution and how you can make it more relevant to the present century. Ponder upon the evolution of your principal and teachers and take notes on your exam papers. Won't teacher be happy when you keep asking for extra sheets.

3. Count every hair on your head. Remember how you've always wanted to do that but never had the time? Well here's the chance for you to finally do it because you have three whole hours to kill!

4. Plan the party of the century. Or even the millennium. Just use your answer book to start calculating expenses. Hey, at least you're practising your math, right?!

5. Practise the mating call of the komodo dragon. Start with high pitched squeaks. If no komodo dragon appears, move onto to low growls. Keep doing this until a dragon approaches you. Note: the komodo dragon is not to be confused with your class teacher who would also approach you once she begins to hear the sounds.

6. Stare at the person on your left until they look back at you but before they can catch you staring, turn to the person on the right. Do this with the person on the right and take turns to annoy them. If they both begin to stare at you, stare at the ceiling and begin to count the cracks in it.

7. Give your stationery names. Make an army out of them. You can be general. Instruct them on how they will all be battling the vicious History monster and how they must not fail their noble task.

8. Say water... water... like a dying man in a desert and collapse in a dead faint. Before you know it, you're being pumped with glucose and out of the exam hall.

9. Do a da Vinci on your desk. Now is the time to discover the artist in you. Get to work creating the masterpiece of the century. You can even try drawing your teacher. She might even be impressed by it, you never know.

10. If nothing else works, point out the window and yell,"Terrorists! I see bombs and guns!" and rush out the door. Grab the first taxi home and settle down with a coke and pizza. You earned it.

Horn Definitely Not OK

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Sun, 21 Jun 2009 12:21:00 +0000

Spot the most fingered spot on this guy's wheel

I don't know what you managed to find, but I'm talking about the horn. The average Indian driver, whether a taxi driver, a motorcyclist, a bus driver or an automobile owner, tends to overuse the horn, which his vehicle had been primarily blessed with to prevent him from knocking over other people.

The horn today is supposed to signify any of:

Get out of my way, asshole, you're going too slow
Get out of my way, bitch, your skirt's blowing in my face
Get out of my way, pedestrian, I have four wheels and you have none, har har!
Get out of my way, my finger's stuck to my horn, look ma!

The incessant blaring of the guy behind you gets really annoying when you happen to be at a signal that has turned red and there is no way you could go forward unless you particularly wanted a fine doled out to you. Or when you're only going as fast as the guy in front of you if only the tooting prick behind you would notice.

One thing I like to do is go especially slow if I know the horn is of the 'Get out of my way, bitch, your skirt's blowing in my face' persuasion. Sure, I nearly got beaten up for my arrogance, but it sure was worth sticking it back to the jerk.

F* Corporate Cost Cutting

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Fri, 29 May 2009 19:30:00 +0000

Aargh! First cheap towels and now this.

And You Thought Your Parents Were Bad

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Fri, 22 May 2009 13:58:00 +0000

Maybe they were worse than this particular couple, but if they were, you'd probably be reading this from some sort of asylum by now.

The case of Baby P caught my attention today, the poor child unfortunate enough to be born to the woman who caused his subsequent death. In case you're unfamiliar of the details of the case, a young British woman aged 25 had a little baby boy in March 2006 and months later broke up with the father of the child and got friendly with another guy. Normal so far. The new boyfriend moves in and suddenly there are bruises appearing on Baby P's, Peter's, body. Months later, the boyfriend gets his friend to stay with them, who was on the run from his wife, with his 15 year old girlfriend. Several welfare visits later (around 60 over a span of eight months) and enforced trips to the various doctors, and arrests and temporary stays of the child with a family friend while his mother stayed in jail for a while after a fresh set of bruises were discovered, Baby P was taken to hospital with a broken back and ribs, none of which were discovered by the doctor who attended to him.

One day in August 2007, at the grand old age of 17 months, Peter was found dead in his blood spattered cot. Oh, and during the subsequent court proceedings where his mother and her boyfriend were put on trial, it was found that the latter was also guilty of having raped a two year old.

There are lots of questions to be asked: Why didn't welfare take him in before it was too late? Police who'd been to the premises before claimed she was a 'slob' and would incessantly be either on the Internet or watching TV, leaving the baby to its own devices and the house reeked of urine and she seemed to care more for her three dogs than her son. Why was such a woman allowed to raise a child? If she did not want a child, why didn't she just abort it or give it up for adoption? I mean, it isn't as though she feared social stigma, was it? How does the earth breed idiots like this? Why am I blogging about something that happened two years ago?

This is why safe sex should be advised Mr. Joseph Ratzinger. This is why abortion shouldn't be illegal, Mr. Conservative (a lot of politicians I hate on that list so can't name them all here). This is why morons shouldn't be allowed to have babies. Sure, kids aren't the most loveable things on earth but if you must have them give them a life of dignity. In a way, I'm glad that kid died when he did. I'd hate to see what all that violence would have made him grow up to be.

One Last Cuppa Before I Go

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Thu, 21 May 2009 19:38:00 +0000

View from the Window of the Office Lobby

There are a lot of things I'm going to miss about this place when I finally leave it. Tea breaks and lunches and dinners out downstairs with R, for one thing. Forever having to implore her to wait if any managers were around, or begging her to let us have lunch anywhere except Saravana Bhavan.

Odious food at the canteen alleviated by the presence of Gupta's north indian food stall. And now the new biryani guy.

Horrible scanner that never worked when anyone really needed it; like during the peak season.

Endless ways to fritter away your salary by visiting the neighbouring mall; despite the incessant power cuts.

Learning how to beat down my ego so that it'd fit into my pocket where I could hide it away from my managers.

Learning that not all friends are good friends, and how to tell the difference.

Being forced not to speak my mind because dumb people talk louder and it's only the loudest voice that's ever heard.

All in all, this company helped me grow professionally. By that I mean that I have ceased to struggle. I have become truly corporatised. The end has just begun.

Seen at Spencer's

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Sun, 17 May 2009 05:29:00 +0000

Uhm... I'll try?

With All Due Respect

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Fri, 15 May 2009 13:35:00 +0000

They'd crept up on me from behind. By the time they were upon me, it was too late to run, or hide. They pounced upon me and opened their mouth: "Priloza, we'd like you to do us a little favour..."

"But" I told them, my heart beating rapidly and my mind racing fast for excuses, "but my work here is done; it's time for me to leave, I've been here for twelve hours already!"

"Oh" they said, ingratiatingly,"but you know we can't ask anyone else. If we asked Sandi she'd yell at us and when we asked Yosef he gave us a piece of his mind. One must always respect the disrespectful, did you not know?"

"Alright, but what does any of this have to do with me?" I said, my brow beginning to furrow.

"You are of manner mild and ineffectual. What you say is of no consequence. You are the ideal workhorse. We'd say work donkey but we have been instructed that we are to boost employee morale. You must therefore yield to our demands, as you always do, and do far more work than we will ever pay you for."

"But..." I tried, helplessly.

"You aren't going to, refuse us, are you?" they asked, in a manner that seemed a touch threatening, or maybe it was only my fancy.

"No, of course not, I just--"

"Good then, you may complete this in an hour's time. Now get on with your work."

Saying this, the two-headed manager demon stalked off back to their chamber.

A Catful of Sorrows

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Tue, 12 May 2009 12:12:00 +0000

And the lord said unto me: I shall smite thee for thou hast not kept My Will. For thou hast coveted thy neighbour's boyfriend and hath borne false witness against thy manager.
Then I said unto the lord: Have mercy on me, oh lord. I know that I have sinned against you. Let me appease you oh great saviour of us all. What penance should I do to atone for my sins?
Then the lord said unto me: Now you're talking! For thy penance thou shalt live with cats! Bwahahahaha!
And so it came to pass that I was accursed with two mewling kittens, brought home by my roommate. The trouble with cats is that they bite and scratch. To put a finer point on that: they bite and scratch me. I have a history of being bitten and/or scratched by various cats down the years that weren't even my pets. If that wasn't painful enough, the ensuing precautionary injection certainly was. Maybe they hate that I'm a doglover. I dunno. That led to my subsequent hatred for all cats and my letting any neighbouring dog loose on any neighbouring cat I see. I know, that's evil. I've sobered down a lot now and have even gone so far as to develop a fondness for my boyfriend's half-blind black tomcat who blessedly doesn't bite or scratch me at all.
In any case, there the little critters are now; crawling all over the house, miaowing for all they're worth, insisting on exploring every nook and cranny of the house and I can't even plonk myself down anywhere for fear I might flatten one of them. Thankfully they seem to have developed toilet manners early enough so that's one worry out of the way.
One must make up for the sins of one's past in one way or another, I guess.

Note to Self: You Are Not Gisele Bundchen

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Mon, 04 May 2009 09:48:00 +0000

On my way to work today, strutting as I do, self-importantly, towards the bus stop, I was instantly infuriated by the touch of another hand on mine. Said hand belonged to an individual walking next to me who was, and this was the bit that infuriated me most, male. I do not react kindly to male touch. Put it down to being a woman, being a victim of child abuse or being just plain narcissist. In any case, there I was accosting the individual with a few rude sentences, with the f word thrown in for good measure. Imagine my surprise when he defends and justifies himself saying that it was I who was swinging her hands about all over the place and 'not to talk like a loose person'. Loose, in Tamil slang, meaning mentally unstable, not sexually promiscuous (or so I hope).
As he then stalked off, leaving me opening and shutting my mouth like a fish, I realised maybe I ought to not speak too soon. Eh?

Why Whine

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Fri, 01 May 2009 15:06:00 +0000

It's fun to be a whiner. Don't believe me? Try it yourself: I hate my job. I hate my colleagues. I hate where I live. I hate the people I live with. See? Now you've started to sound just like me. Being a whiner gives you the liberty to express your dissatisfaction with the system yet not do anything about it. Think about it. You can spew negativism and profanity in the comfort of your cubicle or bathroom and not go out of your way going to all the trouble of looking for your dream job, using a stun gun on your colleagues or move house.

Dissatisfied with the current state of affairs of the nation? Don't vote, just sit on your ass and cuss the bastard making long drawn speeches on the mike. Upset with your phone service provider? Why change your gorblimey number? Just rant loud and clear to anyone in the vicinity about the disadvantages of fonadove.

All in all, I would advocate taking the most chicken hearted way out of all situations. No confrontations, no random acts of rebellion, no vicious stabs with sharp objects. Save up all that energy for ranting about the way your life's going.

The Net Life

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 09:52:00 +0000

Being pretty on the internet is so easy. So is being intelligent and interesting. Popular, even. Anyone with more than 200 contacts on a social networking site can look popular, even if she's only accepted every invitation from every hankering male that came her way. Post a picture of your head in some flattering position and you're suddenly beautiful. If it doesn't work the natural way, a bit of Photoshopping would do.

Read a bit, pick up a bit of info and throw it at people whose daily read consists of their email forwards and you're a social genius. Life couldn't be better. It's so... comforting and welcoming to have a world like this at your fingertips after having suffered all through your life coming into constant physical contact with people who thought you were ugly, boring and a freak of nature.

Which is why internet relationships thrive and people like me continue to blog. Two hits today! I'm famous! Woo hoo!

Whatever.

Are You What You Eat?

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 10:08:00 +0000

(Written for the pimps of the BPO industry, once more)

So you’ve eaten sushi, Italian, Goan, American and think you’re more or less a gourmet? If you think you’ve eaten it all, think again.

Casu marzu (thanks Bill), a delicacy from Sardinia, Italy, is a cheese that can be harmful if consumed without proper protective gear. The cheese is made from sheep’s milk that is allowed to ferment further with the help of the larvae of the cheese fly, Piophila casei. The larvae cause the cheese to become semi-liquid and patrons like to consume the cheese at this stage – with or without the maggots. Since these maggots tend to leap into the air up to 15cm when disturbed, people are advised to wear protective eye gear when consuming it. The Italian government, for its part, has banned the sale and consumption of this cheese. Apparently, if ingested, the maggot can traverse the intestine unharmed by the stomach’s acids, and cause a range of intestinal disorders, including causing stomach lesions. Why then, you may ask, would anyone in their right minds want to eat a food this harmful?

Well, then you should rightly ask, why is rat meat being sold as freely as chicken is elsewhere, in Bihar? While the Italian government hastens to stop its people from harming themselves by eating decomposing cheese, the Bihar government seems intent on convincing people of the merits of rat meat. The social welfare minister sees this as a way to boost income for the poor and tries to convince people, a little desperately one might think, of the wholesomeness of rat meat in the diet: “Rats have almost no bones and are quite rich in nutrition. People at large don't know this cuisine fact but gradually they are catching up,” says the principal secretary of the state’s welfare department as he adds, “we can save about half of our food grain stocks by catching and eating rats.” If you can’t beat ‘em, eat ‘em?

All of this isn’t much if you consider that there are entire sects of people in India who believe that a glass of fresh bovine urine first thing in the morning is just what the doctor ordered. The bovine urine is in certain cases substituted with one’s own, as in urine therapy. Compared to this, the highly inedible yak’s cheese of the Northeast seems enticing.

If you eat at a roadside joint, it’s true that you may not be a hundred percent certain that the chicken you’re eating isn’t a cleverly disguised crow, instead. And not to put anyone off, but there have been ‘disturbing reports’ of strange guests in the food at our own cafeteria! I guess this is what makes us braver than even the contestants on AXN; they do it for the cash prize, we do it as a daily battle for survival!

Pink Chaddis in the Wind

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 10:06:00 +0000

(Another corporate whorehouse newsletter article)

I’m guessing enough and more has been said about Mangalore’s infamous pub incident. I’m guessing that Pramod Muthalik’s name is by now synonymous with the oppression of modern trends and that the Ram Sene is famous for moral policing.

I’m also guessing that, as with many other cases of human rights violations in India, nothing’s going to be done about him or his merry men.

As I was launching on a discourse about the ‘pink chaddi campaign’, a friend of mine pointed out that such a campaign was never launched against the attackers of that poor nun at Kandhamal. And I had to admit, he did have a point. If I recall rightly though, a couple of candles were lit on the occasion.

You see, Indian history is awash with perpetrators of hate crimes being allowed to run amok, more so if they have political clout, as in the case of the Ram Sene. So don’t be surprised to hear of the numbers of women in Karnataka being attacked steadily rising.

It isn’t that young college-going girls should be encouraged to consume alcohol. Why encourage the Vijay Mallyas of the world, then, who aim to cater to the needs of the young? It wasn’t as though the girls in question were indulging in any unlawful activity; unless talking to a male counterpart counts. Hang on, in our country, I guess it does.

In any case, the girls we’re talking about here come from middle or upper class families and many of them also have parents in politics, as was the case with the Kerala MLA’s daughter, who was also assaulted in Mangalore for having spoken to a Muslim boy. They have protection enough back home if not the required support.

What then of the endless ordeals of the poorer woman?

She has to cater to every whim and fancy of her husband, is not allowed to have a will or mind of her own and is only allowed to seek employment when forced to by her good-for-nothing mate. Her daughters will either be murdered at birth or be forced into a life of slavery with education out of the question, unless she is lucky enough to be rescued by an NGO.

The sad part is that certain members of so-called women’s rights groups, too, seem to be all for moral policing. Culture, apparently, is to propagate the longstanding traditions of every Indian family to force the woman to bend to the will of her lord and master.

I used to look around at the considerable number of women employed and educated in these days and times and I used to think that finally progress had come to our country. After the incidents of the past year, however, I wonder when, if ever, things will ever change.

Will the Folks at Blogspot Please Wake Up

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Thu, 23 Apr 2009 20:55:00 +0000

They give you a choice of what, ten templates? Ooh mighty generous, but I have needs too. I'm not exactly asking for a byte of Magritte but them Wordpress templates look far more appealing than Blogger templates ever will.

Don't tempt me, Google.

When Everything Looks Yellow

noreply@blogger.com (priloza) — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 11:46:00 +0000

I will always associate the colour yellow with Chennai.

Yellow for the piss that stains every wall in the city, whether they're by main roads or railway stations.
Yellow for overpriced, recklessly driven auto rickshaws that pursue you relentlessly and fleece you mercilessly.
Yellow for the graduation gown of the Madras University that contrasted horribly with everyone's brown skin.
Yellow for the turmeric smeared on the faces of Tamilian women first thing in the morning in their daily attempt at fairness. Hell, even the fair people put it on. Or maybe that's how they got fair? Wishful thinking.
Yellow are the shirts that clad every Rajnikanth/superstar wannabe.
Yellow for the sun that glows hotly over the place, beating down on everyone during the primary seasons of the year: hot summer, hotter summer and hottest summer.
Yellow for the sambar that is served with everything, whether it's rice, idly, dosa or water (water with a hint of sambar is a major breakfast accompaniment in my office canteen).

If yellow was a disease, it's name would be Chennai (don't remind me of yellow fever, just read). Spread through mere inhalation and suffered for the pure torture of humanity.