#kaadhulapoo

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Flute Govardhanan Shoe la Pee

It had rained the previous evening in Chennai and the roads were slushy next morning. I reached school and settled down. Flute Govardhanan had still not forgiven me for breaking his back. A small background – He was my bench mate in 9th grade. He was the main flutist in the school music band and was as thin as a flute. His flute was made of steel. Although we were bench mates, for some reason we were bayangara edhiris and I made sure his name always came under the ‘bad names’ column on the black board. This used to irk him even more. During one such episode, he got so annoyed and asked me rub his name. I refused and a heated bench chase ensued (like Vin Diesel and Paul Walker minus the funky cars). I somehow found his flute and landed a big hard blow on his back. He stood there with a frozen constipated look. We stopped the chase and quietly went back to our seats. ‘Go’ did not come to school the next day and the next and the next. Someone in class told me that he had broken his spine and was bed ridden. Gulp! Jail la kali thaan. I went home, told mom to write 108 times Sriramajayam (mom assumed I had some class test) and swore to myself that I will henceforth treat ‘Go’ like the brother that I never had. Next morning, I saw ‘Go’ oodhifying his flute in the assembly – fit as a fiddle. I was secretly glad to see him.

But very soon, the nasty anti-Go bug was back in my head😊During the third period on another day, a weird stench started floating in the classroom – the smell of damp shit. The Physics class was on and we were squirming in our seats unable to bear the smell. For some reason, I was sure that it was coming from ‘Go’s’ shoes because they were always muddy and dirty.

I wrote this on a small piece of paper – ‘Govardhan shoe la pee’ and gave it to the girl in the front desk without ‘Go’ knowing it. I asked her to pass it to others after she finished reading.

In the next ten minutes, all eyes were on ‘Go’ and the guy was busy taking down notes oblivious to what was happening.

After class, people surrounded him and started harassing him – ‘Pee a midhichutu onnume theriyadha maadri notes ezhudhariya’ while I quietly slipped out of the crowd for a loo break.

The stench followed me, and I believed it was psychological. Just to be sure, I lifted my well-polished shiny bright shoes to check underneath. A big lump of poop was firmly stuck between the heel and sole of my left shoe. I was the real culprit! I quickly washed it off, finished my business, went back to class.

I was such an epic badass – I unfriended ‘Go’ for a day and shifted my place to the adjacent row.

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Vaangonna Vaangonna

This happened 10 days into our marriage. Vinay and I were loitering on Commercial Street in Bangalore after finishing some shopping. We came across a jamun seller and decided to buy some. The man said it costed 60 Rs. We heard it as 60 Rs for half kilo and were very sure about it.  Both of us were heatedly discussing in Tamil whether it was worth that much and how much to buy. The man overheard us and said ‘Nalla pazham Sir! Ara kilo podren. Indhanga sample saaptu paarunga’. It was a juicy big yummy jamun and we bought half a kilo. Vinay paid him 60 Rs and the man asked for 60 Rs more. Then it struck that he had conned us. It was 60 Rs for a quarter kilo and he made it sound like half kilo with his garbled speech.

The ‘idiye-vizhundhalum-asaradha’ Vinay got wild and his inner sleeping mirugam suddenly woke up. He blasted the man away – ‘Neenga modhalla half kilo than sonnel. Enakku nanna kadhula vizhundhu. Ippo engalai yematharela? Naanga enna ilicha vaay nu nenachindela!’. His Alwarpet Agrahara Iyer baashai jugalbandi had taken full viswaroopam in front of the jamun seller, who by now had almost fainted.

I dumped the bag of jamuns on his cart and whisked my husband away from the scene. The fellow was fuming, and his ears had turned red. I could see that he was trying to ape my Linking Road bargaining skills to impress me! Nekku sirichu sirichu vayaru valichuduthu pongo 😊

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Calamantry Calamine of the Javvadhu Dabba

During my younger days in school, I used to visit Thatha Paati’s house in Tirukkadaiyur in summer every year. Thatha was the Chief Sastrigal in the Abhirami temple and the house was always bustling with activity. Random visitors came to meet Thatha to get his dates or to have lunch. So, there was always a feast cooking in the kitchen. Sometimes junior gurukkals also came to convey messages to Paati. Poojas at the temple happened almost every other day and all the pooja materials were stocked up in our house.

There was a particular item that fascinated me for a long time – it was the small green javvadhu dabba. It was about an inch in size and had a screw lid. It could not hold more than three drops of water. I used to meticulously collect all the empty javvadhu dabbas and bring them back to Chennai.

Back in Chennai, Mum used to apply a facial foundation called ‘Lacto Calamine’ – a sweet smelling, peach coloured mousse like yummy thing. Although, I had no use for it, I somehow wanted to do something with it. I filled the javvadhu dabbas with the lotion and started taking them to school - with a new name – Calamantry Calamine.

In school, I took the javvadhu dabba out of my bag after every period and applied it on my hands and legs.

My curious friends wanted to know more. I pointed out to the dried bruises on my limbs (I was very active in sports and had many fall injuries on the ground) and proudly told them that I had ‘Scabies ‘ (I have no freaking clue where I picked this word from) and this was an imported lotion called ‘Calamantry Calamine’ to cure it. My loser friends believed every bit of the story.

This continued for some time till I found that ‘Scabies’ was a deadly sori disease and not some Kalaimamani award. Thank God, I said ‘Scabies’ and not ‘Rabies’. Else, the school would have permanently sent me home with the javvadhu dabbas.

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Monkey Business

There was a small independent house diagonally opposite to the apartment where we stayed. I faintly remember the couple was from Kerala. My friend, Anusha and I somehow befriended them and started visiting their house often. The reason – they had strange pet animals. An old sickly dog, few caged birds, a huge fish tank, two puny cats and a small monkey.

Sometimes in the evenings, the uncle used to sit in the front yard with a bucket full of live oysters and de-shell them, probably to cook them. Anusha and I used to watch him for hours. And gradually the monkey became our good friend.

One evening, the aunty was un-well and the monkey had to be taken to the Vet for some shots. She asked if we could take him and we happily offered to help. The Doctor was three streets away. I was holding the monkey’s leash, Anusha had a stick and we started walking. Suddenly, overcome with excitement, Anusha started screaming ‘Aadra Rama Aadra Rama’ from her lungs and waved her stick at the monkey. Monkey was thrilled and it started to jump and screech. I decided to lend my M S Subbulakshmi voice (I was learning Carnatic music) to the already deafening chorus and we were running like street urchins with monkey in tow. Hearing this cacophony, my Mum came to the balcony and was staring at us in total disbelief. I flashed my million-dollar smile, waved at her and ran off.

The Vet visit was a success, but that was the last I saw of the monkey. Mom threatened to disown me if I stepped into that house again. Luckily for me, the couple vacated the house very soon after.

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The BSA Champ

I was in 4th grade. Life was boring and getting too protective. Rickshaw rides to school, Mum bringing lunch and taking me to paatu class. ENOUGH! I wanted to break the chains. One evening, after school, I was going around and round in my blue BSA Champ inside the small claustrophobic apartment (because I was not allowed to ride on main roads) when an idea suddenly struck me.

I decided to visit my Athai! We were in Abhiramapuram and she stayed in Trustpakkam. The total journey time was 3 mins 😊 I stealthily took the cycle out of the gate and pedalled away in full speed. I could have used a shorter route to reach her place. Instead I took the circuitous way because I wanted the experience of waiting in a traffic signal (See, I was really innocent). I was out on my own in the big bad world! My heart was racing, and I was sweating profusely because I had to reach home before dusk to my unsuspecting Mum who was thinking that her little girl was playing Paandi with her friends or taking a kattai erumbu for a walk.

I reached my Athai’s house. I parked my cycle, rushed inside and said ‘Hi’ to my bewildered Athai and Athimber. She offered some water. I gulped it down. I turned around, said ‘Bye’, rushed out, picked my cycle and was on my way back home at lightning speed.

I reached home, quietly parked my cycle and went off to play.

When I told this to Mum 15 years later, she said – ‘Paavama oru moonjiya vechindu vera ennalam pannindrundhe? Mariyadhaiya Sollu!

And to this day, my Athai and Athimber have no clue why I showed up at their place. Thankfully, those days, both houses did not have telephones. Else my Mum would have kuniyavechu kummified me.

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It is raining mice !

Setting – Same small house in Chennai. Same crazy family.

Life after the Ganesha episode was peaceful until one day, when Mum started hearing squeaking noises and spotted little droppings. After thorough research, we discovered that an uninvited family of mice had made their home in a small opening under the kitchen sink.

Their nuisance became unbearable and they started chewing wires, slippers and scurrying about in the nights.

That is when Dad and I decided to launch the Operation Mice. We chose a calm Sunday morning, picked up two thick sticks (one was Dad’s kasi yathrai all-purpose stick) and headed to the kitchen. Dad started digging the hole while I was the Officer – in – charge outside the kitchen.

One after the other, the scared mice jumped out and began running helter-skelter. And I, like a possessed demonic Tiger Woods tossed the mice around like golf balls trying to knock them down. Post the initial struggle, Dad and I started killing them like pro mice hunters. Finally, Mum was very glad she got her pest control done for free but regretted the decision shortly after she what she saw. To her horror, she found a dozen dead mice lying in the middle of the road in front of our apartment. Dad and I had flung the dead bodies one by one from our 1st floor balcony😊

 Lessons learnt –

1.     Dad and I are going to be transferred from human hell to mouse hell after we die

2.     I am not sure if wild-life experts will agree, but the secret to instantly killing a mouse was to give a hard whack on its nose. We had become self-schooled and self-trained professionals in mouse extermination. We added many more feathers to our caps in the years that followed.

3.     Words like ‘Eli’michampazham and ‘Eli’michai saadham continued to haunt me for a few weeks.

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Ganesha’s Great Escape !

We used to stay in a small apartment in Chennai back in the late 80’s. The kitchen could practically accommodate only one person at a time. The builder had decided to make further optimum utilisation by having a pooja shelf built into the wall.

In this pooja shelf, amongst several things like idols, photos, pallis behind the photos – stood two Ganesha clay idols on either side. One was Gundu Ganesha (whom we didn’t send home last year because he looked super thuru-thuru and cute!) and the other Olli Ganesha (who was awaiting immersion after that year’s pooja).

One Sunday evening, we all were glued to the TV belting some Gulob Jaans (Naanga appdi thaan solluvom - Thirundha maattom) when we heard a loud tap burst noise from the kitchen.

We rushed to the kitchen to find that the old rickety tap had given way and water was gushing out like a fire hose. Dad somehow managed to cut off the water supply quickly and saved further flooding and damage.

The real story begins now 😊 - The tap was right opposite the pooja shelf! When Mum casually turned around to look, Gundu Ganesha was gone! Homesick Gundu Ganesha, it appeared, had conspired the tap burst. It was his only route to escape our over-possessive, over-caring poricha-kozhakkatai feeding family. He had rain danced his way up and happily reunited with his Dad, Mum and Bro in Home-Sweet-Home Kailasam.

We all stood there sheepishly grinning at each other. And without further delay, Olli Ganesha was immersed in all glory the following weekend in Marina Beach before he came up with new antics to escape.