An uncle and a gentleman!

Roommates come in different shapes, sizes  and natures.  Looks very much so, when you are twenty three and one of your room-mates is touching 55.  Room it was but mate?  Seems improbable from the outside but when fate throws five of you together into one tenement, every cohabitant of the room turns out to be a mate, cockroaches and lizards included.  That way, Tiwary uncle  sure was a mate for  us five.

And what a mate he turned out to be!

First the scene.

Silchar.  An overgrown village masquerading as a town those times, the early 90s.  Somewhere in south Assam.  Heard of the place?  I mean Assam?  Well, that's where we took roots, not just in the bank, but in life itself.  That's where we were first consigned to, when we joined the bank's hallowed portals.  Coming from different parts of India, all of us probably had their first baptism by fire there, all of us had a taste of what the rest of India tasted like, smelt like and felt like.  Even if the experience had to come in distant Assam, not India.

To cut a long story short, four of us somehow contrived to meet up with one another after joining the bank , became kind of adjusted to one another and thought of taking up a house in Ambicapatty, that locality of Silchar, the Poes Garden equivalent of Chennai.

That was when fate or providence, whatever you would call a mash up of unexpected events, brought us into contact with Tiwary uncle.

He was already leading a cozy life in his company leased house in Ambicapatty.  Company? Leased? In Silchar? yes, quite possible, even in those days.  Know what? Assam is a place that floats on oil and natural gas, which still find a large number of takers in India.  Indian Companies will do anything to dig out oil from that place and bring it to India by truckloads. Being always a fair trade partner, India gives something in return for the booty smuggled out.  It gives pavilions for free in the India Habitat Centre Trade fair every year  for each of the North Eastern states.  It plies trains that takes 50 hours to reach there.  It has even allowed private airlines to ferry passengers there.  (But why am I digressing?  Should take care of this dirty habit of meandering away and finding good in every bad).  The Indian companies employed an army of labour, mostly from Bihar,  to dig out the gas.   The labourers  used to (and still do) dig, dig and dig.   Why,  the British started it you know, when the entire geography which goes by the name North East now, was under their colony! "Dig boy, Dig.  Dig Boy, Dig"  they used to exhort the labourers till oil gushed out and the diggers passed out.  The story is that probably that's how another quaint oil rich town in Assam got that name Digboi.  (That it is Indian Oil's first and one of biggest refineries is another  irrelevant story).

Silchar in Assam too  has loads of gas underneath its lush paddy fields.  I mean, natural gas, not the obnoxious & hydrogen-sulphide contaminated variety or the politicians' public speeches we normally associate the term with..  So India's biggest oil exploring public sector Navaratna has huge operations there. Such operations in a big scale required labour in large numbers.  Such large number of labour required a personnel department.  Such a large personnel department needed a manager.  Ha, here comes our link, Tiwary Saab, that famous personnel manager in ONGC. No prizes for guessing, even to blondes and Indians, that ONGC can afford company leased accommodation to its managers, even in Silchar.  So now you are able to place Silchar and its famous denizen Tiwary in their respective proper perspectives.

Now the Act

Tiwary had already taken up quarters in that palatial kind of house in Ambicapatty, Silchar but singly.  Now single is a status Tiwary uncle  frowns upon except when it is malt.  He wants company.  In plenty.  Of any variety and of any gender.  For the statistics, he had a family of  (only) one wife, and a daughter safely stashed away in Dehradun.  He had a son too, employed somewhere in North India, i.e. some place north of Karnataka extending up to the Himalayas. (Just as anything below the Vindhyas is South India for my Amit friends).  His work had brought him to Assam and after a brief sojourn in Jorhat, he now found himself in Silchar.  Accommodation was procured, furniture was procured and basic comforts procured but what about company?  So he always wanted to take in others, he had decided, when he moved to Silchar.  In fact, he was proceeding on the right track even before he came into contact with us.  He had procured a domestic help for his cooking and  cleaning ( the house) needs.  So his company already had two members in his household.

That was when we five bakras fell into his fold to enlarge his company.  A private company became a public company.  We were looking for a decent house, he was looking for company and the twain met. Two became seven.  From here, the story should pick up.

You would have by now guessed what mould our Tiwary uncle fit into.  He had some very fine gentlemanly  attributes.  Listed below are only two samples.

1  Disregard for age

He was 55 alright but he is fine with a company that is 5 year old, not to speak of us, all of 23/24 years each.  All he needs is someone who can talk in Hindi and atleast four among us qualified in this test.  The fifth one is still trying when last heard.

2  High regard for booze

He strongly believed that for any man to speak and live sanely, booze is required.  Just as food, clothing and shelter.  Every evening of his was an evening of fun and frolic and mirth and booze. Here, I need to elaborate but don't ask why a sub para no. 2 became this long.  This sub-para could as well have become another blog in itself.

Booze, Tiwary uncle adored and consumed but mostly it came free for him.  Every evening, he boozed.  Mosquito free nights are possible in Silchar but a booze-free Tiwary uncle  is inconceivable.  And the sharab was rarely bought by him.  You know how these sarkari Indian companies functioned.  For the uninitiated, it functioned the same way thirty years back as it does now.  Grease appropriate palms and the wheels moved. Quench appropriate thirsts and postings got fixed.  Every evening, some supplicant or the other would be (forcefully) invited to Tiwary uncle's home to get his things done.  Invariably, the things got done after uncle's thirst was quenched.  Great man, Tiwary uncle, he never did make any fuss on any particular brand.  One day it would be whisky, the next brandy and the third whatever.  I run out of varieties, since my general knowledge on booze is weak.

Some say that booze brings out the best from a man. It certainly did for Mirza Ghalib and Kannadasan.    It certainly did for the supplicants-cum-daily evening delivery boys but it even did wonders for the hero of this tale.  During the course of each Daru session, our Tiwary uncle  would spew forth the following gems. The same gems every evening but one never got bored hearing the same thing evening after evening.  They were: 

That he had three philosophies or credos or whatever funda, in life:

a)  "Head office mein ghar hain , kya  L _ _ _ _ ka dar hai?"

     Like a treatise on Bhagvad Gita, I have to explain this.  Tiwary used to emphasize more than once during the course of his evening discourses that he hails from Dehradun.  The place where ONGC is headquartered. He is a Head Office man.  Meaning, some ulta pulta happens means, he can throw his weight around in Dehradun, his home town itself, beware!  "I come from Dehradun, ONGC comes from Dehradun, and so 'aham ONGC asmi'.  That's his credo.  Here what L _ _ _ _ means, you can conjecture.  I will give only two hints.  The last letter is A and the entire word is commonly referred to as a crass Hindi Gali.

b)  " kaun si aisi chokri jo mujse na takri"?

  Even after thirty years, I am still unable to fathom why he used to dish out this theorem or sloka or whatever, but he did all the same, after each evening's booze session.  We saw only one chokri there in the household and that is the dear 50 year old Mashi, the domestic help.    Other than that chokri, why our Tiwary uncle even used to think about any other intimidating chokri we never knew and we never will. That's an unsolved riddle I will carry to my tomb.

Here I should warn readers that I absolutely have no idea of whether the 55  year old Tiwary uncle had any takkar with any 50 year old chokri in ambicapatty.  I am not suggesting anything, but again that might just provide content for another blog, nay, full length novel, if further dug up.

c)  "chad gaya seedi pe, uthar gaya beedi pe"

This gem, though we all know to be an inextricable part of life, the very essence of every mortal's life, assumed huge proportions when it emanated from the great man's mouth.  In fact, Tiwary uncle was no less than Einstein.  Einstein (was that him or Kalam or some other science nazi?) had said something to the effect that every action should have an equal and opposite reaction and he bloody became famous for this simple quote.  Our Tiwary's Beedi philosophy was no less profound.  It encompasses Einstein and much more.  Whoever climbs up must come down.  Heads high, with all confidence, you ascend the seedi but a time will come, a moment will arrive when you all have to descend, that too with a Beedi in the mouth.  Tiwary's oceanic knowledge suggests that the ascent was with a 555 cigarette but the descent has to be necessarily with a lowly beedi.  What deep wisdom!

(But why such profound philosophy was shared only after 7 p.m. every night don't ask.  There has to be an apt time for everything.  Just read that even Osho attained enlightenment after a particularly commonplace event)

So here ends the story.  I know, you are asking 'but when did it begin?' but that's the beauty of Tiwary uncle's life.  His entire life can be beautifully summed up by what he used to do during those two hours of evening booze.  Naturally, when the brew hits him and he falls flat on his bed, the story should end. As MKG said "my life is my message", Tiwary uncle's three gospel messages (see (a), (b), (c) above) were his life.     In fact, there is neither a beginning nor an end to the tales of great men.  

So this is the tale of how one great soul by name Tiwary uncle came across our lives for a brief spell of about 1 year in our early impressionable career lives.  I remember each and every word of his wisdom as would my friends Tshering, Phurba, Deepak and Pradeep, wherever there are.

To be frank, on restropection, after 30 years, he can very well be called a scum, a womaniser, a boozer, an opportunist now.  But who is not?  At least I am one, not necessarily with the above mentioned four virtues but with qualities equally scum-like.  I can't say about the other four guys but every one has some s_ _ _  in him.  The point is, I still remember him after 30 years for nothing.  He did not turn my life around, he remained my room mate only for a few months, he is of the same category as a traveller companion you come across during long train journeys.  ( I still remember one gentleman from Ambassa, Tripura, with whom I shared 70 glorious hours of my life in Guwahati express, never to see him again, never to even remember his name but remembering word by word the conversation).  Co-travellers, yes,  but who add spice to the long, tiring journey called  life.  Helps me in prioritising life's priorities.

His three mantras of life, I would never forget, even though only one of them really holds any relevance to me.   Chokri had never held any fascination for me and it never will.  My ghar will never be in My Head office.The Beedi analogy probably applies to every one.  Me too.  The analogy as well as the Beedi.  

Tiwary uncle, you must be about 85 now.  And still reminiscing about or missing  those Silchar evenings. Do your gharwale still allow you those small luxuries of Ambicapatty which you enjoyed and initiated us into? Godspeed to you, my friend.  And to my four  other fellow- bakras.  And to the mashi for all reasons, disclosable and undisclosable.

Murder, most foul....

The decision has been made.  A tough one, at that. ‘ No going back at this last moment’  he told himself, ‘ it has to be executed at any cost’….  It still gave him the shivers, the very thought of what he would be embarking on.   ‘It’s all a mental thing’, he reminded himself.  ‘Tough men don’t back out, however tough the task be’.  At this final hour, there’s no going back too.  Too late.  All plans have been made.  Just a matter of few hours.  The set hour can’t be postponed.    It has to be done, however tough the job at hand is.

Carefully, he opened the box he just purchased and spread out the wares over the table.  Gingerly picked up the knife and examined it.  It shone brightly under the reading lamp.  The edges appeared pretty sharp enough.  Enough to slice through effortlessly, even  through stone.  Enough to inflict a deep wound and snub out life, if need be.   ‘Enough to complete the task’, he thought.  Placed the knife on the reading table and now picked up the scissors.  He could not say if the implement would be up to the task at hand.  After all, he has not done this before.  And he fervently hoped he need not repeat it, in case the first attempt failed.  Ha, and then the plastic gloves.  ‘So that nothing sticks to the hand’.   He had taken special care to ensure there will be no trace of blood on his hands after the work is done.  And his handlers have already made arrangements to dispose off the body safely.  No one would notice and no one would care.  It would just rot inside some filthy dump and evaporate into the elements.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…..

‘And there would be people around’, he reminded himself.  But of course, that should be no problem.  Everyone would be busy with his chore.  And with some luck, what he does will not even  be noticed.

Visualising the task at hand, he almost puked.  ‘Why should God choose to soak me in this blood and gore?’ he asked himself.  Brought up in an orthodox Tambrahm family, he had not even killed an ant. Immediately he realized, he had no choice.  He should have thought   when he said yes, two years back, when he actually had a choice.  To take that momentous decision that would bring him to this now.  But now he has had enough.  Enough,  with this daily torture of waiting for the inevitable.    Enough,  with procrastination.  Better be done with it.  Hopefully there will be no need for an encore.  How long can one keep postponing?  He wished the moment would never arrive but like taxes, with sure certainty, the moment has indeed arrived.  Thinking of taxes, his mind veered towards death, another sure certainty.  He almost smiled.  And then admonished   himself.  Thinking of death and daring to smile? 

Thinking of death!  But what else he can think of?  THIS IS DEATH AND THIS IS MURDER.  Think of the times spent together with her?  That moment when she gently came from behind and sat on your lap like a bee perched itself  on the flower?  Think of the days when she even partook your food from the same plate?  Or the numerous days when she would hide in each nook and corner and play hide and seek with you when you go after her with a purpose?  Or even dare to enter the bathroom to be close with you when you took a shower?  Ever close but never letting you to lay your hands on?   Always elusive?

But he realized that despite the closeness, despite the daily contacts and fooling around, chasing each other and all, deep inside, he loathed her.  He actually wanted to get rid of her and all her tribe.  Sadly, inspite of having at times made obvious his feelings that he despised her, the poor thing just could not understand.  She kept chasing him.  The farther he ran from her, the closer she pursued him.   Now he has no love lost for her.  He just wanted to get rid of her.  After all, he has to move ahead in life, and this is just a little inconvenience he has to brush aside.

His mind was suddenly yanked violently towards the consequences of his planned action.  What if he failed?  What if someone found out?  Won’t they ridicule him?  What face will you show your neighbours if you fail and get noticed?  After all, the failure will bring forth attention and questions will be asked.  People, undesirable people, will come calling to your home.  At odd hours.     But more important, how would you remove the stains from your hand and clothes if they stuck?  He shuddered to think of the consequences.  He tried to calm himself and went over all the mental preparations he had made over the last few weeks.  ‘I didn’t ask for this’,  he consoled himself, ‘It’s all fate’.  ‘Mine and her, intertwined’.  Just one thought seemed to console him slightly.  That she would never feel the pain.  After all these years together, despite his hatred for her, he could not bear himself to watch her writhing in pain.  He knew she would be sufficiently drugged before he could lay his hands on her.  He was told that she would be,  no doubt about that.  And that gave him some comfort.

With that comforting thought, he retired to his bed, hoping to get some sleep.  To sleep and wake up to tomorrow, Monday, the D-day.  The day his task will be accomplished .   By noon, the next day his XII standard zoology practicals would be over.  Dissection of periplanata americana – the cockroach- would be over.  Failure in the practicals is not an option.  Just not.  He has to get a full 50 if he ever fancies a chance at becoming a doctor….

TMS - Farewell to a musical odyssey!

One does not reminisce about a great musical journey of 91 years with feelings of pathos and melancholy.  No, such emotions would sully the mood  here.  It was, after all,  a beautifully lived,  fully lived life.  As you leaf through the  pages of his life, strains of mellifluous music waft all around. The air is pervaded by the dulcet tunes of a hundred variety.   A duet here, a devotional there, a rap here, a rhapsody there…. And it makes you sit up and wonder.  Who is this man?  And how did the world miss him when he was around?  Why is it invariably that it takes a death to  remind the world about the greatness of one whose life just withered away? 

Who is this TMS?  How could he produce what he did during his lifetime?  How did he manage the effortless ease of a  muthukkulikka vareegala and a muthaitharupathi thirunagai? Or a yaaranda nilavu and a yennadi rakkamma rendered with equal felicity?

Reams have just been written about the man and his bottomless repertoire.  Adjectives could no more adequately 'adjectivise' his greatness.  I shall not attempt to add to the eulogy.  But one thing I wish to attempt – with trepidation.  To pick the top 10 from his output.  The task is nearly impossible of performance, I am aware, but yet venture into.  There actually is no such thing as the best 10, since hundreds of his songs could qualify to be  among the top.  Let me see…

1 Ennirenduppadhinaru vayadhu has always been my personal favourite – till yesterday the reason was Sivaji Ganesan but now, leafing through the life-time greatest songs of TMS, it dawns on me that the singer too was all along reason enough for that classic melody to bear the stamp of class which it does!  Difficult to tell if Sivaji added glitz to TMS’s voice by some excellent acting and lip-syncing or if TMS added that gloss to the song-setting by his golden voice.  8 x 2 = 16 vayadhu comes right on top.

 2 How  do you describe a string of white pearls embedded on a strip of red coral?  To Vaali, it would look like the seductive smile of the heroine.  TMS brought real life to the imagery through his Pavalakkodiyile muthukkal poothal….song.    A heady cocktail of some lilting music, grand orchestration, great but simple lyrics, all embellished by the soothing TMS voice

3  Chinnanchiriya Vannapparavai brings forth a different facet of TMS.  That deep baritone voice rendering a Carnatic classical type song.  Contrasting with the soft, velvety voice of Janaki, yet beautifully complementing it.  What a song!  TMS’s rendition of the stanza beginning with Vaasal ondrirukkum…. is a real treat to the ears.  Easily one of TMS’s best . 

4 And who said his masculine, resonant voice was not cut out  for songs addressing  children?  Three pieces readily come to my mind – Sirithu vazhavendum… was good, but   Idho endhan deivam munnale….was real vintage TMS.  Again, such gems were but heady mixes of Ganesan, MSV &  Kannadasan but imagine anyone else singing the song and the efforts of the first three would have gone to waste.  As Kannadasan says in this song, God is to be seen in the aroma of a flower- strewn garden, in the lilt of the honey voice of the koel, in the black cloud bursting to quench the thirst of all and in the sweetness of the tender fruits in the orchard.  He could as well have added ‘in the tantalizing voice of TMS…’

5  The mother of today’s Kuthupattu  should be ‘Ennadi Rakkamma…’  The pulsating beat, the youthful effervescence of TMS, the folksy lyrics of KD produce an unbeatable winner.  Picture TMS’s photo in your mind and picture such a pious face covered with vibhuti and kumkum belting out ‘en kannu, en mookku , en pallu…’! Such was his variety and versatility…. And after this song, immediately go to …

6 ….Vandha naal mudhal, indha naal varai….A perfect study in contrast.  Was this the same Rakkamma singer?  Unbelievable.  The voice seamlessly merging with the whistling in the background and melting away into the sunset yonder, along with the cycling Ganesan…TMS proves that his caliber is much above the modern day charlatans masquerading as singers.  Perfect acting, beautiful music soft on the ears (hardly one detects more that 2 or 3 instruments in this piece) and to cap it all, the golden voice of TMS again.  When will we ever come across such masterpieces?

7 Talking of childrens’ songs, again my personal favourite is ‘Chellakkiligalam palliyile…’I find myself groping for words to differentiate between one TMS song and another.  My very mediocre writing skills are a hindrance to amply describe the mood, the setting and the metre of this great song.  Sivaji is the caretaker of several orphaned children, he is the beloved mama for them all.  It is night time. Time to get the kids  to bed.  A little one asks why she can’t see God.  Sivaji tries to explain what is God.  Suddenly TMS breaks into  a ‘la la la la la la la laa….chellakkiligalam pallilyile…’ Needless to say, Ganesan then takes over in perfectly emoting Kannadasan’s lyrics.  This song is sure to seek out that soft nerve inside the steeliest of men and touch a chord.  TMS’s "urugum varthai amma amma" in this piece is the forerunner of all the amma (mother) oriented songs of later years in Tamil film world.  

8  'Our sweetest songs are those that tell of the saddest thoughts', said Shelley. Especially true, if told  by TMS.  ‘Netrupparitha Roja…’ is a case in point.  It proves that man finds solace and peace more in sad songs than in happy ones.  Irony,  but probably because one sad man readily reads the emotional outburst of another sad soul and if that bursts out in the form of a song, to the accompaniment of melodious music, nothing like it.  Not many would have heard this song, except the avid Vividh bharathi Madras listeners of those golden  sixties and seventies. 

9  ‘Oru naalile….’ from Sivantha Mann is a real class act.  TMS begins with ‘Oru naalile…’.  Suseela can’t wait for him to finish and interjects with a sexy ‘ennavam?’ (she sure knows 'ennavam'!!) TMS replies in a mono-syllable 'uravanathe’…and the mirth of point/counter-point continues. On screen, Sivaji and Kanchana, mirroring the same lustful emotions.   It is unbelievable to imagine such a romantic, sometimes raunchy, love duet was composed some forty years back.  Even today’s younger bunch of singers could not have done justice to the gaiety and frolic TMS brought forth in his voice in this song.  Would find a place in any top 10 list of TMS.

10 And so here I am, who went for a stroll down memory lane in search of the cool sea breeze and returned satisfied with a sonnet in my hand.  Yes, Kaatru vangapponen, Oru kavithai vangi vanthen…” No surprise here.  Any one who goes for a walk down the TMS lane is sure to return with a heady, satisfied feeling of bliss and a heartful of melodies.    The rich texture of TMS’ voice, exploring scores of nuances at different pitches, scintillating tune and the boyish energy of a ever-youthful love-struck MGR is the perfect setting for this song. 

One can go on and on.  The futility of picking 10 among thousands hits me hard now.  Even though the above 10 is not strictly in the order of my liking or their relative merit,  I wonder why I omitted ‘Muthaitharu pathithirunagai (the precursor of later day rap songs - try this tongue twister  [non-Tamils need not bother] “korputrezhanatpattroudarai vettippaliyittukkulakiri kuthuppadavothupporavala perumale…") or “Pattum naane bhavamum naane" (a super duper Carnatic hit of those times, and TMS effortlessly breezes through the difficult sangathis)  “Buddhan, Yesu, Gandhi pirandhadhu…” ( the typical MGR song but without his usual histrionics, hands firmly in place, sung in a soothing voice).

It is true that most of TMS’s  best were sung on the screen by that legend Sivaji Ganesan.  It becomes difficult to imagine as to who actually sings the song – Ganesan or TMS.  As I said earlier, it was possible only for TMS to sing in different voices for different on-screen heroes.  Just close your eyes, and switch on the transistor (yes, transistor or the Murphy radio, if you like, I am talking of the seventies) and listen to any TMS number.  Nine out of 10 times you can predict if it was Sivaji or MGR or some other hero who sang it on screen.  A God-given but perfectly tuned gift, no other play back singer in India has managed to anywhere come close to acquire. 

No futile arguments on who is the greatest playback singer of Indian cinema and such stuff.  Any argument would even be pointless, what with half of India not even having heard of a legend which went by the name TMS.  Not even heard of that colossus who straddled three decades of Tamil cinema and produced a mind boggling 10,000 songs, not counting his hundreds of devotional songs, outside films.  Not even realizing that the world is bigger than the Rafis, Mukeshs and Kishores.  Not to belittle these gentlemen but a TMS or a PBS or a Ghantasala was much bigger in scope and canvas than what Hindi filmworld could ever throw at us.

Yes, we all know the inevitability of death.  But some deaths leave you with a real sense of void.  A sickening feeling of the unfairness of it all.  Akin to someone snatching away that prized toy from a kid’s hands.  Like how you felt when Ganesan left this world.  Like when PBS breathed his last.  Like when TMS bid adieu!

Rest in peace,  TM Soundararajan.  You are not even a pachai tamizhan but your service to Tamil film music will remain unmatched.

Ganesan - The God who donned the grease paint!

A non-descript boy with poor means from an equally non-descript, dusty hamlet some 160 kms south of Madras does not always make a plot for a great tale.   Limitations are aplenty.  For starters, there are millions of such specimens.  Each one has a tale in him, each one's life is an epic in itself but the sheer numbers daunt one from picking a sample. A sample who would have, providence permitting, managed to inch his way 160 kms up north to Madrasapattinam  and got noticed.  As for the hero of this tale,  notice the world did and for good measure, stood up and stared in awe too.  It still does.

Because Villupuram Chinnaiah Pillai Ganesan was no ordinary specimen.  Everything about his childhood and teen years was bordering on the predictable and mundane, except for his unstoppable passion for acting.  He could have chosen no other profession, since he was probably good at nothing else. But he was good at that one thing.  With empty pockets and tons of talent, this non-descript lad descended on Kodambakkam in the fifties, lorded over it for well over 5 decades and evolved as the best in the business.  'Villupuram' and 'Chinniah Pillai' evaporated from his name in course of time and presently Sivaji came to replace them. And Sivaji Ganesan was born!

Tamil Nadu's history has, for as long as one could remember, been intertwined with the history of cinema. We Tamil folks, (Ayyayyo!)  are crazy about this form of art.  We lived and breathed cinema, we continue to - only the milieu has changed from tent kottais and tharai tickets  to surround-sounds and scotch whiskeys.  We Tamils unabashedly love this medium and do not, for a moment, try to hide our faces and slink under our seats while caught amidst frenzied throngs doing Palabhishekam on our heroes’ cut-outs, throwing chillarai onto the screen and lighting camphor and doing arathi first day, first show.  Right from the humble rickshaw- puller to the corporate honcho.  And we have a history of display of such unbridled adulation for our silver-screen idols starting much before the rest of the world woke up to the power, the film medium is.  Why, our MKT, Chinnappa and KB Sundarambal commanded astronomical salaries some 70 years back which sums, inflation-indexed today, would put today's mega-stars, super-stars and power-stars to shame, Bolly, Holly and all other woods included! Our film stars of yore first got noticed, then became popular, then became demi-gods and then rode to political power.  We Tamils are the pioneers in making Chief Ministers of our film stars and the rest of the world just followed suit. Across the atlantic, the medium even made a President out of a film star, emulating a phenomenon in our back yard  who went by the name Marudhur Gopalan Ramachandran.  And our star-turned-politicians have not fared any worse than the scoundrel-turned-politicians, as history would show.

Oh, yes, V.C.Ganesan I was talking about, pardon the digression.  He rode like a colossus over Tamil Cinema from the mid-fifties till the end of the century.  Well, so many others too have, so what am I crowing about?  Puratchi Thalaivar, for one. Then what makes this VC Ganesan special? Why am I here groping for words to write about the greatest of actors this universe has seen?  What possible facet of acting  of this Ganesan can I hope to highlight which has not been already written about?

I bother with this chore precisely because he is the greatest actor the earth has ever seen but not ever willing to acknowledge so.  I consider it my duty to add one more post to the cyber-world to register my indignation at that.  This post may hardly be read by one trillionth of the world's population but I don't care.  One vote does not elect a Prime Minister but that one vote counts. One drop does not make a ocean but without such single drops an ocean ceases to be.  Being the five crore, forty eight lakhs sixty five thousand, one hundred twenty sixth guy to write about the greatness of Sivaji Ganesan does not make or unmake a legend.  But I have registered my 'like' here and that is what counts for me.

Judging film acting, specially in India is so subjective,  that it is next to impossible to precisely define what constitutes good acting. At one end of the spectrum, you have this arty- films where the protagonist utters not a word for three hours (busy immersed in cattle-herding, beedi- smoking or playing chess ) and gets away with being branded the best actor on earth. At the other end  are these ultimate and penultimate  stars,  who blast your ear drum with one-liners, two-liners, hundred liners and punch dialogues even while busy  cuddling up with cuties half their age or bashing up the baddies. (Some multi-tasking that).   It's either the Mount Everest or the Mariana trench for our actors.  There is no in-between.  This is where my VC Ganesan comes into the picture.  What an amazing repertoire he could boast of! He can play with equal aplomb and felicity the pinnacle of Everest or the nadir of a bottomless pit.  And  anything in- between.  He can play Kattabomman, the king, as effortlessly as Babu, the beggar.  He can play the Justice as well as the lawyer. In one scene he is the Rajapart and the next, the Kallapart.  He can play the senile old man longing for  love in the evening of his years as well as a sadist womaniser. He can play the lecher and  the leper, he can play the seer and the stupid, he can play the playboy and the priest, why my man can play God even.  And when he does, even God descends to take a lesson or two on how to play the part!  There is no role on earth he has not played and if there is any, it just does not exist!  One just has to witness any two of his films one after the other and I would bet my right hand that the uninitiated would hardly realise both the roles were played by the same person!

Quite a few adjectives and invectives have been heaped on the thespian by self-appointed judges of cinema over the years.  The oft-repeated being his ‘loud’ and ‘dramatic’ portrayal.  Forgetting for a moment that our society itself loves being  loud and  dramatic.  Are not our weddings loud and garish?  Are not our funerals melodramatic?  Are we not a nation of hysterics?  And Ganesan was only mirroring you and me while playing the parts.  But he knew when to be loud and when to be silent.  The ignorant   say he is loud.  I say he knew when to tone up and tone down.  They say he is histrionic - I say he knew when to be one, when the role would demand one to be so.  They say he is ‘dramatic’ – I say a drama needs to be dramatic. They say he would not fit into the ‘class’ of art-house type performers – I say darn you, cattle-grazing class,  Ganesan knows what to give, how much to give and when.  They say he overacts – well, I now bow my head.  I take it as a compliment.  At least the carping critics now acknowledge that Ganesan can act!  There can be no overdose unless there is a dose in the first place.  No one can over- eat unless he starts eating.  And no one can over act unless he knows a thing or two about acting. And remember, Ganesan is the yardstick to determine how much is under-acting and how much is over.  Yardsticks are not judged, they are just considered as reference points upon which the commonplace is judged.

One can easily cite examples of hundreds of different roles he has played, to counter each of the above inane arguments, but that is not the point.  Even trying to defend the criticism would be beneath the dignity VC Ganesan deserves.  (But I can’t resist the temptation; anyone access to the internet and you-tube can try downloading the songs (i) ‘ennirandu padhinaru vayadhu’  (ii) chinnanchiriya vannapparavai… (iii) olimayamana edhirkalam …. (iv) pasumai niraindha ninaivugale…. No need to be conversant with the language.  Just observe Ganesan emoting [and not emoting where  not required] without any prejudice or preconceived notion of what is method-acting and what is not.  I am positive no one on earth could have done better.  But of course, that was the heady combination of the sixties, the golden era of Tamil Cinema, Ganesan, TMS, Kannadasan and Viswanathan-Ramamoorthy.  One cannot hope fore the luxury of an encore of such golden times, twice in one’s short life-span). 

Marlon Brando would have been proud to be talked of as the Sivaji of Hollywood.  So would a  Dilip Kumar and a Sanjeev Kumar.. Having said that, it is only fair and expected that the legend of Villupuram Chinnaiah Pillai Ganesan was never ever nominated for the best actor award at the national level, let alone an Oscar.  The similarity here between Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi never winning a peace Nobel is striking.  Awards do not matter though they do provide some nourishment to souls like me, the unabashed Sivaji admirers.  They did deign to endow him with a Dada Saheb Phalke award but just as an after thought. Long after several international awards came his way.  Perhaps out of a guilty feeling, perhaps as a  repentance. …

Just read Bharadwaj Rangan in The Hindu yesterday (the idea behind this post is that article) – quote- ‘….. V then said that she could not get (how) Tamil audiences rated Sivaji Ganesan a great actor. “ How can someone so loud and theatrical…?”  And I (Rangan) said, “watch Uyarndha Manidhan and Motor Sundaram Pillai, and let’s continue this conversation”….’-unquote.

Here rests my defence, milord!  Watch Ganesan without blinkers and then let’s continue this conversation….

The Sunday midday reveries of Adhirshtam Ramanathan

"Cut!"  came the scream. The camera stopped rolling.

"What is this, Rams Sir?", the director wiped the sweat off his forehead and approached Ramanathan. "You are a veteran and do I need to teach you?  That was the sixth take. What happened?"

The thespian cringed.  This has never happened to him earlier.  Even the most difficult shots were child's play for him thus far.  Of course, this has never happened before because this is his first film. But certainly this is not the first time he is in front of the camera!

"What happened Rams sir - are you unwell or something?"

'Yes, what happened?'  he wondered.  'It is perhaps the migraine caused by that 5th drink of yesternight'.   He usually stops with three, but yesterday was different.   He wracked his brains to remember what was different.  The migraine only seemed to worsen and so he left it at that.  'Or is it because of the single Brahmin he encountered while leaving the house the morning?  Probably the latter'.    'No, no,' now he remembered - it had something to do with Lakshmi....

" Sorry, Sir."  "Just one more take. I promise I will do fine this time".

The director let out a sigh of frustration.  "Look sir, this is a small-budget film and the schedule is just for 20 days.  I just can't afford wasting any more celluloid.  But why does not your hand come down with more force?  Even a child artiste can do better.  Remember you are beating the wife, not patting her back for her fluffy idlis. Just imagine the lady is your wife and you are fed up of her and want to get rid of her.  Just for a moment imagine that she again starts her bitching and you've had enough and you can't control yourself any more. Just imagine this is your real-life scenario....."

...Ah, yes, real-life scenario. Exactly why the shot has to be retaken the sixth time.  How many times I have done this effortlessly in real-life!  Did I need any rehearsal in real life for wife-beating?  Did I need a stranger to direct me on how to thrash the wife?  Ah, yes, the real life.  Which is much easier.  The reel-life before a camera is much clumsier.  Why?  That wretched thing called conscience.  You are much more comfortable in the dark. Before the lights, you need to act, you need to simulate and the comfort is gone. What comes by nature is comfortable, what does not is a chore, a grind. The miserable conscience rears its ugly head.  And sneers at me and asks -' is this not what you do every day?  Why not do it for profit now?'

The shot was canned with great difficulty.  The director's countenance told that it was not 100% okay but he had to make do with whatever wife-beating Parameswaran had to offer.  Too late to change the cast now.  The producer had clarified in no uncertain terms that 25 lacs is the budget and for that sum there is only so much wife- beating one can create on the screen....

Ramanathan exited the bungalow and started looking for an auto.  And then changed his mind. Home is not very far away.  Why not walk?  That will at least soothe the nerves, apart from saving a hundred bucks.  He started walking.  The evening sea-breeze of Injambakkam was conspicuous by its absence.  The air was sultry and a strip of lightning illuminated the eastern horizon.

'How many times I have done this to Lakshmi?   Then why did I falter today? Why even yesterday she had it from me.  For the tasteless sambar she proferred for dinner.  Will any dog touch that Sambar?  No salt, no spice, no nothing.  She asked for it and she got it.

'Why does she not learn ever?  It has become a habit for her, I guess.  Unless she gets her daily quota of bashing, she can't sleep.  What a bitch!  Does she expect me to beat her up every time, every day, even for trifles?  Don't I have anything else to do?   I am a busy man, what with assignments in three TV  serials, all shooting at the same time, and with a cinema chance now to boot. A new character actor for the film world.   What does she think she is?'

The train of thoughts was interrupted by a flash of lightning and thunder.  Ramanathan hastened his steps.  Rain started immediately and in a moment, he was drenched.  Umbrellas suddenly sprang up all over the road from nowhere.  He did not have one.  He sprinted across the street and took shelter in a small provision shop.  There was a three feet awning protruding at the front and already eleven people stood crammed underneath.  The owner was not pleased with his shop completely blocked from view.  He thought for a second that he should ask everyone to scoot, then looked at the heavy downpour, realised the futility of his plan and grudgingly chose to keep silent

Ramanathan resumed his ruminating.

'Not that I do not love Lakshmi.  But for her, where would I go?  Most important, where would I eat, the tasteless Sambar notwithstanding?  I can't even make a cup of tea on my own.  It is not my fault that I beat her up daily.  Even after 25 years of marriage,  she remains the same idiot that she was when I wed her.  You can shout, bark and spit on her face but not a single word would come out of her mouth.  You can as well shout at a wall made of stone.  She can be bloody stubborn like hell when she wishes.  I fling with full force a volley of abuse at her, it will hit her, and just dissipate, as if dissolving upon impact!  Nothing would rebound from the stone statue!

'But doing the act before a rolling camera is quite a task.  For one, the part who played my wife is not my real wife (what if he gives her a taste of his long hand and she hits  back with a longer one?), in the scene, she reacts to all my shouting and even argues back! The gall! Quite unlike Lakshmi.  A bitch of another variety!

There was also a mild prick of conscience somewhere on the chest.  A conscience which tells that wife-beating is well, not acceptable, never mind the tasteless Sambar.  It was this slight jab Ramanathan began ruminating on.  He has not felt any such thing in the past.  Then why should it today?  'May be I am growing older.  It's may be because of the reel-world Lakshmi I had to beat before the cameras today'.  What a difference? The asli Lakshmi does not retaliate and is placidity personified.  The screen-wali Lakshmi  is a screaming, scheming shrew.  Ah, this is it.  Now Ramanathan realised the truth - he was constantly whipping a hapless, voiceless soul.  Shame on him.  So this is your idea of manliness? This is your cowardly bravery, directed at a helpless victim?

Ramanathan made up his mind.  Okay, he would not openly apologise, say sorry or take home some Malligaippoo (jasmine)  and Halwa for his better half (not such cinematic stuff for him, his age keeps him reminding).  But atleast he will stop clobbering her around.  Even if his bloated ego can't allow him to mouth endearing nothings, at least no abuse would emanate from him. He would learn to respect his wife more, learn to love his wife more and in short, learn to be a better husband. The tasteless Sambar notwithstanding.

 The lightning strikes were more frequent now. Thunder deafened him momentarily.  The rain was pouring in torrents now.  He found himself all drenched.  His wet shirt stuck to his body. Suddenly it was very hot and humid despite the rain. It was getting increasingly uncomfortable. At that precise moment,  he woke up from his dream.....

End of the dream

.......At that precise moment,  he woke up from his dream.  He could not for a moment visualise where he was.  The electricity had gone.  He was perspiring.  His sweaty vest clung to his body. Workers were operating a pile-foundation machine in the plot next to his house.  Each thud of the boring machine sounded like thunder.  So that explains the thunder. It was 2 p.m. on a Sunday.  With a start, he remembered his schedule for the TV shoot slated for 3 p.m. He panicked, got up and rushed to wash his face.  Lakshmi, his wife, proferred a cup of coffee.  With an uncontrollable rage, Ramanathan flung it with all his might onto the wall.  The coffee stainless steel tumbler crashed to the floor making a loud, ringing  noise. The brew lay splattered all over the white wall. His fury not subsiding, for good measure, Ramanathan slapped Lakshmi with full force.

" Idiot, did not I tell you that I have a  3 p.m. shoot? And I have to go to Anna nagar all the way.  It's already two.  You fool, why did not you wake me up?"

Lakshmi showed no emotion, neither pain.  25 years of cohabiting with this animal has inured her to everything it could throw at her. "but I thought I should not disturb...," she ventured feebly.  Ramanathan raised his hand for another slap but then realised he was now hard-pressed for time.The second slap can wait till the night.  For now, he has to rush to the TV shoot.  Hurriedly he dressed and stormed off.

In the auto, Parameswaran recalled the strange dream.  Strange and impossible dream. Strange, because he was actually dreaming of being kind and considerate to Lakshmi after returning home.  'With this dunce, it is impossible to even think about being kind and considerate.  Look at what she did today.  Not waking me up on time and here I am, rushing like mad.  If I miss today's call-sheet, the director would definitely throw me out. So many character-artistes are around now.  Competition is stiff. There will be atleast a score who will don the grease paint and play the Appa part for a pittance.  All because of Lakshmi, the idiot.  I will surely teach her a lesson after returning at night'  The dream was also impossible because he was shooting for a film in it. Well, his cinematic ambition will forever remain a dream and would be buried with him when he dies. He started off his film career as an assistant director at the age of 25 and remained so for another 10 years. Then he tried his hands at script writing.  Did not see much success there too.  Remained assisting the real script writers (whose names appeared in the film credits) for another 10 years.  That was when he got a role from an old acquaintance for playing a father in a tear-jerker TV soap.  That role met with some moderate success and it ran for 104 weeks.  The mega-serial was titled Adhirshtam (luck/providence) and he changed his name to Adhirshtam Ramanathan.  The luck stuck only to his name but steered clear of anywhere close to  his life.  He barely managed to get roles in TV serials nowadays, all father roles, but somehow managed to eke out a living out of that.  He has not many mouths to feed, except for that limpet Lakshmi and his own.  He also had no vices, atleast none money-guzzling, save for the occasional swig of whiskey.  He had a son who, at the age of 20, ran away from the house.  Nothing heard from him since then.  Some gave the news that he was seen wandering as a monk in Tiruvannamalai.  Some said he is now a rich businessman in distant Mumbai.  Ramanathan did not care. He was not particularly fond of his son till he was twenty and his running away made not much of a difference to his fondness-quotient.

The auto was wading through traffic, still heavy for a Sunday afternoon.  He frequently kept glancing at his watch with nervousness.  The blistering sun outside did not help matters.  Hot air blowed as if in a desert and scalded his face constantly. He again glanced at his watch.  Only ten minutes to three and here he was, caught in a jam.  He cursed under his breath and implored the driver to hurry up.  The driver was beginning to lose his patience with this madcap.  Minutes were rushing by.  The driver somehow managed to overtake from the left a bus and finding an opening, revved up the throttle.  The auto vroomed ahead.  All of a sudden, the car in front braked and to avoid a collision, the driver swerved to the left.  He lost his balance and the auto turned turtle.  Ramanathan screamed and fell to his left with a thud, out of the vehicle. All went black for a moment.  And then he woke up from his dream and opened his eyes.

End of the dream, again

And then he woke up from his dream and opened his eyes.  Ramanathan's head spinned and he momentarily lost his orientation.  'Where am I?'  Just then he realised that he had fallen off his cot.  The bedroom door led to an open terrace, from where hot air was blowing in. Ramanathan remembered where he was and  now tried to valiantly recollect the day and time.  It slowly came to him.  It should be a Sunday.  'But why is it very hot outside?' Again with some effort, it came to him. Ah, yes, he went to sleep at midnight last day, after returning from the TV shoot.  He entered with a spare key, as he did not want to disturb Lakshmi....

And then reality struck him. And with that, horror.  He was supposed to take her to her mother's house this morning.  He completely forgot about it.  In any case, he was too tired and thus overslept.  But now terror completely engulfed him.  'What excuse can he give Lakshmi now...' He was mulling various options, which seemed not too many.  Sure enough, he started hearing the footsteps and Lakshmi's bulky figure entered the room.  How Ramanathan wished the earth would break and gobble him up !  But for that he had to wait for another dream.  Now reality sunk in and it sunk in in the form of a full- palmed slap on his right cheek.

"So Dorai is too tired?  What time is it now, you realise, you fool?"

Ramanathan looked blankly at the wall. Lakshmi came near and he involuntarily cowered  and covered his face in a foetal position.  But Lakshmi had other plans.  She picked up a particularly weighty book from the shelf and flung at him. Even as he was crouched covering his face, the tome struck him right on his balding head.  The room started spinning.  It took a while for Lakshmi to be done with. As she finished for now, after 15 minutes, the end result was a swollen eye, a lump on the head and a torn banian for Ramanathan. Even while at work, Lakshmi, as always, frequently kept reminding him about how entirely worthless Ramanathan is, how utterly incompetent to bring home even ten thousand bucks a month, how it is because of her family's help she is running the household, how worthless he is as a person, impotent (powerless, she meant) as a husband, how others have managed to grab film roles and he has remained a small time TV actor for all these 25 years etc. etc.

Ramanathan waited for the storm to subside, at least temporarily.  He knew it would restart at night.  But that was 10 hours away and 10 hours seemed eons away.  He badly needed to recoup and recharge for the onslaught at night.  For the present, he was content to wash the clothes, do the dishes and cut the vegetables for dinner.  He always took care to stay as far away from his wife as possible and it was a god-send for him when she announced that she is off to her parents' house now and would be back by 9 p.m. and he better clean up the house and prepare the dinner by then.  Ramanathan nodded and escorted her up to the door.  It almost seemed like a dream, this respite of 4 hours in a house sans Lakshmi.

He briefly thought about his dreams or rather the dream within a dream. Doubt suddenly overtook him and he pinched himself.  It hurt.  As did the lump on the head and the swollen eye.  He was hugely relieved.  'Thank God, now this is not a dream. 7 hours without Lakshmi is a reality. Waking up from the first dream, he had lost his cine-fame. Waking up from the second, he had gained bliss!  He chuckled and slowly went about the task of preparing dinner.He knew what was lying in store  7 hours hence, after Lakshmi would taste the Sambar.  All hell will break loose and he would probably have a bath in Sambar late night.

Nevertheless, it was bliss for Adhirshtam Ramanathan, the tasteless bland Sambar he would concoct and dare to serve Lakshmi notwithstanding.  We will leave him with his day dreaming now for the next 7 hours and let's disturb him no more.

The bounty!

"Ennappa auto poguma?"

"where to?"

"Guindy"

"where in Guindy?"

"near race course"

"Where in race course?  This side, near the station or down south?"

The prospective savari was beginning to get exasperated.  "Near the station only"

"Povum sir, it will take 70 rupees"

"what, 70?  It is only 3 kms"

"all the roads are one-way sir.  Have to return empty. Nothing less than 70"

With a muted curse, barely audible, the man got in.  

''But for these two bags, I would have taken a bus,'' he muttered under his breath.  Murugesan seemed to read his thoughts and chuckled. 'But for these two bags, I would have starved tonight'.....thus went his train of thought....  'these people never hesitate to splurge Rs.300 for a movie ticket but are tight fisted to dole out 70 bucks for an auto ride.  When will these people ever reform...'

Murugesan pulled vigorously the shaft and the engine sputtered to life.     'Petrol costs Rs.80 per litre.  Prices of all parts have gone up.  Plus the daily mamool to the cops. Savaris too are hard to come by, damn these share-auto wallahs....' his mind wandered.  The auto passed CIT road and was waiting at the Mount Road signal to turn right.  '......So the day was not a total washout...'  Murugesan thought.  His mind raced to formulate plans on how best to allocate the day's takings towards a hundred items of planned expenditure.  ...' Sudha's fees is to be paid the day after.  Rs.300 for that.  The milkman is already making noises for his last two months' dues.  That would be Rs.200.  ...', he started budgeting.  The signal turned green.  An MTC bus turned dangerously to the right, nearly scraping his auto on the right.  '...the bastard.  Don't the cops have any rules for these buses?...'Murugesan scowled.  

Traffic was light at that time.  He reached Guindy within ten minutes and dropped off the fare just at the rear entrance of the station.  The man handed over a hundred rupee note.  

"  Change illa sir.  You are my first savari of the day.  And the last"

" You mean I am your Bhoni?  At ten in the night?"  the man asked incredulously

"  I am telling the truth"

"  You guys just laze around the auto stands all day and complain there is no business.  But how would you get business with the astronomical rates you quote?  Why don't you just down the meter and go by it and get more savaris?  As they do in Bangalore"  the man started his rant. 

' And why don't you just pay up and vanish to Bangalore fast?' Murugesan thought.  

"Sir,please give change, I have to go"

The man went to a nearby bunk shop and bought cigarettes, got change and paid off Murugesan.  He lugged his two heavy bags from the auto and disappeared into the crowds streaming into the station. Murugesan pocketed the money and reached  towards the rear of the vehicle, behind the passenger seat, to pull out the water bottle.  He always kept it there.  

That was when he noticed the small yellow cloth bag, behind the seat, perched at the top.  He gingerly picked it up and examined it.  It was well, just an old yellow bag, folded into four.  The bag was unfolded.  'Sri Muthumariamman textiles,' the print on it ran. 'For quality clothes at reasonable prices.  37, Gandhi Road, Erode'  In smaller font, below, was 'Fixed price-no bargain'  He peeped inside the bag.  It was total darkness where he was parked.  He moved to a nearby street light and began elaborately rummaging the contents.  4 betel leaves.  A coconut. A pocket novel titled ' kola kolaya mundirikka' with the picture of a murdered girl, soaked in blood, sari dishevelled, just revealing enough for the onlooker to drool on.  And sure enough, there was a small plastic see through packet.  And sure enough, wads of notes inside, folded into two.

Murugesan's heart stopped.  His immediate instinct was to ensure the last fare was not anywhere  nearby.  He was not.  He carefully took out the wad, holding the notes between his thumb and fore finger and anxiously looked around.  No one seemed to care a hoot.  He went back to the auto, sat in the driver's seat, placed the yellow bag and its other less-worthy contents on the back seat and set about counting the treasure.  All used five hundred rupee notes.  Total ten.  He again counted.  Ten again.  "5000 bucks", he exclaimed.  "5000 bucks!" this time he cried out loudly but not too loud for passers-by to hear.  He suddenly could hear a violin symphony erupt inside his head.  Girls in white dresses, much like one sees in  Bharathiraja's songs were already prancing around in slow motion.  "5000 bucks", Murugesan couldn't believe his luck.   His mind veered to the daily horoscope column in Dina Thanthi he read that morning by Jothisha Sigamani Puliyur Govindarajan.  "unexpected windfall'' it had mentioned against his rashi. His regard for the Sigamani suddenly rised.  "5000 bucks.  I must be dreaming"

He let the ecstatic feeling last for about 15 minutes.  He did not want to come out of the reverie.  Presently, the symphony ended, the white clad girls melted away into the snow and 'Intermission' flashed in his mental cine-screen.  He then began considering the various options before him

Option 1 - 'Keep the loot'

This seemed to be the best and most practical option.  He could pay off the milkman's debts,pay Sudha's school fees for the full year, buy that red georgette sari he had spotted in the show case of Pothy's (exactly where he picked up his benefactor savari), repair the auto's broken rear view mirror,  buy a 'Mundakanni Amman Thunai' sticker,and can even splurge on MC brandy for a full week!  The prospects appeared relishing and he almost decided not to explore any other option.  

But Murugesan is a good man.  He is not a saint, certainly not of the type which would offer the other cheek after the first one received a slap.  But he was not a bad man either.  He is average and mediocre in whatever he does. He was neither kind, nor cruel, neither religious nor an atheist, and neither greedy, nor content.  He adopted a middle path in anything, just as any fellow human being would do.    Murugesan is also a practical man.  That attribute now made him examine the risks involved in going for the first option.  'The man might have noted down the vehicle number'.. he feared.  'Highly unlikely', his mind reassured him.  The auto was always dark inside and the place where he disembarked was also dark.  'Lucky that I did not pick up the savari from an auto stand, lest other auto wallahs remember anything, even if the police comes calling.'  He was grateful for his habit of not ever parking in any auto stand .  Now the other risk - 'some one might have noticed me dropping off the passenger here, and  opening the bag and counting the notes...' He again thought hard and convinced himself that in this bustling station entrance, the probability of such an eventuality was almost zero. 

He then started cursorily exploring the other options

Option 2 - ' Return the loot to the police'

'That is what a honest fellow is expected to do', Murugesan told himself.  But being  endowed with the power of objective analysis, he again threadbare explored this option. 'For one, it is highly unlikely the money will reach its rightful owner.  The cops would share it among themselves.  Why, the Bangalore-loving soul might not even prefer to lodge a complaint. The futility of lodging a complaint for a lost Rs.5000/-, every Indian knows'.  So Murugesan decided to discard this option to the dustbin.

Option 3 - 'Donate the loot to some temple or charity'

He could not, at first,  bring himself to unearth some logical explanation to discard this option too.  After racking his brains for about 5 minutes, he stumbled upon a convincing argument. 'one should not put unaccounted money to temple or charity...'    '... after all, the owner could be a murderer, rapist or a dacoit.  His ill-gotten money should not defile the holy precincts of a temple or an orphanage. In any case, a mere 5000 bucks is not going to make any big difference to a temple. The Gods have a hundred ways to take care of themselves.  Further, a part of this money is only going for Sudha's school fees.  Is not education of a child a noble cause, (even if the child is one's own?)...'   Murugesan was now more than convinced that this option too could be safely  consigned to the dust-bin without much procrastination.

The decision made, his head now light, he started the auto.  The night air was cool and crisp.  Mount Road was drenched with  bright neon lights.  Everything seemed beautiful, even the squalor of the hutments along Todhunter Nagar.  He crossed the Adyar bridge.  The river was glistening underneath in all its glory. The stench too seemed heavenly.   Again an MTC bus overtook him rashly, pushing him to the left.  But Murugesan was not angry.  'Poor driver, who knows what hurry he is in?  he also has a family at home and may be this is his last trip,'  Murugesan reasoned.  The traffic policeman also appeared to be an angel now. 'poor soul, imagine manning the signal all through the day, in this heat and fumes..' Murugesan pitifully mused.  The world seemed suddenly a very beautiful place to live in.  Whistling his favourite MGR song, he turned left and proceeded towards Nesappakkam, his home.

And before reaching home, a sudden brain-wave hit him. 'Why not celebrate today?  The other planned expenditure has to wait till tomorrow, since it is already ten.'  He was in Mettupalayam, just after Kannammapet.  Just opposite the church, right beside the Mettupalayam turning, were two Tasmac shops next to each other.  About to close in 10 minutes or so, with a heavy crowd milling around.  He stopped his auto just after the shops, near the Petrol pump, sniffed out a 500 rupee note, put it in his shirt pocket, the balance tucked away safely inside his underwear.

He personally knew the one of the shop's employees so the crowds were no problem for him.  He pulled out the 500 note, extended it towards his face and asked for some 'nalla sarakku'. (good stuff)

'"Ennappa, in heavy mood today?'' the shopkeeper smiled and asked

'yes, had some good long-distance savaris..'

'what to give?  The usual MC?'

'something better and costly today'

'Signature sappiduviya?'

'Is that good?'

'quarter 140.  supera irukkum..'

'ok, then let Signature it be.'

The man handed over the green bottle and was about to stash the note inside his collection box when his practised fingers involuntarily retracted. He raised the note above his head and held it against the tube-light flickering above.  Just for three seconds. 

'' Indha nottu selladhuppa'' (this note won't pass)

Murugesan's stomach muscles knotted.  He sensed disaster.

'why not?  Is it torn?'

'No, it is a fake.'

'what?'

'it is a counterfeit.'

'Are you sure?  I took it from a Tondiarpet savari today'

'then you were cheated. It is a fake.  I can detect a fake from a mile's distance.  I handle about a lakh of cash daily and I detect a fake better than bank cashiers.'

Murugesan's head started to spin.  Disappointment was the initial reaction. But then fear suddenly took over. 'what if the shopkeeper informed this to the police?'

The shopkeeper could almost read his mind.  He has seen it all during his last five years at the outlet.  He has seen brawls, fist-fights, crying, bragging, arguments and of course fake notes.  He could detect who purposely tried to push through a note, knowing it to be a fake and  who was merely the victim of bad luck.  And Murugesan he knew, though he is not a daily customer. 'It just is a foul day for him', he thought. 

"Don't worry.  I will not tell anyone. Just take back this note, give me another one and scoot with your brew'', he said.

Murugesan did not have the gall to try his luck with another piece of the loot.  Most certainly, that would also be a fake.  As would be the remaining 8 pieces inside his brief.  His heart sank.

"okay, I have changed my mind.  Take back this signature and give me my usual stuff.  Nothing to beat MC brandy'

"That would be 70 bucks"

Murugesan fished inside his pocket and brought out the fifty rupee note and two tenners.  What the Guindy fare had given him after exchanging his 100. What he had earned in the last 24 hours.  What he had earlier planned to give to the wife for morrow's expenses.  What had come his way after a hard day's futile toil under the sun.

The MC brandy quarter was handed over, the lid uncorked and the contents consumed undiluted within 5 minutes.  The liquor flowed down the gut and Murugesan's heart burned. Hiccups started.  He gulped two glasses of water, took out a cigarette and lit up.  

The air was cooler and crisper.  The shops were about to close. The last few customers lingered around.  A couple of them lay splayed in front of the shops.  A drunk was mouthing a three lettered expletive directed to no one in particular.  The attached 'Govt. recognised bar' was downing its shutters.  Vomit was strewn every where.  The acrid smell of bidis filled the air inside.  

Murugesan reached the auto.  The cigarette's burning end just began to scald his finger and he flicked the butt away.  He then reached into his under wear and took out the remaining nine notes.  Cast a glance both sides.  There was no one. And then proceeded to tear them along the middle. Having done so, and to be doubly sure, he tore the pieces again into two smaller portions. Flung the pieces out.  A sudden gush of cool air, caught the shredded pieces before they fell onto the ground and carried them away, far far away and they were still swirling in the air when Murugesan last spotted them, before passing out.