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Just Another Day
Or,
Morning Raga
Nov 04, 2008
Every morning the neighborhood wakes up to high decibel music followed by an elderly gent on a girl’s bicycle. The music comes from a transistor set inside the cycle’s metal basket. Almost immediately a mutt that has adopted the lane as home, barks and makes happy sounds. The drama brings life to a standstill on the lane. Housewives sweeping the front yard pause. Others, working on the kolam stop in their tracks.
As per the routine, the man pulls up next to a red sedan parked outside a house. There he switches off AR Rehman’s Vande Matram*, leans the bicycle on a pongamia pinnata, and reaches into the basket for a slice of bread for the wagging tail dog that has followed him. Later, with great ceremony he takes off his tattered cloth jacket and peak-cap, and places them inside the basket. He then opens the gate and ambles into the house. Smiling red flowers, lush green lawns and the heady fragrance of South Indian filter coffee greet his arrival.
A few minutes later, he’s back at the car, sleeves rolled up, swab cloths on shoulder and a bucket on hand. On seeing him, the pooch jumps up and down, acting silly like it hasn’t seen him in years. There’s more man-animal interaction, before the car-wash. Some time on, job done, he potters back into the house, shouting something into the kitchen window. On his return the jacket and cap are donned, in slow deliberate motions. There’s a quick check in the cycle’s rear-view mirror. Cap is adjusted to right, jaunty angle. Before mounting the bike, he winks at the dog with both eyes. This makes the shriveled up face even smaller, older. He then presses forward, flicking on the music.
Immediately Sudha Ragunathan bursts out with ‘Maathey…’** dramatically scaling the morning raaga. The mongrel jumps, squeals, forgets it’s an old dog and rushes ahead, circling the cyclist. By now women with jasmine flowers in hair and tidy little kids awaiting the school bus, retired officials on patios look up from broadsheets, and neighbours head to the window to see the morning drama. The old dog returns to its station, grumbling before settling down.
As silvery shafts of light pierce the honge tree, the classical raaga hits the high notes, the man hangs a left, into the main road. The music lingers momentarily, and then gets lost in the melee of another day in the city.
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For video-music of these pieces visit:
* http://in.youtube.com/watch?v=BJ399KOoNRA
Red Hot Chillie Peppers
Oct 09, 2008
The young visiting trainee pilot Ben had built up quite a rep for dare-devilry in the air. The bravado extended even to the dining table. There he’d attack a seriously spicy red-hot Andhra curry on a bed of rice by sprinkling layers of chillie powder. 'Dangerous stuff, this,' he'd say indicating the small pouch which had the dynamite, Bhut Jolokia, ‘Picked it up in Chabua base, Assam.' While the rest of us broke into a sweat watching him, he'd demolish the fiery meal. When done, he'd laugh, 'Please sir, I want more?'
I thought of the Nigerian when I recently bumped into a Kiwi friend, and his two babes in a Thai restaurant in Hong Kong. The man was roaring drunk and happy, telling them to order whatever they wanted. The restaurant, known for its kick-ass spicy hot dishes, had a fiend known as prik kee noo suan chillie central to the action. No one knew how to measure its potency but everyone knew it packed one heckuva wallop.
'Give me your hottest chillie,' roared the burly ex-Rugby Seven player long known for his steely stomach. The girls went into more giggles. In between one of them whispered to the steward. Hesitatingly the man reappeared with five miniscule greenish-red chillies. 'This?' said the 110-kg centre forward, disdainfully, picking up the chillie by its stalk, 'No. seriously. Give me your best shot?' He said throwing back the third one like it was a peanut.
I don't know at what stage the sparks starting flying. One moment the beefy Kiwi was all smiles. Next, he was gagging and choking, turning many shades of crimson. Luckily, a steward had the presence of mind to slap the back, and do other things to put a lid on the mayhem. And yet later, the girls were kept busy all night running to the ice machine while the man parked on the pot all night roaring in pain until the sound became so high pitched that he could have well joined the Vienna Boy's choir!
I thought of this incident, reading about a London restaurant and its Naga Jolokia spiced chicken curry. I wouldn’t give it to the Kiwi, for sure, I thought, but Ben? 'Hottest curry in the world?’ I can hear him say, ‘Bull. Bring it on, mate’. Then licking his chops and plate clean, looking up, smiling, 'Please sir, I want more!'
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