Chennaiscope

The silver Alto races ahead of the black Lancer. The blue Swift, till now a non participant, forges ahead to second place. The erstwhile trailing Bolero makes a sudden lunge forward. A much-spluttering autorickshaw joins in, packed to capacity, not to mention myriad other forms of automotive-or plainly motivated forms of locomotion, single-minded in their goal: give us an inch and we will zip and zoom a mile farther than you.
Is this the latest game in town? Does a fortuitous click of the mouse, or a series of them determine the winner? Alas! If only it were..
Even in my microcosm of cool, clean air, uncompeted space and the total freedom of a chauffered passenger in the back seat, it can get tedious…this 45 minute trip by car from mid-city to suburban south Chennai. I feel I am on a treadmill, going nowhere, along with fellow treaders. And so I have devised this game. Look around, observe, keep count, peep into the lives of those destined to share the treadmill today with me, memorize, conjecture, philosophise and…reach home!
Motorcycle riders are the craftiest of the racers- in an already rule-defying, rule-deficient city, they steal the show. They are a boring lot to conjecture on, mostly with dull coloured clothes on and the same black bag diagonally slung, especially the ones in their self-programmed helmeted world; they make up for it by weaving their way deftly through the treadmill-no doubt to another ambiguous ‘meeting’(who goes home at 6 pm these days?); More interesting are couples on motorcycles. He a balding picture of resignation and she a big enthusiastic bubble of baubles…the artificial gold of the sari dazzling, the yard of jasmines to match, at times from my left, at times from my right…and does she look pleased with herself! The much popular housewarming ‘do’ no doubt beckons them.. my attention is swept away by this family- sandwich to my left…lean father riding the bike, substantial mother bring up the rear, and three kids wedged in between. Talk of the helmet rule!…Before I can fathom the feelings on the sandwiched faces or feel their individual pulses, darkness engulfs my space-I find myself sandwiched, and how!-between two asthmatic MTC buses. The window-seaters seem to be playing my game too: with the vantage advantage, a middling mama peers into my window. ‘You may be cool in your cocooned world of comfort but we are sailing-or is it snailing- in the same traffic boat’ suggests his condescending look. An infant in a bright pink monkey cap snoozes on her somnolent mother's chest. Now this is what I call living life fully! A moment? A minute? Eternity?..If ever, it is now that I am thankful to be in hoardings-pakkam. Emerging from the eclipse, as I look skyward for light, the zippered pallu, from a famed silk house, to my left, comes as an intellectual challenge.The reversible diamond necklace on my right- hoarding sudokus I would say-, and then the embossed silk beauty…God bless the city for such brain-stirring innovations!-leader and son beam benignly from the next hoarding while that unique south Indian phenomenon of a famed singer doubling as a silk brand ambassador from atop another gigantic hoarding makes me wonder how it works for the singer and the sari, till a wholesome, informal vegetable market on the pavement, wares in small heaps, catches me eye…keerais of all hues, fruits, veggies..no waiting, no packaging..how much more convenient than air-conditioned outlets! The toddler from the silver Toyota waves..we have already met window-to-window some ten minutes ago. While I imagine where she is heading for with the family, a Sri Murugan call-taxi blots her away from view...a sudden stilling and the rythmic heaving of a hundred vehicles in unison ensues as the signal turns red. A shapely waist in green silk snuggles up to us...an HR head in a multi national no doubt, dispersing her day's tensions while waiting for the green light. Share autos, those indigenous, grunting, overloaded contraptions join us..a pavadai-clad girl, seated on her mother’s lap exchanges a smile.Its a true free-for-all now; a wayside temple goes about its business of dispensing brisk solace to busy devotees and I once more lose sight of the midnight blue shirt(with a Greek nose) in a rickshaw which had held my attention for some minutes…
Not until I sight the depleted waters of the Adyar below me do I come out of the momentum-or is it trance? Had I really been on a treadmill? Wasn't it more a stimulating 'Peeping Tom' experience? In today's reality of closed apartment doors and silent landings, this road cruise had been a welcome social encounter.

Process Life

Process

Process music
Processed foods
Industrial processes
Legal process
Information processing
Time sharing processes
Political process
Business process
Communication process…
Growing up process
weathering process
Withering process…

Process as loops
Process as wires
Process as rejuvenation
Process as change…
Change enforced
Change embraced
process as Past Present and Future

Processes programming Life..
Process processing Life.

Flower power

Her perfumed aura could beat all the Chanels and Love in Paris’s. A passing whiff as powerfully evocative as a Proustian association …If you picture her as the high heeled, jean-clad modern girl, I’m afraid you are widely off the mark. Her ample form casually draped in a cotton sari, balancing a huge wicker basket on her head and occasional worries on her brow, intent on her goal, is the ubiquitous neighbourhood ‘pookaara-amma’ or flower vendor of Chennai.
She is as much part of the evening landscape on my road as the black dog or the mobile tailor…a ‘muzham’ of fresh jasmine or mullai flowers being integral to the evening character of the city, she has her earnings assured. Muniamma’s clientele includes god pictures in autorickshaws, provision stores, housing societies and of course the dainty young damsels in ‘davanis’. A comment up North goes that southern females grow jasmine gardens on their long tresses. Good for you Muniamma!
Not all brands of pookaara-ammas are as unassuming and cool as Muniamma. There are the seated ammas-stones, wooden boxes and folding tables serving as etalage for the alluring bundles of flowers: shades of whites, shades of fragrances, in half bloom…the artistically woven ‘kadambams’ with colourful combos…a small container with unnaturally bright roses. Rotund Vijaya is worldly wise and loud. By way of advertisement, she sports a bundle of yesterday’s flowers high on her hair. During a distracted moment of mine and she has already put in a plastic bag (how I miss the good old packing leaves of yore) my 12 rupees of flowers, mostly fresh, some not so fresh, adding a couple of ‘udiri poo’ or unstrung flowers by way of bonus.
The flower vendor is as market driven as the sensex. She hikes her rates with each festival. I may pay Rs 80 a kilo for apples but when Vijaya charges Rs 10 for a muzham of jasmines, I am scandalized. Vijaya roundly counters my remarks saying that there is an acute flower crunch and assures me that it won’t last forever.
My momentary shock is more than offset by the sight and thought of these brave, industrious womenfolk, working to supplement family income, get a daughter married or lose it all to an alcoholic husband…their deft fingers not idle for a moment, their alert eyes client-scanning and their brisk brains looking forward to the next big bonanza time.
I love you all!