The Story of Theora Vorbis

There! There is a home, where there is mother,
Mother who must cook and wash and clean.
There! In that home, there is a father,
Father who must work and earn and sweat.
In the ramshackle glory of the kingdom we ruled
My brothers and I were daily taught and fooled
That money is all there is and nothing better!

There! There is a family whose memories I recall,
As they are all the experiences I fall back on.
There! In that family where the dreams are small
Was the push to break free and seek tomorrow
In the hope of owning one day a wealthy man
Who would provide and support like none else can.
I didn't learn of dreams or the sound of their call!

Here! Here is a home, where there is a mother,
Mother who must read and listen and, oh, rejoice.
Here! In this home, there is a father,
Father who must dote and lavish and dance.
Because there was suddenly wealth in our eyes and ears,
And with that were gone all of our filthy tears
For money is all there was and nothing better!

Here! Here is a family where togetherness holds sway
Even as Charlie sails the seas and David flies the skies.
But mother and father decide that they will stay,
And pay humble tribute to the lords of fortunes.
Coins in father's pocket sink him into the chair low
Even though I wait for him to hug me when I go.
If I could I would... I'd wish it all away!

The Story of Theora Vorbis

There! There is a home, where there is mother,
Mother who must cook and wash and clean.
There! In that home, there is a father,
Father who must work and earn and sweat.
In the ramshackle glory of the kingdom we ruled
My brothers and I were daily taught and fooled
That money is all there is and nothing better!

There! There is a family whose memories I recall,
As they are all the experiences I fall back on.
There! In that family where the dreams are small
Was the push to break free and seek tomorrow
In the hope of owning one day a wealthy man
Who would provide and support like none else can.
I didn't learn of dreams or the sound of their call!

Here! Here is a home, where there is a mother,
Mother who must read and listen and, oh, rejoice.
Here! In this home, there is a father,
Father who must dote and lavish and dance.
Because there was suddenly wealth in our eyes and ears,
And with that were gone all of our filthy tears
For money is all there was and nothing better!

Here! Here is a family where togetherness holds sway
Even as Charlie sails the seas and David flies the skies.
But mother and father decide that they will stay,
And pay humble tribute to the lords of fortunes.
Coins in father's pocket sink him into the chair low
Even though I wait for him to hug me when I go.
If I could I would... I'd wish it all away!

A tribute to family

My grandmother's cousin today noon arrived along with her two daughters and their two sons (I don't know whose child was who and, frankly, couldn't care less). As has always been the case, excursions to a relative house must mandatorily involve a hired drive, preferably a fancy SUV (Toyota, if you please) that has space for eight but, for their sake, will and should carry only five. Petrol, you see, is a commodity whose price affects only their husbands or, for that matter, that insolent bitch of a house-maid who keeps clamouring for a pay hike.

My grandfather has been a brisk man all his life—industrious is a fitting word—and in the time of his retirement, it is only his greatest sorrow that anyone who pays his wife a visit must announce themselves by ringing the calling-bell four times just as he closes his eyes for a short nap. Why four times? Because it's so much fun listening to the muted sonorous "ding" from on the other side of the door.

The next habit on this list of must-preserve traditions is that of treating everyone else's property as public property; after all, there is no necessity to address it anyhow else when the government buses smell strangely of all the odours of humanity, is there? Pyols are pushed up against the wall, mats, pillows and blankets are heaved off of it and unfurled on the ground to seat themselves on it, only to complain of backaches ten minutes after and climb back up on the bed, grumbling something about a missing blanket.

As grandma leaves for the kitchen to make coffee for six people, she knows that she is going to draw some ire behind her back for getting the amounts of sugar wrong for each individual serving. Still, she makes coffee because these people did promise to her, a fine day not some three years from now, a trip to some obscure temple; the fear of god is the flame that boils the milk, I believe.

What is it with the children of middle-class faimlies in India who, upon having spotted an air-conditioner, must needs operate it for the purchase of their invaluable silence for the next... two minutes? On. Off. On. Off. I and grandpa look on. The bills! Rs. 0. The bills! Rs. 0, or that's what I think he sees. I only couldn't believe his mother was laughing with him at how the lights were being turned on and off.

Doors are slam shut, the warning in the slow creak of the hinges being thrown to the winds, as the dames gather for a commendable session of gossiping, as is due the dutiful housewife who has been showered with enough money by an unsuspecting gem of a husband—picked as he was based on his father's choice of shoes that afternoon—and then chaperoned for evenings after evenings to movie theaters, music shows, and shopping sprees. I say, cry havoc and let loose the "radical" feminists; I'd like to see what brand of egalitarianism theirs is!

100 chapathis and four bowls of tomato chutney later, they, the guzzling and gorging duly done on the fortunes of those whose benefaction must never waver because—hey!—they're family, dash all my hopes that they would leave; would more could they need? Food they have received, drink they have received, talk they have received; did they not have all of our afternoon's peace? Unfortunately, then, the cousin produced two tickets to some movie for the evening: in the cataract-infested eyes of my grandmother, that was two tickets for a visit in the future by the same dollops of humanity that, in all probability, had always seen it only as a deal.

"Fredo, you're my older brother, and I love you. But don't ever take sides with anyone against the family again. Ever."

Michael Corleone

A tribute to family

My grandmother's cousin today noon arrived along with her two daughters and their two sons (I don't know whose child was who and, frankly, couldn't care less). As has always been the case, excursions to a relative house must mandatorily involve a hired drive, preferably a fancy SUV (Toyota, if you please) that has space for eight but, for their sake, will and should carry only five. Petrol, you see, is a commodity whose price affects only their husbands or, for that matter, that insolent bitch of a house-maid who keeps clamouring for a pay hike.

My grandfather has been a brisk man all his life—industrious is a fitting word—and in the time of his retirement, it is only his greatest sorrow that anyone who pays his wife a visit must announce themselves by ringing the calling-bell four times just as he closes his eyes for a short nap. Why four times? Because it's so much fun listening to the muted sonorous "ding" from on the other side of the door.

The next habit on this list of must-preserve traditions is that of treating everyone else's property as public property; after all, there is no necessity to address it anyhow else when the government buses smell strangely of all the odours of humanity, is there? Pyols are pushed up against the wall, mats, pillows and blankets are heaved off of it and unfurled on the ground to seat themselves on it, only to complain of backaches ten minutes after and climb back up on the bed, grumbling something about a missing blanket.

As grandma leaves for the kitchen to make coffee for six people, she knows that she is going to draw some ire behind her back for getting the amounts of sugar wrong for each individual serving. Still, she makes coffee because these people did promise to her, a fine day not some three years from now, a trip to some obscure temple; the fear of god is the flame that boils the milk, I believe.

What is it with the children of middle-class faimlies in India who, upon having spotted an air-conditioner, must needs operate it for the purchase of their invaluable silence for the next... two minutes? On. Off. On. Off. I and grandpa look on. The bills! Rs. 0. The bills! Rs. 0, or that's what I think he sees. I only couldn't believe his mother was laughing with him at how the lights were being turned on and off.

Doors are slam shut, the warning in the slow creak of the hinges being thrown to the winds, as the dames gather for a commendable session of gossiping, as is due the dutiful housewife who has been showered with enough money by an unsuspecting gem of a husband—picked as he was based on his father's choice of shoes that afternoon—and then chaperoned for evenings after evenings to movie theaters, music shows, and shopping sprees. I say, cry havoc and let loose the "radical" feminists; I'd like to see what brand of egalitarianism theirs is!

100 chapathis and four bowls of tomato chutney later, they, the guzzling and gorging duly done on the fortunes of those whose benefaction must never waver because—hey!—they're family, dash all my hopes that they would leave; would more could they need? Food they have received, drink they have received, talk they have received; did they not have all of our afternoon's peace? Unfortunately, then, the cousin produced two tickets to some movie for the evening: in the cataract-infested eyes of my grandmother, that was two tickets for a visit in the future by the same dollops of humanity that, in all probability, had always seen it only as a deal.

"Fredo, you're my older brother, and I love you. But don't ever take sides with anyone against the family again. Ever."

Michael Corleone

On Nativity And Belonging

I undertook a wild trip of Chennai today – I know it sounds grandiloquent when I say that, but I took a trip that was definitely wild on my own terms. My first discovery was that not only had I seen just half the city, but was also under the false impression that there was nothing more to it. My blatantly wrong assumption was quashed fully when I went past Chennai Central (as we know the Central Railway Station) and arrived in that part of the city called, simply, the North. The peoples in other parts of the city – the parts familiar to me – were all immigrants, and had been naturalized over the course of three centuries to make up everything that was cosmopolitan about the state capital. The natives were in the North, unconsciously preserving as well as relishing all that was and is Tamil – the language, the food, the sunrise, the sunset and everything in between.

As we (me and my magnanimous friend, known only as V) drove hither and thither, him pointing out to me all that had changed in the last four years, forgetting that I had known quite nothing of Chennai so much as two years ago, while I told him of all the quaint remnants of the British occupation that I had noticed and researched. V was the quintessential free spirit, the praxis of freedom, while I preferred the sequestered and sound-proofed confines of a room with a view. We each had known Chennai as two distinctly different entities for the last few years: I had known it for the city it was, the residue of its history and no more, while he knew it was a living, breathing being. He would tell me about his experiences with the people he had met, their sufferings they had recounted to him, and the struggles they faced on a daily basis that, in his mind, seemed to define the state of being Tamil. You only had to listen to him speak, and you knew it was true.

That V could find so much nativity in him would sometimes put me to shame. Let alone being a free spirit, I have never even appreciated the outdoors; call it selfish, call it what you will, but my interests have always been with facts, with the physics and the mathematics of this world, and anything under their purview would soon come to be under my purview. All that I have ever known about this city, this beautiful city, is, sadly, only a result of such observations; then again, I have only observed, I have never surrendered my expectations to the promises of the city and seen. What I write today about the Marina beach may seem original because I have been there – but I know, even if you can’t discern it, that there is nothing that prevents me from substituting the word ‘Marina’ with the name of some other beach in some other continent and still be left with a sensible description. There is no qualitative content that I am capable of contributing with, and that is what leaves me ashamed.

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="The Marina"][/caption]

At the same time, my logical faculties – faithful as they always are – tell me that all is not lost, that there is still something left in me to give to the city, something it might unfortunately lack, something it might circumstantially need. It is true that this world has always vacillated from states of imperfection to perfection, and it is also true that it can never peacefully exist in the same state. I may not know the pulse of the city, but that only means I am endowed with the unfortunate capability to know and, moreover, understand what is perfect and what is not. In other words, I am the logical faculty of the city. Note that I speak only in singular and first-person terms: I am only contextualizing my role in terms of my emotions. Even in all this shame and defacement, there is an urgent need in me to contribute to an entity I have always only indirectly known, an entity, when not an area on the map, that is the port I set my bearings toward when I am lost in the stormy seas of identity and individuality. I am not trying to get rid of my guilt – I know that only because as soon as the guilt is gone, I will still be its humble servant.