I thought, Well, this place itself is probably a pain relief clinic for someone, if only for the person (not in evidence when I passed) who tends the shrine. And it gave pleasure to me, too, when I stopped for a moment on a beautiful, quiet morning.
Showing posts with label Chennai. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chennai. Show all posts
Pain Relief
On the third day of the Pongal festival I took a photograph of a sidewalk shrine: a few lithographs of gods, surmounted by a tiled picture of Lord Hanuman, fastened to a compound wall; but decorated with flowers, and with a pretty kolam design for the festival. Slapped onto an adjacent utility box were ads for "PAIN RELIEF CLINIC".
I thought, Well, this place itself is probably a pain relief clinic for someone, if only for the person (not in evidence when I passed) who tends the shrine. And it gave pleasure to me, too, when I stopped for a moment on a beautiful, quiet morning.
I thought, Well, this place itself is probably a pain relief clinic for someone, if only for the person (not in evidence when I passed) who tends the shrine. And it gave pleasure to me, too, when I stopped for a moment on a beautiful, quiet morning.
Demolition Day
Photo by R. RaguThe Admiralty House, one of Chennai's few remaining fine old buildings, is being demolished. From The Hindu:
CHENNAI: The demolition of the Government House here, the oldest building on the Government Estate, has begun.
On Monday, workers were breaking the roof of the heritage building, commonly known as the Admiralty House, with giant hammers. The demolition will be completed in 40 days, according to an official of the Public Works Department, the custodian of the Estate properties. Some other buildings on the Estate will also be demolished, including the old MLAs’ quarters. The official says that as the buildings are vacated, they will be pulled down. The department hopes to complete the demolition of all the identified buildings by the end of next month.
The exercise is being carried out to facilitate the execution of the Rs. 200-crore Assembly complex project.
The government has selected a German-based architectural firm for the Assembly project. As per the present proposals, there will be two blocks – one housing the Assembly complex and offices of the Chief Minister and Ministers and the other accommodating offices of various government departments. While the first block will have ground and six floors, the second is likely to be a high-rise building, having a maximum of 20 floors. The government is planning to commence the construction of the proposed Assembly complex by September.
Till recently, the Government House building was occupied by the different wings of the Police department such as Crime Branch-Criminal Investigation Department (CB-CID) wing, the Economic Offences wing and Narcotics Intelligence Bureau-CID. The wings have been shifted to different places in the city. In the mid-1990s, the building, as a makeshift arrangement, even served as the headquarters of the Police department when the government undertook renovation of the DGP office building on the Marina, which is yet another heritage landmark. Till Independence, the Government House was the residence of Governors. For sometime, it also functioned as the MLAs’ hostel.
S. Muthiah, historian, wrote about the importance of the heritage monument on several occasions in The Hindu. In his column on October 29 last year, he wrote that after the French left the Fort St. George’s buildings in a shambles, Governor Thomas Saunders of the British East India Company in 1752 rented a house belonging to the wealthy Mrs. Antonia de Madeiros just across the Island from the Fort. On August 28, 1753 the Government of Madras bought the house for 3500 pagodas to serve as the Governor’s garden house. Only in 1947 did the Governor’s residence move to the present location in Guindy – Raj Bhavan.
Looking out the window at Cafe Coffee Day in Indira Nagar. It made an attractive picture, although it was too humid to sit outside. Coconut palms are a constant feature here; yet I realised that this picture might look quite exotic to someone in, say, Boston.
It has been raining almost every day. When it rains and I turn on the cold water tap, the water that runs over my fingers is actually cold, not just tepid -- it startles me every time.
Luxury Rooms Available
We discovered another coffee place today -- Coffee World on LB Road, next to the flyover, in Adyar. It is pleasant, but its gigantic windows look out on an ugly view.
I did have a chance to speculate on who the occupants of the luxury rooms might be; travelling salesmen of small items, perhaps, carrying samples in worn molded-plastic briefcases, perspiring in the summer heat. The small reception area would contain one man dozing or reading the newspaper under a dirty ceiling fan, and perhaps a small boy, ready to run errands or bring cold drinks - served in the bottle, with a straw. At the end of the day the guests would return from meetings, bathe from a bucket of cool water, change out of shirts and trousers into more relaxed lungi and undershirt, and lie down for a while, before deciding what to do with the evening.
Christmas Eve and MGR
Here's something different: an MGR fan-blog. MGR, an extremely popular filmstar and then politician, died on Christmas Eve, 1987. I found this passage from the blog especially interesing:
As it happens, I was working at the American Consulate in Chennai when MGR died. I've posted my memories of that time on Chennai Metroblogging. Here's the text: M. G. Ramachandran, known as MGR, died on Christmas Eve, 1987. He had been an extremely popular filmstar, and then politician; he was Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu when he died. He was elderly and his health had been failing for some time, but his death caused an enormous outpouring of emotion in Tamil Nadu. I was working at the American Consulate in Chennai at that time. Early in the morning on Christmas Eve, the Consul General (CG) called me and said that he had heard that MGR had died. He said that I should try to get in to the office as soon as possible, because we were afraid that there might be some kind of unrest in the city. I was able to drive in from my house in Rutland Gate because it was still early. Later, as more people heard the news, people in cars were driven back; cyclists were forced to get down and walk, as a sign of ‘respect.’ As it happened, I had the Consulate building almost to myself. A few people had come walking, or had arrived very early; the rest stayed home. My office was on a level with the Gemini flyover – at the time the only flyover (overpass) in Chennai, and a central route to Rajaji Hall, where MGR’s body was taken to lie in state. As the day progressed, more and more people began crossing the flyover on foot, walking downtown. Soon they were a solid mass; people were coming in to Chennai from outlying towns and villages, to see MGR. I spent much of the day taking phone calls and just staring at the people streaming by. Some of them were crying, no doubt, but as the crowd grew and grew there was and air of excitement, as though they felt their own strength, and wondered what would happen next. Every once in awhile, someone would stop and throw a stone at the Consulate. One hit one of my office windows, and left a spider web of cracks in the bullet-proof glass. In the afternoon, someone jumped over the wall – which had just been raised in a security upgrade, though it had not yet become the fortress that it is today – and smashed the glass on each side of the Consulate’s main door. Then he ran back and over the wall and was gone. There was some looting of shops – I could see from my window a petrol bunk being broken into, and people making off with cans of engine oil and such; some cars, I heard later, were damaged; there was violence throughout the state, and many people committed suicide; but what I saw was just the huge, unimaginable mass of people, all headed in one direction. On the day of MGR’s funeral, I drove out with a black dupatta tied to my windshield wiper as a sign of mourning, and picked up a large floral wreath. I was nervous about it, but no one stopped me. I went to the CG’s house, where a police escort was supposed to take us to Rajaji Hall. No one turned up, however, so we decided to go alone. We put the wreath prominently in the front seat beside the driver, and set off on our own down the beach road. The road was completely jammed. The size of the crowd was unimaginable – hundreds of thousands of people. The driver had to inch along. People peered in, saw us foreigners and the wreath, and parted to let us pass. None of us spoke a word – it was like driving through a tunnel made of living human beings, of whose intentions we were unsure. Eventually we reached the place, later than we had intended, because of the non-existent police escort. By this time MGR’s body had already been removed and placed on a gun-carriage (I think that’s what it was), where he would be taken in procession through the streets, before being buried in a hastily constructed tomb on the beach. We carried the wreath to the carriage, handed it up to someone who placed it on MGR’s body, and stepped back. Then we drove back through those thousands of people; I went home and watched the rest of it on television. If you have seen Mani Ratnam’s film Iruvar, which tells a story based in part on MGR’s life, there is a scene at the end, where the main character’s body is taken on a carriage through huge crowds. That scene looked very real: it brought the day back to me. It was an unforgettable experience.
[someone said that] when MGR fell sick in 1984, he was rushed to Brooklyn Hospital in United States. There he died, but he was fitted with machines and the control was given to MGR's wife Mrs.Janaki Ramachandran, and she controlled, the button is not mechanical one it is in a form of medicine (tablets).
...
One day (23.12.1987 night) MGR's wife has administered the wrong drug and the machine ceased to function and it was reported that MGR was dead. ...
As it happens, I was working at the American Consulate in Chennai when MGR died. I've posted my memories of that time on Chennai Metroblogging. Here's the text: M. G. Ramachandran, known as MGR, died on Christmas Eve, 1987. He had been an extremely popular filmstar, and then politician; he was Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu when he died. He was elderly and his health had been failing for some time, but his death caused an enormous outpouring of emotion in Tamil Nadu. I was working at the American Consulate in Chennai at that time. Early in the morning on Christmas Eve, the Consul General (CG) called me and said that he had heard that MGR had died. He said that I should try to get in to the office as soon as possible, because we were afraid that there might be some kind of unrest in the city. I was able to drive in from my house in Rutland Gate because it was still early. Later, as more people heard the news, people in cars were driven back; cyclists were forced to get down and walk, as a sign of ‘respect.’ As it happened, I had the Consulate building almost to myself. A few people had come walking, or had arrived very early; the rest stayed home. My office was on a level with the Gemini flyover – at the time the only flyover (overpass) in Chennai, and a central route to Rajaji Hall, where MGR’s body was taken to lie in state. As the day progressed, more and more people began crossing the flyover on foot, walking downtown. Soon they were a solid mass; people were coming in to Chennai from outlying towns and villages, to see MGR. I spent much of the day taking phone calls and just staring at the people streaming by. Some of them were crying, no doubt, but as the crowd grew and grew there was and air of excitement, as though they felt their own strength, and wondered what would happen next. Every once in awhile, someone would stop and throw a stone at the Consulate. One hit one of my office windows, and left a spider web of cracks in the bullet-proof glass. In the afternoon, someone jumped over the wall – which had just been raised in a security upgrade, though it had not yet become the fortress that it is today – and smashed the glass on each side of the Consulate’s main door. Then he ran back and over the wall and was gone. There was some looting of shops – I could see from my window a petrol bunk being broken into, and people making off with cans of engine oil and such; some cars, I heard later, were damaged; there was violence throughout the state, and many people committed suicide; but what I saw was just the huge, unimaginable mass of people, all headed in one direction. On the day of MGR’s funeral, I drove out with a black dupatta tied to my windshield wiper as a sign of mourning, and picked up a large floral wreath. I was nervous about it, but no one stopped me. I went to the CG’s house, where a police escort was supposed to take us to Rajaji Hall. No one turned up, however, so we decided to go alone. We put the wreath prominently in the front seat beside the driver, and set off on our own down the beach road. The road was completely jammed. The size of the crowd was unimaginable – hundreds of thousands of people. The driver had to inch along. People peered in, saw us foreigners and the wreath, and parted to let us pass. None of us spoke a word – it was like driving through a tunnel made of living human beings, of whose intentions we were unsure. Eventually we reached the place, later than we had intended, because of the non-existent police escort. By this time MGR’s body had already been removed and placed on a gun-carriage (I think that’s what it was), where he would be taken in procession through the streets, before being buried in a hastily constructed tomb on the beach. We carried the wreath to the carriage, handed it up to someone who placed it on MGR’s body, and stepped back. Then we drove back through those thousands of people; I went home and watched the rest of it on television. If you have seen Mani Ratnam’s film Iruvar, which tells a story based in part on MGR’s life, there is a scene at the end, where the main character’s body is taken on a carriage through huge crowds. That scene looked very real: it brought the day back to me. It was an unforgettable experience.
Wall-Painting
I love the vanishing hand-painted signs / murals. I took this photograph today, on Chamiers Road:
And one more, on Flickr
And one more, on Flickr
Tommy and Aruna
Here we are in the Irony Department. It's a cheap one, I know, but pretty striking all the same:
Now take a look at the lower right-hand corner of the picture, at the little blue shed containing Aruna Automobiles All Two Wheeler Service. Here it is in its proper scale:
Now take a look at the lower right-hand corner of the picture, at the little blue shed containing Aruna Automobiles All Two Wheeler Service. Here it is in its proper scale:
Boozards
I went out yesterday morning to buy some beer. Before the state government took over the liquor business, one could enter a respectable place and choose from a fairly wide selection of Indian liquor (no wine, though, even though there is quite decent Indian wine, and even though liquor stores are called Wine Shops).
Now, though, the liquor stores are filthy, with only the cheapest brands on sale, and are apparently intended to convey the message that if you keep alcohol in your home you are destined for one of the lower circles of hell. Drink in hotels or clubs (independent restaurants aren't allowed to sell alcohol) - fine. Drink at home - hell.
I went to a Wine Shop on the corner of Mandaveli High Road and C.P. Ramaswamy Road, because I was headed to Cinema Paradiso. I walked inside the gate. A group of what the Indian press used to call boozards clustered around the doorless opening to the Wine Shop. To the left was a makeshift stall featuring some kind of bright orange-red fried snacks. I walked through the assemblage to the counter, told the man inside that I wanted some Kingfisher beer, which fortunately he had, and waited while he hauled a case from the back of the small room.
As I stood there, I felt a tapping on my shoulder. I turned, and a horrible looking, toothless fellow grinned at me and said, "Hello, Madam." I said quietly in Tamil, "Don't touch me." He immediately stepped back, and one of his comrades said, "Sorry Madam." I paid for my beer and carried it out to my car. It was nothing at all, really, it ended almost as it began; yet it upset me.
I would be grateful if someone could a) tell me where to find a decent Wine Shop in Chennai with a good selection of stuff; and b) why did the Government take over this business in the first place? They were already auctioning off licenses to run the Wine Shops for large sums, and there's already a tax on every bottle sold. Why did they need to take over alcohol retailing?
The beer was good. But that's another story.
Now, though, the liquor stores are filthy, with only the cheapest brands on sale, and are apparently intended to convey the message that if you keep alcohol in your home you are destined for one of the lower circles of hell. Drink in hotels or clubs (independent restaurants aren't allowed to sell alcohol) - fine. Drink at home - hell.
I went to a Wine Shop on the corner of Mandaveli High Road and C.P. Ramaswamy Road, because I was headed to Cinema Paradiso. I walked inside the gate. A group of what the Indian press used to call boozards clustered around the doorless opening to the Wine Shop. To the left was a makeshift stall featuring some kind of bright orange-red fried snacks. I walked through the assemblage to the counter, told the man inside that I wanted some Kingfisher beer, which fortunately he had, and waited while he hauled a case from the back of the small room.
As I stood there, I felt a tapping on my shoulder. I turned, and a horrible looking, toothless fellow grinned at me and said, "Hello, Madam." I said quietly in Tamil, "Don't touch me." He immediately stepped back, and one of his comrades said, "Sorry Madam." I paid for my beer and carried it out to my car. It was nothing at all, really, it ended almost as it began; yet it upset me.
I would be grateful if someone could a) tell me where to find a decent Wine Shop in Chennai with a good selection of stuff; and b) why did the Government take over this business in the first place? They were already auctioning off licenses to run the Wine Shops for large sums, and there's already a tax on every bottle sold. Why did they need to take over alcohol retailing?
The beer was good. But that's another story.
Wall Painting
I drove out to do some errands today, determined that I would not return without at least one photograph. I was just rounding the corner from Kasturi Ranga Road into Cathedral Road, when a wall-painting of MGR (late filmstar-turned-politician) in his Douglas Fairbanks Jr. incarnation caught my eye.
They are an eclectic group, a backdrop to a vendor of wadais and tea, and a couple of tire and bicycle repairmen. Perhaps their customers are the target audience for the paintings. I photographed them in sequence — here, we are reading from right to left, beginning with MGR on the corner and moving backward:
Mother Teresa, with the Congress Party flag next on the right. To the right of the flag is the picture of MGR, shown above, representing the AIADMK Party — two political allies side by side
To the left of Mother Theresa, Jesus with collaged Ganesh calendar
Jesus abuts a cycle repair stand, with collaged filmstars
Ganesh and the Ka’aba
Surgical
We went to a surgical supply store, because R wanted to look at digital blood pressure readers. They had several models, all made in China; but I was attracted to the anatomy models.
I wanted to buy this one, to keep in the house as a sculpture. I asked one of the two girls who stood around without obvious functions, except to follow the owner's orders, what it cost. She turned to the owner and said, "Sir?" He said, not unpleasantly, "Why are you always telling me 'Sir, Sir,' you don't know anything for yourself?" Meanwhile, R had shot me a look which said very plainly, "Don't even think about it" - and I had a feeling that he might be right - so I didn't pursue it.
As we were leaving I thanked the owner for not minding my taking photographs. He waved his hand and said, "No problem." R told him, "She's going to put these pictures on her website." He said, "Fine, and you might just mention the name of my company at the same time." So here it is: Madan Surgical Corp. on Mount Road, next to Pioneer Sports.
The store was very small and narrow. Three men, including R, sat on stools on one side of the counter, with the proprietor, a round-faced Punjabi, standing behind it. They were all talking and R was joking with them, as though it were a bar and the owner the bartender.
I also liked the head with acupuncture sites marked in Chinese, and the giant gums and teeth. There were plenty of Chinese goods in the store. In fact, it seemed to have just about everything, stowed away in nooks and crannies. The proprietor was not able to give his full attention to anyone, because his cell phone rang continuously. The two men sitting beside R began to look impatient; R said they were buyers for a nursing home, with a big order, and would be expecting a commission for themselves.
Rickshaw Kaarar, behind NSC Bose Rd., Nov. 2005
(I had originally titled this post 'Rickshaw Kaaran' - but renamed it, using the more respectful 'Kaarar', after reading the comments below.)
Cafe Mocha
We went to Cafe Mocha, a new and fashionable place on newly fashionable Khader Nawaz Khan Road. It's a franchise of a popular cafe in Mumbai. Most of the tables are outside, in a cool and breezy area (not sure how it will be when the hot season strikes), floored with sand and strewn with an amazing miscellany of furniture. There is a long table with a water channel running down the middle and a Buddha's head at one end; there is a big wrought iron bed with a gaddi (thin mattress) with a small table placed on it -- the kind from which one might eat breakfast in bed. There are planter's chairs and sling chairs, rough granite slabs and barrels. There is Middle-Eastern music in the background, and hookahs to order, their peach-flavoured smoke filling the air.
It was bustling, even at 2:00 in the afternoon. Virtually everyone but us appeared to be under thirty, and there were many more women than men. Almost everyone wore jeans. I wondered if these were the call centre workers who are so much in the news these days, with some money to burn and plenty of time to sit around in the middle of the day.
I had a cafe zabaglione, which, according to the (large) menu, actually contained marsala; which is strange, because as far as I know, alocohol cannot be served in a restaurant in Tamil Nadu unless it is attached to a hotel with a certain amount of beds. There was probably no more than a teaspoon of it for flavour; maybe that doesn't count. Anyway, it was good, and so was the panino with cream cheese and japlapenos, served with a small dish of pesto.
R wasn't crazy about the sand-covered ground or the ragbag furniture; and I was trapped in a sling chair, with my posterior about one inch above the ground, and my knees unnervingly close to my chin. But I wanted to enjoy it, and I did. And the people around me seemed to be feeling the same way. All of this -- food, drink and ambience -- would have been unimaginably exotic a few years ago. Now, if not routine, at least it's available at several places around town. Chennai's changing.
It was bustling, even at 2:00 in the afternoon. Virtually everyone but us appeared to be under thirty, and there were many more women than men. Almost everyone wore jeans. I wondered if these were the call centre workers who are so much in the news these days, with some money to burn and plenty of time to sit around in the middle of the day.
I had a cafe zabaglione, which, according to the (large) menu, actually contained marsala; which is strange, because as far as I know, alocohol cannot be served in a restaurant in Tamil Nadu unless it is attached to a hotel with a certain amount of beds. There was probably no more than a teaspoon of it for flavour; maybe that doesn't count. Anyway, it was good, and so was the panino with cream cheese and japlapenos, served with a small dish of pesto.
R wasn't crazy about the sand-covered ground or the ragbag furniture; and I was trapped in a sling chair, with my posterior about one inch above the ground, and my knees unnervingly close to my chin. But I wanted to enjoy it, and I did. And the people around me seemed to be feeling the same way. All of this -- food, drink and ambience -- would have been unimaginably exotic a few years ago. Now, if not routine, at least it's available at several places around town. Chennai's changing.
Demolition Day 5
Hotel Oceanic, on Santhome High Road. I've never been closer than this - it stopped being a hotel long ago, though I've been told that it was quite glamorous in its day. Lately it has been used as a location for film-shootings. Recently someone wanted to renovate it and make it into a boutique hotel, but that didn't work out. Now it has fallen to the building boom which is transforming the city.
Part of the arch leading into the hotel grounds, which have been blocked with a chain and padlock ever since I've seen the place. I never had the nerve to jump over the chain and take a look inside.
I had a fantasy, which I named A Weekend at the Oceanic: people in elegant clothes, and this crumbling building in the background. Nadira in a glittering long gown singing 'Mudmudke na dekh' ('Don't look back').
(My [not a masterpiece] painting of the Oceanic, based on these photographs, is here.)
(Update: Nadira, Hindi film star of the fifties, died on 9 February 2006.)
Errands and Such
I went to the post office and stood in line at the stamp window, which was surrounded with several hand-written signs, all of which read "Revenue Stamps No Stock."
Bought my stamps, posted my letter in the postbox by the door.
In the Department of Insignificant Things, it's a disaster when your tongue cleaner breaks, and you realise you don't have any more, and being absent-minded you keep forgetting to buy new ones, and your tongue feels ickier and ickier, until you start using old credit cards, etc. Today I finally managed to get to a fancy store, which is where you have to go to buy them. (A fancy store sells oddments -- 'fancies,' I suppose -- small things that other places don't sell, impossible to describe -- a complete miscellany.) And bought 30, skewered together with a safety pin. And a roll of cloth tape for nadas, the drawstrings of pajamas and petticoats and such.
And then I bought groceries, and had some xeroxing done, and rented two DVD's: the new Alfie, and The Motorcycle Diaries.
And we're having biryani for dinner tonight, with raita and ready-made makhani dal -- very exotic for us, not at all our usual simplified-Gujarati fare. In the Department of Insignificant Things, it's a pretty good day.
Update: Dinesh's interesting comment: In my line of work [entomology], the fancy store was invaluable. I often found myself using stuff from there in my field work. For example, I used those garish neon ribbons (the ones school girls use to tie their braids) in order to mark spider colonies. It was quite a sight to see. And here's a link re: the postboxes: The Indian PO
Bought my stamps, posted my letter in the postbox by the door.
In the Department of Insignificant Things, it's a disaster when your tongue cleaner breaks, and you realise you don't have any more, and being absent-minded you keep forgetting to buy new ones, and your tongue feels ickier and ickier, until you start using old credit cards, etc. Today I finally managed to get to a fancy store, which is where you have to go to buy them. (A fancy store sells oddments -- 'fancies,' I suppose -- small things that other places don't sell, impossible to describe -- a complete miscellany.) And bought 30, skewered together with a safety pin. And a roll of cloth tape for nadas, the drawstrings of pajamas and petticoats and such.
And then I bought groceries, and had some xeroxing done, and rented two DVD's: the new Alfie, and The Motorcycle Diaries.
And we're having biryani for dinner tonight, with raita and ready-made makhani dal -- very exotic for us, not at all our usual simplified-Gujarati fare. In the Department of Insignificant Things, it's a pretty good day.
Update: Dinesh's interesting comment: In my line of work [entomology], the fancy store was invaluable. I often found myself using stuff from there in my field work. For example, I used those garish neon ribbons (the ones school girls use to tie their braids) in order to mark spider colonies. It was quite a sight to see. And here's a link re: the postboxes: The Indian PO
Through the Windshield
At Gemini Circle this afternoon. I took the picture - with my cell phone - because I admired the peacock painted on the back of the truck, and saw for the umpteenth time the contrasts of the world -- me in my car with the windows closed and the air-conditioner on, listening to a Brahms clarinet sonata on the CD player; and the man in front of me, sitting on sacks of goods. And the enormous hoardings, messages in the sky, advertising products he can never buy, and so on and so on.
More Waiting
I was waiting yet again. Two women, working-class women, behind me were talking animatedly in Tamil. When it's Tamil I have to pay attention to understand it, and when something doesn't concern me I often don't pay attention, preferring to let waves of sound wash over me and go elsewhere. But suddenly I heard an English phrase, "Love is short, life is long," and began to listen. The woman hesitated, thought it wasn't quite right, and said, "No, love is long, life is short." I liked it better the first time. They were talking about a young girl who was being unreasonable. A match had been proposed to her, with a boy who had a good job, along with which decent quarters had been provided. But she was holding out for love? And, approximately, "How she talks, using all English words. What does she think of herself?"
In Court 2
I went again with my friend to the court, and did some sketching:
The opposing lawyer is not here. My friend's lawyer is angry. "I called him to find out why he didn't come. He's just sitting in his chamber. He said he didn't know the date. How can it be?" He complains to the judge. "Your Honour, you must give ex parte judgment." The judge smiles slightly, says, "I cannot give an ex parte judgment, sir."
The lawyer turns to us, exasperated. "This lawyer, he puts tika (i.e., he wears the forehead-mark of a religious man) and lies."
Time passes. Nothing much is happening. The lawyer examines his hands.
The judge also waits. A lawyer walks in, speaks to him, he replies, then there is silence again, except for the chuff-chuff-chuff of the three ceiling fans.
Finally the opposing lawyer does arrive, with a rueful grimace.
The two lawyers go through their routines: "You promise to speak truth?" "Yes." In a few minutes it's over.
In Court
I went with a friend to a court hearing for a small matter, and took these notes:
Ceiling fans whirr. A faded litho of Manu the Lawgiver on the wall behind the judge, and below that a name in large letters: G.R. Thangamaligai – a prominent jeweller here – can it also be the judge's name? No, it's a wall calendar, supplied by the jewellery company.
The lawyers in black robes face each other across a dark wooden table. The opposing lawyer has a two-day stubble, oiled grey hair, a vermillion tika on his forehead, steel-rimmed glasses. He smiles at us. He must have been quite handsome when he was young, but shabbiness has overtaken him.
The walls are washed yellow up to about six feet high, greyish-white above. Deeply recessed, arched windows. Metal beams on the ceiling. Wooden benches and stiff wooden chairs with white plastic canework, set around the walls for the petitioners. Tube lights suspended from the ceiling at the end of metal rods. Surrounding the judge, wooden cupboards and shelves crammed with ancient files.
The judge, who looks neat and serious, talks quietly to the lawyers. A woman calls out case numbers. The court reporter taps on a manual typewriter – you can hear the separate sound when he presses the shift key for upper case letters, and when he slides the carriage return brrrrrrrrrrr along its track. There is a computer, but no one is using it. The proceedings are in Tamil. The lawyer says something, waits for the typist, speaks again.
I can't understand anything, but very soon the hearing is over. Nothing seems to have happened. A new date is given.
The opposing lawyer's ragged black gown, flapping behind him as he walks away.
Ceiling fans whirr. A faded litho of Manu the Lawgiver on the wall behind the judge, and below that a name in large letters: G.R. Thangamaligai – a prominent jeweller here – can it also be the judge's name? No, it's a wall calendar, supplied by the jewellery company.
The lawyers in black robes face each other across a dark wooden table. The opposing lawyer has a two-day stubble, oiled grey hair, a vermillion tika on his forehead, steel-rimmed glasses. He smiles at us. He must have been quite handsome when he was young, but shabbiness has overtaken him.
The walls are washed yellow up to about six feet high, greyish-white above. Deeply recessed, arched windows. Metal beams on the ceiling. Wooden benches and stiff wooden chairs with white plastic canework, set around the walls for the petitioners. Tube lights suspended from the ceiling at the end of metal rods. Surrounding the judge, wooden cupboards and shelves crammed with ancient files.
The judge, who looks neat and serious, talks quietly to the lawyers. A woman calls out case numbers. The court reporter taps on a manual typewriter – you can hear the separate sound when he presses the shift key for upper case letters, and when he slides the carriage return brrrrrrrrrrr along its track. There is a computer, but no one is using it. The proceedings are in Tamil. The lawyer says something, waits for the typist, speaks again.
I can't understand anything, but very soon the hearing is over. Nothing seems to have happened. A new date is given.
The opposing lawyer's ragged black gown, flapping behind him as he walks away.
In the Waiting Room 2
Rachel of Velveteen Rabbi told me about Elizabeth Bishop's poem, In the Waiting Room. I like Bishop a lot, but didn't know this poem. Bishop did wonderful things with traditional forms, but this is much looser, and conveys the boredom, incomprehension, and sometimes terror, of waiting:
More Elizabeth Bishop at the Academy of American Poets
In the Waiting Room
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited I read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
--"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their breasts were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain
--Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance
--I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities--
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging breasts--
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How--I didn't know any
word for it--how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.
More Elizabeth Bishop at the Academy of American Poets
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