- Guru Ranganathan
After roaming around in kormangala at forum Bangalore, I was looking for an autorickshaw to go to my friends place. And I happen to be from Chennai . Autowallas in bangalore are totally a different breed from Chennai, while autowallas in Chennai crave for their business, these guys are not bothered! to make it clear the scenario is like this:
In Chennai if you ask a auto guy at 4am to take you to Tambaram which is the city end , he would be ready to, but would be greedy too. Where as in Bangalore if you ask a auto guy to take you to St. Johns from Kormangala all at the same time they would say a Big No.
While thinking about this and talking to myself about how they are, I hear an auto guy calling me “Guru, elli hog beku” which means Guru,where do you want to go! I was just startled and automatically a lot of questions were creeping in my mind..How did this Guy know my name, was he a school time friend of mine who dropped out of the school? Was he the guy who I fought with that day when I was drunk? Was he a Guy who was near my house in Chennai? Lots of questions… I sat in the rick and on the go he grumbled about the traffic , the pub culture e.tc., and finally he dropped me.. I did not ask how he knew my name because the conversations which we had did not show that he knew me and something stopped me from asking.
I came to my friends place and told him about this strange Autodriver who knew my name, He in turn laughed and laughed and made me look like a joker …That is when I came to know “Guru” is a word used to address people in bangalore.
Strange But true!!
- By Avinash Y
I was born here in 1986. Lived here till 1993. I went back to this place after Sep 1993 in Jul 2010. It was a quaint little town and I shouldn’t have remembered anything from the place. But somehow though I’ve been in bigger cities with better infrastructure had more fun, this place reminds me of the longing I have to become a child again. I remember my friend’s names but not their faces, the things I did but not the places, the fun I had but not how I had it. Its like I visited this place in my dream but my birth certificate and an old TC(Transfer Certificate) remind me it was all too real.
The time I lived in Tirunelveli was the time when Star was something in the sky and cartoon was Tom and Jerry on a VCR (do you remember what it was). The only form of entertainment in the evening on the tele was a programme called “Oliyum Oliyum” which used to show the latest songs in tamil. Funnily my mother tongue was Telugu. Hence I used to play on the streets with friends who I remember but haven’t contacted in ages. I dont even know how I will contact them now.
My weekends were typically spent by accompanying my mother for some of her kitty parties organized by the wives of IAS/IPS officers who were friends of dad. I still fondly have a photograph of sitting on the lap of the Collector of Tirunelveli during the independence day parade of some year. Its also a place where my parents have the fondest memories of me. Somehow despite all that happened, I never think I found that memory happy memories in the other cities I lived in. Or maybe I just like to think that the place I was born kept me the happiest.
Things I love about Tirunelveli which I discovered on the train journey to that place is how people are still simple in wants, courteous by nature & polite with their words. In that place money does not define your social circle. the snootiness was missing, the flashiness was not there. I was in the train with a gentleman who had studied till 8th standard but built an empire of over 1000cr on his own. he still owned a Nokia 1500 along with the latest HTC. but he didn’t care which phone he used!!!
He spoke cheerfully about the 440 acre organic farming project he was doing with the same ease as morning tennis he plays with the who’s who in Chennai. the best part about this place I realised was the lack of airs and the avoidance of any sort of false pretenses. These people were happy with whatever they had and whoever they are, the whole world be damned. I’m glad that part of my place of birth has stayed with me till now. I hope that never goes away, wherever I may go.
Its been a while. I have been traveling, trying to settle down. Again. A new city, new work place, new room to stay, new weather, new traffic, new computer, new people, new food, new commute, new daily schedule. And this is the probably the fifteenth time in the past seven years, since I left home at eighteen.
Hostels, paying guests, apartments, hotels, college, work, school,internships,vacations at home …time has flown by. While unpacking my luggage last night I was wondering what do I call home? The apartments which change sooner than I can adjust myself to a good night’s sleep? The kitchens where I microwave frozen food, which I never equip completely assuming I will do it once I settle down finally, someday. Restrooms where I never get quite adapted to the mirror or the layout. The walls which are not mine, either they are adorned by photographs of families I don’t know or they are bare. I make do by putting up the few photos of family a nd friends that I always carry, on my bedside. The cities whose roads I do not know. My suitcases and bags have to be kept handy all the time since I know my stay here is temporary.
Gone are those days when our family suitcases would come out once a year to be packed before a summer holiday trip. Mom would spend a week trying to ensure all the stuff that everyone will need was taken care of, lists were made, clothes were pressed and on the final day the suitcase was secured by tiny metal locks. Before taking off we would lock the windows and doors, let our maid go for her yearly vacation to her village and inform our neighbors that we are going to be away and that they should keep an eye on our “home”.
At the end of the vacation all I wanted to do was sleep on my own bed under the same ceiling fan, the noise of which I was so accustomed to that without it I wouldn’t get a good night’s sleep. Looking out of the window to find familiar faces in the neighborhood, eating at the dining table, where I had my early meals as a toddler, on plates, that had been demoted to serve regular meals cause they could not be served to guests. The water from the steel filte r seemed the safest to drink, the taste of the food, though we complained about it being boring everyday, was tuned to our palates. The shower head, though gushed out water with more strength than I would want, seemed like the only thing that could cleanse all the dirt.
The sound of familiar voices, the feel of familiar touch, the warmth of home.
The balcony where I have spent all my afternoons reading, playing sitting under the washed school uniforms which hung from the rope to dry and where my grandmom has narrated so many a story while tying my hair in plaits.
The book case which housed my new brown-paper covered text books and the new story books bought at the book fair in January every year , the collection which had grown from Enid Blyton to Arundhati Roy accompanied all the way by Tinitin and Tinkle and of course my encyclopedias. Its all there in the glass doored wooden book case with my name handwritten by me – my years of wisdom.
The Godrej steel almirahs where Ma has stored our childhood clothes for our next generation to wear, with napthalene balls preserving them. The wall hangings collected from our trips, the paintings and photographs which I were a part of.
The furniture whose corners had hurt my sister’s and my knees while we ran around the living room chasing each other. The study table which was a s upport for so many years of my education especially during long nights before board exams, the drawers where I stored my secrets, the dressing table where I had sat and tried my first makeup.
The television, music system, refrigerator and microwave which still serve us faithfully. The living room echoes the noises of the late night get-togethers, trivial arguments and birthday parties. The bedrooms remind me of the times when all four of us slept in the same bed because there was only one air-conditioner to keep us cool on humid summer nights. The staircases, the patterns of whose tiles are etched in my memory.
The large Gulmohar tree, the tubewell, the grocery store..they all stand there the same.That’s my home. It does not have the amenities I would have liked it to have or interior decoration that I have dreamt of. But I don’t think I can call anything else *home*.
To convert just a comfort zone to a home would take years of memories and familiarity. Hope I get there someday. Till then I’ll miss home.
Yes, yes, Chennai is hot. And humid. And dusty. And Chennai’s autowallahs are the kings of overcharging. Yes, Chennai, despite the prevalence of pubs and discos, is still probably the most conservative metro in India. But, despite all this(or is it because of all this?) Chennai is the first love of my life. Nothing can come close to the rush of affection I feel for this city. And it’s not even as if I have spent all my life in Chennai. I’ve had minor and major flings with other cities. But in every other place, I’ve managed to grumble and find flaws. It’s not as if Chennai is perfect, it’s just that I love my city, imperfections, flaws, et al.
Some random thoughts about images that keep flashing my mind, when I think about the only city that i call my hometown….
*Chennaiites’ love for “The Hindu” and filter coffee is inexplicable. Say what you will, but in my humble opinion, not even Pink Floyd + alcohol could possibly beat this combination.
* Bessy beach – simply the best hangout in the city, whether you’re with your significant other, friends or family. Beaches have this amazing tendency of manipulate your emotions ranging from wacky, soulful, romantic to philosophical (And sorry Hyderabadis, Necklace Road comes NO WHERE close)
*Renganathan Street – the ultimate shopping destination for rich and poor alike.
*MAC Stadium – the place which prompted a commentator to deem the cricket crazy crowd as “one of the most sporting ever” after a standing ovation given to the opposing team, albeit India’s loss.
*Yes, of course, my love for idly, dosa and sambar.
Miss you, Chennai. (And as I like to call it rarely – Madras).
- Sangeeta Pillai Lander
Displaced? Me?
I’ve always dreamed of exotic travel – even when I was a little girl growing up in a crowded one-bedroom suburban Mumbai apartment within a family of five. I dreamed, yes, but never thought it was possible. And wonder of wonders, I now live in another country and I explore different countries every few months. The act of stepping into a plane and passing through another immigration queue feels like passing through an alternative reality – you emerge at the other end feeling like a more exciting, exotic version of yourself.
But who is this person? I’d say “Indian” in a flash. Yet my passport says “British”. The strange thing is – I’m not sure what I feel. Indian or British? Neither or both?
When I moved to the UK four years ago, everything felt strange. The air tasted different, crisper with a hint of the red double-decker buses and cut-glass accents of my imagination. The smells were amazing – I remember stepping off the plane at Heathrow and thinking, “Wow, they must use a lot of perfume here.” Everything smelt so good, so polished. The accents were different, and some downright confusing particularly the Glaswegian and Northern ones.
The amazing thing about my particular displacement is – I don’t feel displaced at all. I feel like I’ve got my feet planted on Indian and European soil at the same time. Now while that sounds extremely unbalanced, the truth is it’s actually quite comfortable.
I live in the UK, work in the UK, party in the UK, grow every day in the UK into a more well rounded person (I like to think). London is an incredibly inspiring melting pot – it absorbs all sorts of nationalities, people and ideas. It lets you be who you are, and in fact enhances who you are. I love waking up on a Saturday morning spoilt for choice – I could discover a new artist or explore art works from old masters. I could eat a Turkish, Swedish or Sri Lankan lunch. I could take a walk along the river and see the sights and hear the sounds from a city that’s rich in centuries-old history. I could hear some un-recognised yet brilliant musicians. The options are endless and exciting.
But I also make sure I spend a few weeks every year in India. The strange thing is – the moment I step onto Indian soil, I become Indian. My accent becomes Indian, my body and brain become Indian. It feels like I never left. There’s none of that expected – oh gosh, everything looks and feels different. To me, it feels exactly how it did when I left 4 years ago. I feel myself seep into India and India seeping back into me.
And yes, I become more British when I return. I talk incessantly about the weather. I whine about this, that and the other. I live for the weekends – and make sure I extract every moment’s worth of fun from every one of them. In fact, I plan each weekend ahead sometimes a few months in advance. (I used to complain about this supposed lack of spontaneity when I first moved here and now I do exactly the same thing!)
I seem to have developed this almost chameleon-like ability to become one with my background. I am Indian. I am British. I am neither. I am both.
There is something I should mention – I live in a very Indian neighborhood. In fact, out of all the neighborhoods I could’ve chosen in London – I chose to live in an Indian one. Nothing warms my heart like the sight of a new south Indian eatery opening up on my street. I walk around on Diwali day beaming at the all the lamps and diyas on the street, all the Bollywood belching out of the stereos, the firecrackers exploding in the sky.
So maybe that’s the secret of my non-displacement. As a friend remarked, “You live in India and then get on the tube and go to work in London”. That about sums it up, I think.
Does it really matter how you define yourself? In the midst of this endless galaxy within galaxies, among all the infinite stars and planets – surely all that really matters is that you feel at home among what really is a finite number of countries and nationalities. Maybe they should start issuing passports soon for a new nationality – Earth-ian. You’d be surprised at the number of applicants queuing up for that one.
(Pic via Carl Lee on Flickr)
I don’t know if I’ve been attached to any particular city. I was never part of Bombay’s pulse – I always felt as though I led an existence parallel to it. I might wish to be buried on Vassar’s grounds in Poughkeepsie, if I wished to be buried – and Bath – Bath is
my idea of heaven. New jersey’s greenery surprises me, and its roads bore me. New York is all very well, but too noisy and lonely all at once for me. So if I never felt attached to any place, how could I feel displaced? But I do.
You see, the balance of power in my life has shifted. I have teetered off the pedestal I had been placed on, and now I stand askew, one leg pointed up, waiting to be placed in the direction I am to be ordered in. Hence I stand, face pointed down, like an immortalized clumsy ballet dancer. Note the porcelain face, the graceful neck, contrasted with that ugly, unnatural pose. I am dangerously close to falling, looking into an abyss that I have no idea how to emerge from.
But this odd limbo has given me plenty of time to think, and feel, and learn to not feel. And cry and cry and realize that I still do. And in trying to mentally erase myself from existence ive made my physical presence all the more substantial through the staying power of chocolates. Ive felt alien for so long that I’ve forgotten what it is to be at home.
But I do know what home means, to me. Home is a place where I don’t have to be afraid of what I say and to whom. Where there are no repercussions and no blame. Where I am strong enough, brave enough, right enough, mature enough. Where what I feel and what I think and who I am, mistakes, stupidity, silliness and all, has a valid place. It’s a place deep inside me that no one knows, that no one can even fathom. It’s a place that’s waiting for me to stumble across it on a quiet glossy morning, and it’s a place that’ll never make me want to go back to this other one that I’m in.
If home is where the heart is, it’s high time I find mine.
“When you have lived at a place long enough, every place seems small – a house, a city , a country.”
I read the above line in a Chuck Palahniuk novel ,The Diary, and instantly related to it. With the combination of me living in various hostels and my dad having a transferable job, I have lived in a lot of places. And eventually got tired of them. Though I loved every place initially , eventually they threatened to hold me captive – to their roads, petty customs and familiar people. They became suffocating. I wanted to get out because there was so much I had not seen and wanted to see. I was and still am afraid to belong to anywhere or anyone.
Then I went to college in a sleepy little town in Tamil Nadu called Vellore. There was not much there except our college. No Baristas or McDonalds. Just a place called Naidu Mess where you could get idlis for 2 bucks and coffee for 3, a small tea shop which opened at 4 am where we went in the morning(often without money) for something to eat and smoke. In this small town i smoked my first cigarette and had my first drink. Here i found ayn rand , metal and the occasional joint. Got expelled from my hostel and also got the best pay package at the placements. A little bit of everything. Met a wonderful friend whose philosophy in life is – “I” place my wants before my needs.”
It was here that I met that girl. That girl who came into my life silently. I gave her, her first cigarette( with a $ drawn on its butt as in Atlas Shrugged) and she gave me a love I had least expected of her. She was enigmatic; she was mature yet childish, daring yet conservative , deeply attached to some things and people yet equally scared of attachment, strong yet very fragile. I never could understand her, she understood me completely. Against the backdrop of Vellore, along with her, I went through the extreme of emotions -love , passion, jealousy and heartburn. Vellore was the thread which held us together for a long time, more than what was good for her, less than what was enough for me.
Its been around two years since my umbilical cord with Vellore was cut. Yet I reminisce fondly about all the things that Vellore was, but more than anything, for someone who has been pathologically homeless – it was a place he called home.
- Photo & Words by Maneesh Phatak
I was born in Bombay. My first few nappy changes brought along a heady rush of smells, sights and sounds as my parents took connecting trains and planes, shifting across the length and breadth of India bag, baggage, two bawling kids and 42 wooden boxes in tow. Pathankot, Chandigarh, Kanpur, Silchar (in Assam), Poona, New Delhi, Bareilly, Bangalore, Mumbai, New Delhi, Pune and so on. 29 houses in 31 years to be precise. And a bunch of muddled and not so muddled memories.
Of numerous housekeepers. One really nice gardener. One nutty nanny in Silchar who insisted on feeding us milk and rice with sugar on top. Moving from large bungalows with picturesque gardens to shared accommodation in Air Force transit camps. From cramped whitewashed flats to large apartments overlooking the Arabian Sea. Memories of gardens winning first prize every year to Assamese Bashas made out of bamboo and nothing else. Ones that gave up their roofs to the gale-force winds in the North Eastern monsoons. And if not the roof blowing off, springing leaks that only large plastic sheets stretched under them could aim the leakage towards strategically placed buckets and pans.
There was a time I remember, when the monthly ration the peak-capped boffins in New Delhi sent, was a planeload of tinned biscuits and that is all the whole Air Force station had to eat that week.
Our extensive Poona garden with numerous fruit trees to swing and climb, from Mango and Guava, to Banana and Sugarcane. And the shock to discover that our happy playground was home to a huge brown snake. The long cycle rides in the cantonment roads chasing each other, playing catch and cook. The chance encounter with a girl after school, while waiting for our dads to pick us up, who was the only one ever to have made me go weak in the knees, all at the rather young age of ten. And later, becoming friends with her, knowing fully well it was never meant to be. Picking ‘Ber’ and dipping them in little packets of salt, carried just for such encounters on our secret short cuts in the Aravali hills. Roller skating from Subroto Park to Dhaula Kuan and back, racing trucks on the national highway. Hurried Table Tennis in the lunch break. Playing cricket every day, even during exam time and paying the penalty for it. The rod, I remember, was not spared.
When two boxes full of books collected, no treasured, over the years, had no place in a small house in Bangalore and were sent for storage in HAL. And after a year when we moved to our official house, to discover all that was left of them were little bits of paper chewed up by rats in a hungry frenzy. Or sheer frustration.
Or later in college, experiencing a culture shock of civilian kids and their completely different lifestyles and upbringing. The biggest being the perceived lax morals, having grown up in the city versus being closeted in insulated cantonments far away. An example of that being when I got my driving license, the regular way, paying the 45 rupee fee, while my classmates boasted how they didn’t even have to make a trip to the RTO office. They got theirs in hand by paying a princely sum of Rs. 300 to a tout.
The irritating times trying to convince traffic cops that the reason my scooter, car and bike had alien license plates was because my father had a transferable job and CHU 4844 was a 25-year-old Chandigarh legacy my father refused to give up, even when the papers were lost. Or hiding the fact that CKA 2432 was deregistered in Bangalore and then never re-registered, ever again. And UTF 9 was an IPS officer’s car and getting salutes from cops was an embarrassment to be savored in secretive glee behind its dark tinted windows.
When I joined advertising in 1996, the mad world actually helped stabilize my life. In fact, Mumbai has now been my home for the longest period of time. After moving three more times, I moved to a place right across the road from the hospital I was born in (Dr. Pai’s, Matunga) almost like a fitting end to the journey so far. And a poetic way to begin at the beginning. To put things in perspective, I have one friend from school, a handful from college, no neighbours or neighbourhood friends and a whole lot of agency friends. Or rather, friends who happen to be in advertising. I am glad with what I have.
- By Joyeeta Patpatia
Sometimes your city can displace you. From who you are, how you feel, what you are and what you want to be. I felt displaced in Bombay.
Every now and then I dreamt of escape. From the grime, sweat, hard work, tired feet and the noise. Oh the noise.
I spent the first 7 years of my life in a remote little place in Oman called Salalah. We lived in (multiple) pretty little houses by the sea, went for picnics, flew giant kites, buried dead grasshoppers (toothpick cross included) and slept peacefully in the world of The Brothers Grimm.
We visited my grandmother in Bombay every year, and my mother tells me I tiptoed on the streets so that the brown mud wouldn’t touch me. But how I loved those visits! The black and grey checks on the stone floor, the white wooden ladder that led to the loft in the house, the mithaiwala who came home every morning, were all so absolutely, intoxicatingly exotic!
We moved to Bombay after a short stint in Hyderabad, when I was 14.
The exoticness remained, I was still enthralled by everything Bombay, the smell of rain, smelly train stations, the massive red double decker buses…I felt alive and lucky to be experiencing “the exotic” everyday!
Work took me right into the thick of things. Advertising and films kept me on the streets for about 4 years. I explored every lane on the pretext of a recce, I took cab rides alone at 3 am just for the adventure(I almost got kidnapped once, so my efforts for adventure paid off!)
My friends and I lay down on marine drive after a hard night of partying, talking and laughing at the edge of the black night sea.
But often I felt trapped by the familiar. The routine slowly started sapping the exoticness out of my world. The crowds began to suffocate me, the metro construction made my street ugly.
I moved to Bangalore last November, after a very happy, fun wedding and an excellent adventure in Greece and Turkey.
I thought finally I’m in another city, on my own without family or familiar comforts. I loved the trees, the flowers, the glorious weather. I felt like I’m on holiday!
Its so quiet here. I can often hear my thoughts, and somehow I’m so uncomfortable with that. I finish work and reach home in 10 minutes. Theres no crazed rush for the train, theres no 1 hour auto rides with a view of the sea through dried fish. There’s no Baristas in the evening and Taj loos at night. There is nothing but time. Which leads to thoughts and analysis.
It makes me sad. I want to be busy so that I can immerse myself in finding the new ‘exotic’. But its not rushing at me like it did before. Its not like this city doesn’t have magic, but it’s a different kind. Slow magic maybe.
Untill I find it, love it, drain it, here I am, displaced again.
Click “View in Full Screen’ to see the first issue. Design credit goes to Manoj Damodaran. Stories have been contributed by Dsplaced members. Would love to hear your thoughts!!