Chez Moi

One of the best things about growing up in Chennai, IMHO, is the accessibility to one of the best hangouts in the world, Elliot’s Beach. All through my school and college life, this beach was the ultimate cool hangout. There was a hierarchy to the place and one picked up on it pretty soon.

The layout of the beach is such that, there was a low-lying parapet wall, running alongside the bike park area and sat on this would be the sight-seers of various age, shape and size. Where you sit depends on the degree of cooldom of your clique - the closer you are to the Cozee circle, the cooler you become. To be actually sat right at the Circle is the ultimate in cooldom - that normally signals that there are no heights left to scale.

The actual beach, with the sand and the sea, is generally of no importance whatsoever. Unless you happen to be a ‘love bird’, doing a spot of billing and cooing from behind the catamarans and assorted boats, that is. To the regular folks, Elliot’s is the parapet wall and Cozee corner. There is no greater entertainment than watching the odd built bloke and the multitude of wannabe-Salman Khans strut their stuff, atop the latest motorbike.

That was then.

This Summer, when hubby mentioned ‘beach’, I responded with my normal derision. Coming from Chennai, these excuses of English beaches generally strike me as majorly funny and I never want to patronise them. The sole exception was when we visited the Isle of Wight - this being a tiddly island, one cannot escape the beach and I let the cool waters bathe my feet.

My snort was snuffed out when a shiny key was dangled in front of my eyes. Turned out, a female colleague had generously lent us her beach hut for the day. When I quizzed my work mates about Frinton and its beach huts, the resounding ‘wah-wah’s that came my way made me rethink my viewpoint of a Brit beach. In my mind’s eye, I envisioned a medium-sized cottage, something along the lines of those in Fisherman’s Cove and in jubilation we set a date.

On a fine summer’s day, we set off to Frinton, armed with all the usual paraphernalia. The whole caboodle seemed overkill to me, who had gone to the beach for the sole purpose of viewing some eye candy. As that isn’t the tack a responsible mum of a 4 year old is supposed to take, I gamely went along to buy the requisite sun block, Noddy kite, buckets, spade and other assorted gear. With the GPS in situ, we set off on a rare early note.

The miles sped by, as we bowled down the A12, aided by the disembodied voice of the Sat-Nav. After a hour long drive, we finally could see the coast in the distance and I felt an odd feeling of glee. As we neared Clacton, we could see a bit more of the sea and its bluish hue raised my spirits. Buoyed by the vista and A R Rahman, we finally entered the town of Frinton-on-Sea.

The salty air, the brisk breeze and the masses of sand (it was low tide) made me long for Elliot’s and those bygone days. Shaking off the despondent mood even as we drove around the town, I started looking out for cottage #776. To say I was disappointed was putting it mildly. I was expecting designer cottages but what awaited me were itty-bitty plank shanties on stilts!

Grinding my teeth, I looked at the instigator of this plot, who blithely went ‘M promised me there would be deck chairs and things inside so we can drag them out and relax’. Determined to enjoy myself, I started to get our things from the boot, even as hubby proceeded to the ‘beach hut’ to check out our home for the day.

Ten minutes went by, then fifteen and finally, a good half hour. By then, aided by my little man, I hauled out the kite, the hats, towels, spare sets of clothes and enough food to feed those at the beach while there still was no sign of the man. Leaving the thayir sadam to fend for itself, I dragged my son and we went looking for his missing father. To my mounting annoyance, I found him outside the hut, staring at the horizon, with a far-off look in his eye.

Even as I revved myself to come up with a few well-chosen epithets, he turned a curious shade of green. Swallowing the curses, I went with a milder ‘What gives?’

‘Er, Houston, we have a problem,’ he quipped. He finished with a sheepish grin.

‘It seems like I have forgotten to get the keys to the beach hut’.

From today, I am going to start going the writing exercises suggested by About.com. Hopefully, it will teach me a few things. Feel free to join in.
Exercise 1:

Writing Exercise: Why I Write
Length: 400 words
Time: Varies

http://freelancewrite.about.com/od/writingexercises/qt/Exercise.htm

Why I write? That is an interesting question, one I have asked myself many, many times. Why do I feel this need to write? What makes me think there’s some substance in what I write, that people would stop what they are doing and read it? I have to say, I do not know the answers to these questions. All I can say is, I write because I want to – I need to. I may not make sense, in fact, what I write might just be utter tripe but that will not make me stop writing. That may well stop people from reading it but sadly, will not stop me from continuing with writing.

I have this great need in me to write. I do believe that if I stop writing or worse, if I lose the ability to write, that will make me extremely, utterly sad. It would be like losing a limb, no exaggeration. Every time I write something, it makes me feel such a glow – doesn’t matter if it is about nothing in particular; seeing my words in print gives me such a rush, I cannot imagine going without experiencing that again and again.

Writing is a form of release, one I have come to depend on over the years. It is a way of getting rid of pent-up emotions that would undoubtedly drive me mad if kept bottled up inside. In that sense, writing is a way of giving a voice to the inner me. What is so special about my thoughts and me that I wish to air them, you ask. Well, I just don’t know the answer to that one either. Having written what I feel, I do not expect the whole of humanity to take a look at it and express its opinion. I write because I want to. But, if someone stops to read my drivel and passes a comment on it, I am not going to turn my nose at that!

Having waffled about nothing much in particular, let’s come to what I write. That is as important as the why, isn’t it? I write about what I feel – about me, about an event, about someone – my writing is my opinion of something I sit up and take notice of. It could be something as mundane as what I ate for breakfast that morning. Or something momentous, I don’t know! All I know is, I get this urge to write, I open Word, start typing and the words flow. I do not know any other way – if the words stop flowing, I just close the document and move to something else. I come back to it the next time I feel the words aching to get out of me.

Well, that’s the why and the what of it. Where I am going with it, only Time will tell.

Maami, Maami, Golu vecha sundal,
Illatti kindal!

I remember getting dressed in my pattu pavadai (silk skirts) and walking up and down our streets with my group of friends during Navrathri. Our job was to go to every house that had kept a golu, stand outside their gates and recite the above-mentioned chant. It normally resulted in the lady of the house coming out with a grin and inviting us in for that Navrathri staple. If the oldies of the house were present, then we were urged to earn the sundal by singing a song dedicated to Goddess Lakshmi, usually to their own peril.

After the resultant cacophony, we were given the thamboolam, with some steaming sundal wrapped in old newspaper. Objective accomplished, we used to rush out with the booty, devour it on the way, discuss the merits of that sundal with respect to the previous house’s efforts and then go to the next house. By the time we finished the street, it was usually dinnertime and we would all be feeling slightly sick. But that never stopped us repeating it the next day and the next, till Vijayadasami.

Why am I prattling about Navrathri and sundal now? Well, last night, when I was walking home from work, I came across many a wicked witch and evil magician walking the streets, armed with broomsticks and wands. The Jack O’ Lanterns gleamed evilly on some doorsteps and the dark creatures were on the prowl. It was Halloween after all, and pretty soon, the ubiquitous ‘trick or treat’ filled the air.

‘Treats’ in the form of teeth rotters like gooey marshmallows, toffee apples and other assorted sticky sweeties that children so love were dispersed at every house. Most of these ‘monsters’ were too little to figure out what the ‘trick’ part of the threat entailed. One tubby skeleton was really confused when I asked him what trick he had in store for me and looked ready to burst in tears as he thought he wasn’t going to get a fistful of chocolates for his trouble.

But the older ones preferred the tricks to the treats. More than a month beforehand, the Council had put up notices in shops, tersely warning the shopkeepers not to sell flour and eggs to ’suspicious looking teenagers’. To me, all teenagers look shifty-eyed at the best of times; how does one weed the ‘regular’ ones from those buying Halloween gunk? Seemed like the local teens agreed with me as some unfortunate souls got their windscreens covered in eggs, despite of the warnings.

Despite the hype and the hungama surrounding the whole Halloween thing, to me, it lacked the magic of our old Navrathri days. We dressed up in our finery and got yummy (healthy!) sundal from most houses. Belting out Carnatic music songs that bore no resemblance to the original in various sruthis was pure enjoyment. Though pain flit across several of our audiences faces, I am sure they enjoyed it too.

But the tiny terrors banging on the doors, creating a din outside definitely seemed to be having the time of their lives. Though they had the parents’ nightmare, sugar rush, to contend with at the end of the day, the accompanying adults seemed to be enjoying themselves as well. Jack O’ Lanterns flickered away and the loo rolls wafted madly in the autumn gust.

Maybe it is just I, getting jaded and old before my time. Trick or treat, anyone?