This is not yet another rant about people dropping in unannounced at all times of the day (or night for that matter). Don't get me wrong - they continue to do so with the regularity, lack of consideration, and a sense of entitlement that only Madrasis can muster. Ubiquity of fixed line phones and the near-universality of mobile phones appear not to have made one iota of difference to their visiting behaviour, which you may recall, is to arrive at any time of the day without so much as a phone call expressing their intention to do so. Some times they call us after getting no response to ringing our doorbell. So it cannot be the cost of a phone call that deters them from making that call beforehand. It must be a sense of entitlement to be received as a guest should be. Athithi Devo Bhava and all that.
Unannounced visits can be especially embarrassing; embarrassing to us, that is; the visitors are never embarrassed and are possessed of a sang-froid usually associated with cuckolding Frenchmen caught in the act. Our respective schedules are literally as different as night and day. For example, most of the visitors have had their "meals" or lunch when they arrive; we are just about contemplating breakfast which occasionally may involve eggs which is a big no-no in Tambram households. Sometimes they arrive at their "tiffin" time which is our lunchtime. We are expected to offer "tiffin" at that hour, but we are too tired and in need of a short postprandial nap to bother getting back into the kitchen. They are offended at such patent lack of courtesies, and we are offended that they are offended, and so on.
There is a school of thought, of which my father is a firm adherent and a vehement proponent, that family means not having to say they are coming. I am unable to summon up any level of enthusiasm for this view which he attributes to my "westernized" outlook and decades of absence from Madras. He dissociates himself from my decidedly family-unfriendly ways by telling callers - there are some misguided elements in this city who do call to check our convenience - that they can come anytime with an emphasis on "anytime". So far subtle hints or even brazen ones have failed to effect a change in the visiting behaviour. I suspect that their sense of entitlement far outweighs any guilt at not having called before. This is what results from a life based on self-denial.
Be that as it may.
Last evening I had an unannounced visitor. Given that Elections are around the corner this in itself is not an unusual event. Elections are occasions when people who dont think you matter come to seek your support; just in case. The visit itself was not a surprise. Of course they did not call - this is Chennai after all.
Around 7 p.m. the doorbell rang and I attended to it in my sweat-soaked tee. Outside stood a well-groomed middle-aged man and he was whispering something in tones suggestive of great reverence and awe. He was accompanied by our watchman or gatekeeper. "Gatekeeper" may be an overly-optimistic description of the role he plays for he does nothing to keep the gate; ie, he does nothing to screen visitors. He is like a traffic policeman who has been told that he can only direct traffic one way or another but not stop it in any direction.
This chap, the gatekeeper, is not a loquacious sort. He is the laconic type. He is also an ace mumbler. He uses his mumbling to great effect. When he wants to claim having informed you of something that does not want you to know, he mumbles in a most incomprehensible way. He would have made an outstanding senior Babu in our government. Think of him as Sir Humphrey Appleby with a pronounced speech defect. When he is asking for a raise or a day off he can be remarkably precise and clear. He also never smiles. Never ever. Not even when his son recently got engaged to be married and, I suspect, even when his own marriage was fixed. Last evening he had on a dazzling million dollar smile. If he had had more hair on his head or his mustache been darker, he could have passed for a Tamil starlet who just got her big break. He was smiling like a "light-boy" on a '60's movie set who got lucky with the Great Diva who made a career out of cavorting with a geriatric "hero" when not getting wet under a waterfall.
Imagine the scene, if you can, that confronted me as I opened the door: a well-dressed man speaking in hushed tones of reverence and awe, accompanied by our watchman who was smiling from ear to ear. After requesting a few repeats I gathered that some VIP had arrived in our compound and was requesting our presence. Despite the hushed reverential tones and the presence of a beaming Cheshire cat I was in no doubt that it was a demand rather than a request. Quite an art, that is: sounding reverential towards one's master (Mistress in this case) even as one sounds imperious towards the subject of one's address. It was so breathtakingly audacious that I was gobsmacked and was without a response other than, "yes of course, I shall come down to meet her".
When the door shut, and all my rage at the political class boiled over. After a short but sharp rant against them I went back to watching the mating habits of crab seals in the southern ocean when the doorbell rang again.
The flunky was there again, as was the Cheshire cat. There were two young women too, each holding a large stack of hand-bills. And there was this middle-aged woman who managed to look imperious even as she was pretending to be supplicating, and left you in no doubt that while she was obliged to put on the latter mask, the former was what she really was. The flunky once again went into a mumbling introduction. The Cheshire cat was speechlessly beaming away. She cut the flunky short and introduced herself as "the Artist's daughter".
Now in contemporary Tamil the word "artist" is exclusively used to denote a certain screenplay writer of the sixties who parlayed his screen-writing skills into a successful political career and unimaginable wealth even as the Cheshire cats remained poor as ever. They are still smiling, which beats me for they have nothing to smile about. Just so there was no doubt as to who I was dealing with, the lady added for good measure that she was the sister of a politician named after a great Soviet Dictator.
They are so confident of winning, that the rivals headed by the Diva with a penchant for standing under waterfalls did not even bother to show up and ask for my vote.
Unannounced visits can be especially embarrassing; embarrassing to us, that is; the visitors are never embarrassed and are possessed of a sang-froid usually associated with cuckolding Frenchmen caught in the act. Our respective schedules are literally as different as night and day. For example, most of the visitors have had their "meals" or lunch when they arrive; we are just about contemplating breakfast which occasionally may involve eggs which is a big no-no in Tambram households. Sometimes they arrive at their "tiffin" time which is our lunchtime. We are expected to offer "tiffin" at that hour, but we are too tired and in need of a short postprandial nap to bother getting back into the kitchen. They are offended at such patent lack of courtesies, and we are offended that they are offended, and so on.
There is a school of thought, of which my father is a firm adherent and a vehement proponent, that family means not having to say they are coming. I am unable to summon up any level of enthusiasm for this view which he attributes to my "westernized" outlook and decades of absence from Madras. He dissociates himself from my decidedly family-unfriendly ways by telling callers - there are some misguided elements in this city who do call to check our convenience - that they can come anytime with an emphasis on "anytime". So far subtle hints or even brazen ones have failed to effect a change in the visiting behaviour. I suspect that their sense of entitlement far outweighs any guilt at not having called before. This is what results from a life based on self-denial.
Be that as it may.
Last evening I had an unannounced visitor. Given that Elections are around the corner this in itself is not an unusual event. Elections are occasions when people who dont think you matter come to seek your support; just in case. The visit itself was not a surprise. Of course they did not call - this is Chennai after all.
Around 7 p.m. the doorbell rang and I attended to it in my sweat-soaked tee. Outside stood a well-groomed middle-aged man and he was whispering something in tones suggestive of great reverence and awe. He was accompanied by our watchman or gatekeeper. "Gatekeeper" may be an overly-optimistic description of the role he plays for he does nothing to keep the gate; ie, he does nothing to screen visitors. He is like a traffic policeman who has been told that he can only direct traffic one way or another but not stop it in any direction.
This chap, the gatekeeper, is not a loquacious sort. He is the laconic type. He is also an ace mumbler. He uses his mumbling to great effect. When he wants to claim having informed you of something that does not want you to know, he mumbles in a most incomprehensible way. He would have made an outstanding senior Babu in our government. Think of him as Sir Humphrey Appleby with a pronounced speech defect. When he is asking for a raise or a day off he can be remarkably precise and clear. He also never smiles. Never ever. Not even when his son recently got engaged to be married and, I suspect, even when his own marriage was fixed. Last evening he had on a dazzling million dollar smile. If he had had more hair on his head or his mustache been darker, he could have passed for a Tamil starlet who just got her big break. He was smiling like a "light-boy" on a '60's movie set who got lucky with the Great Diva who made a career out of cavorting with a geriatric "hero" when not getting wet under a waterfall.
Imagine the scene, if you can, that confronted me as I opened the door: a well-dressed man speaking in hushed tones of reverence and awe, accompanied by our watchman who was smiling from ear to ear. After requesting a few repeats I gathered that some VIP had arrived in our compound and was requesting our presence. Despite the hushed reverential tones and the presence of a beaming Cheshire cat I was in no doubt that it was a demand rather than a request. Quite an art, that is: sounding reverential towards one's master (Mistress in this case) even as one sounds imperious towards the subject of one's address. It was so breathtakingly audacious that I was gobsmacked and was without a response other than, "yes of course, I shall come down to meet her".
When the door shut, and all my rage at the political class boiled over. After a short but sharp rant against them I went back to watching the mating habits of crab seals in the southern ocean when the doorbell rang again.
The flunky was there again, as was the Cheshire cat. There were two young women too, each holding a large stack of hand-bills. And there was this middle-aged woman who managed to look imperious even as she was pretending to be supplicating, and left you in no doubt that while she was obliged to put on the latter mask, the former was what she really was. The flunky once again went into a mumbling introduction. The Cheshire cat was speechlessly beaming away. She cut the flunky short and introduced herself as "the Artist's daughter".
Now in contemporary Tamil the word "artist" is exclusively used to denote a certain screenplay writer of the sixties who parlayed his screen-writing skills into a successful political career and unimaginable wealth even as the Cheshire cats remained poor as ever. They are still smiling, which beats me for they have nothing to smile about. Just so there was no doubt as to who I was dealing with, the lady added for good measure that she was the sister of a politician named after a great Soviet Dictator.
They are so confident of winning, that the rivals headed by the Diva with a penchant for standing under waterfalls did not even bother to show up and ask for my vote.
