American Dappankoothu

On what was my last Saturday night in Austin, Bulla and me roamed 6th as usual, looking for a place where we could sup our beers and enjoy some decent live music. We landed at a joint whose name I forget, but the look and clientele were distinctly extreme metal. We headed out to the backyard, where the 'funeral concert' for local alcoholic energy drink Sparks was taking place. With a crowd of around twenty, the next twenty-or-so minutes were taken up by some wasted idiots on the mike, mostly relating incredible tales of how "Sparks changed my life". Then the bands came on, and the whole place turned into a mosh pit.

Whilst the guys on stage were churning out loud jackhammer-like riffs, the lead vocalist/growler whipped off the cordless mike and pranced off the stage onto the floor as if to be one with the audience, seemingly in the act of inciting a riot. And it worked, for a joyous moshing session followed. It was like playing bumper cars minus the cars, or a form of dodgeball where each participant doubles up as a ball. Somewhere in the middle of this blokes-only barroom brawl, the odd girl would crash in for her piece of the action. "This must be a form of American Dappankuthu!" remarked Bulla.

I decided to test Bulla's observation. Is there a connection between Death Metal and Dappankuthu at a fundamental level? These were the points of comparison I was able to come up with:

1. The bretherhood factor: Really, if beer has helped ugly people have sex since 100 BC, then Dappankuthu/Death Metal has given them a reason to live. Consider your average Tam stud; having survived 12-odd gruelling years of the oppressive boys-only senior matriculation environment, his hopes of having a life are dashed when he makes it to engineering college, courtesy boy-girl interaction rules like these. Having fallen into that abyss called social ineptness, he is finally rescued by that great unifying asylum for the hormonally repressed, Dappankuthu. As for his American counterpart, I'm willing to bet my metal tape collection that if society hadn't given up on him he'd be spending rather more time in the club than on practicing his air guitar. You see, it all boils down to a sense of belonging. Of course, the token female may decide to gatecrash and occasionally steal the show (like the one in Naaka Mukka, or the girl in the pub whom I had a crush on for exactly thirty seconds), but this is all essentially Fight Club on earth, just like Palahniuk envisioned it.

2. The revenge of the drummers factor: Most musical genres are rather one-sided. In Carnatic classical for instance, the vocalist holds center-stage for most part, with the others having decidedly supporting actor roles. In arena-rock, the loud cheers are reserved for that pansy guitarist who uses his 'instrument' as an excuse for..well, you know. But finally, the much maligned, butt-of-all-jokes drummer gets his due. A metal band is almost overdependent on breakneck percussion. And a street-procession dance is nothing without the tighter-than-hell beats of little drummer boy.


3. The wedding factor: Having become the mainstay of the Kollywood music industry, kuthu songs are enjoying a renaissance of sorts at wedding halls. Step aside Kajra Re, gotta have some Appadi podu instead. And if Cock and Ball Torture is the last band you'd want playing at your wedding, maybe you should have a look at this before you plan the festivities.

4. The surprise factor: On the evolutionary scale, these two musical styles are mostly rated as figuring just above rock - the kind flung around by cavemen to create sounds, that is. Nothing could be further from the truth - if the experts are to be believed, they transcend the average idiot's capability of aural appreciation. But even a below-average idiot would find it hard to resist the leadoff guitar in this In Flames song, or indeed the opening riff of Chikubuku Raile. The latter has further asserted itself in MIDI format as one of the more common ringtones to annoy your co-workers with in office.

5. The convenience factor: The lure of Tamil gaana songs was aptly summed up by a kuthu-ophile on campus, "You can just do whatever you want without worrying what someone will think when they watch you 'dance'". When similarly asked for comment, the metalhead offered a more simplistic description: "Fuck You!". As opposed to a round of clubbing, for which preparation involves everything from selecting the right styling gel to painful self-assessment of dancing skills, a nightout with the mob is remarkably stress-free. And if you really want to dress the part, simply don that lungi or smelly black t-shirt and you're good to go. Tattoos and body-paint are welcome additions.

6. The questionable content factor: By design, the lyrics are supposed to ruffle a few feathers - the whole exercise would be pointless otherwise right? While the metal crowds fuel themselves by continually being at odds with everyone from God to the First Lady, their South Indian brethren revel in their own notoriety by disregarding prudishness completely. From an outsider's point of view, paying extra attention to the lyrics can be an immensely trippy and rewarding experience. Just don't expect any inputs from the insiders themselves - with a view to preserving their cult status, they've been ordered to give the impression that they take themselves as seriously as possible.

Besides reaffirming that I have too much time on my hands (and increasingly appalling taste in music), this whole exercise has given my future some shape. These days, I spend a lot of time wondering just what to do with my Acoustics Engineering degree. I have now resolved to get some experience mixing sound in a recording studio, and shall then promptly head off to Ulsoor Road where a latent appreciation for all things gaana and metal exists, if the growling and beating you hear during processions is any indication. With the right resources, we will produce a fusion album - and it will be called American Dappankuthu.

On being anti-SMS lingo

One of the classic pieces of interaction on the Indian campus takes place between the mostly-Hindi speaker (rather pejoratively known as the 'Hindi Type' or HT, for short), and the mainly-English speaker (equally pejoratively known as the 'English/Inglis' type; ET for short). HT sees no reason to speak in anything other than Hindi unless he has to; it is also his way of cocking a snook at the uppity ET. ET, for his part, is in all probability a Tam, Bong or Mallu who did his schooling in a 'speak only English within the premises of this institution' kind of place and does not feel any need to change now, and refuses to be apologetic for his appalling Hindi. They have this special means of communication where one speaks in Hindi, the other in English and somehow the messages get through. While each of them feels this mild contempt for the other for not speaking in his preferred tongue, there is a grudging acknowledgment that he wishes he could speak the other's language better.

This is just a random thought, but an online conversation between an SMS lingo person (SL) and a complete sentences person (CS) is along very similar lines. Both parties refuse to take a backward step when it comes to their preferred medium of communication while looking down on the other, but at the same they have to admit that the other's is a legitimate means of communication. When the chat is going on, SL is probably wondering why CS is spending so much effort in getting his grammar and spellings right. He decides to ignore the hint and stick to his guns, thinking to himself, "wat 2 do, v r lik dis only". Since I've been mostly on the other side of the fence, I can better predict CS's attitude at the time. CS is likely to be one of the following:

1. The tragically unhip: People who at one point dabbled in slang and SMS lingo in order to fit in, fell flat on their faces and decided the wisest recourse was to avoid it altogether.

2. The activists: People who dare to be different from the word go, and are particularly proud over their mastery of the English language. They derive mileage out of smallest of causes. Likely moderators of the "Say no to SMS lingo" community on Orkut. The archetypal guy probably heads the debate team (and lets the whole world know), while the girl has to carry her copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird" wherever she goes.

3. The evolved CS: Just out of college, this person has decided that ranting is so second-year-undergrad, and adopts the "to each his own" stance. While extremely pleased about his world-view, he still has a slightly condescending attitude towards the SL's, despite the fact that a few years ago, he was one of them.

And which one do I come under? I dunno (dammit!).

"One, please" (or, Thou shalt not dine alone)

I love my food, but I'm also pretty irregular about it. I eat when I feel like it, whenever the whim to experiment takes over, and often in sync with my equally random sleeping habits. I'm not much of a cook, but I like checking out new places and all that blah. I often eat alone, because most of the people I hang out with are not given to random spontaneous trips to some arbit place. And people find it difficult to believe that I actually eat alone at diners and restaurants. Or, to be more accurate, I find it hard to come to terms with the fact that people find it odd.

At around 11pm yesterday I was dying of hunger. I'd put two consecutive night-outs on campus and for all purposes had practically lived there. My body clock was messed to the extent that I had breakfast at Kerbey Lane at 7 in the morning (without having slept a wink), and promptly went home and crashed. I slept a bit more in the afternoon after class and had seen out the entire day without having anything else to eat. I've talked about how Austin is the Bangalore of the US in many ways, and here too most restaurants close as early as 10pm. Kerbey Lane cafe, close to campus, is the one 24 hour place around and your only other late night options are the beer bars which serve your usual pub grub. Anyway, I didn't feel like cooking dinner that night or ordering food because my roommate A was out with his friends B, C and the rest of their gang, and it would have worked out to too much food for one person. A,B, C and the others had gone to this beer joint close to my place, called "The Flying Saucer".

There's another Kerbey Lane somewhere closer to my apartment. I called up B, a regular patron, and he reckoned it would be a 25 minute walk. Too far, I decided. My stomach was well and truly rumbling now, so the Flying Saucer loomed as the only option. Although they model themselves on a traditional German beer place with some 300 varieties of Beer from all over the world, the Flying saucer serves some good simple German fare, basically sausages, wurst and potato salad. So I headed there, and though it was buzzing quite a bit for a Thursday night, I managed to get a table on the patio outside. As I was tucking into my dinner, A suddenly stepped outside and was more than a little surprised to see me. "You should've come inside and joined us. We're heading home now." "Well, I just came for a quick bite. I'm not drinking you see." And he added, with a look of major concern "You enjoying yourself?" Out came B, C and the rest of them, hanging around the place for some post-drinks banter. Before I knew it, I had become this object of major curiosity among the group, who clearly thought I had lost my marbles by being seen alone in the place. "I thought you were going to Kerbey Lane!" said B. "Well, I decided it was too far to walk, and this was the only place open for dinner." C had just joined the group and voiced his amazement, and I had to repeat the explanation for his benefit. "But surely you can't come here for dinner! Alone!" "I'm doing just fine, no worries" didn't seem to cut it with him. The rest of them, on being told "Woh us ka roommate hai" were meanwhile nodding their heads knowingly. So much for a peaceful dinner.

Even if I'm not the most gregarious person, I'm not a recluse or anything. I keep some really good company here, but at the same time I like a bit of privacy and anonymity, and often enjoy doing certain things by myself, like browsing through music stores or going for random walks. And sampling food, of course. But far from wanting to understand, people seem to be disturbed by it and classify it as abnormal behaviour. Another blogger had a nice long rant about how annoying it can be the way society perceives the single woman. For the single twenty-something male it can be equally irritating and also amusing to see others' reactions if you don't conform to the stereotype. Apparently, you have to live by the 'work-hard-by-day party-harder-by-night' credo, be surrounded by fast-talking cronies everywhere, be a complete Raymond family man at home and an incorrigible flirt everywhere else, be obsessed with fast cars and bikes, have strong opinions on everything and NEVER be seen alone. If you like reading, blogging or, god forbid, eating by yourself you suddenly become this depressing Devdas type character who needs help.

The funny thing is, I've known people who like to consciously portray themselves as solitude-loving lone wolves, who like being far from the madding crowd as if to build an aura around them. Whether this constitutes an iconoclastic streak or just being an exhibitionist, I don't know because in my case I'm not out to prove anything to anyone. I guess I could take the philosophical view and be reminded of a line from an Archie comic: When a person dares to be different, he gets called an individualist. On the other hand, if he is different, he becomes an oddball.

Big fish, little fish

I read that Bangalore now has a second Landmark bookstore, this time in Jayanagar. The arrival will probably be welcomed in South Bangalore but it makes me wonder what lies ahead for Select, Blossom, Premier and other places of that ilk in the future. The old Madras Landmark is probably the best I've ever been to, and holds many happy memories. But the one in Forum mall tended to disappoint because of its comparatively indifferent staff and ridiculous pricing. The arrival of Planet M (with its customer schemes and mostly clueless personnel) on Brigade road sounded the death knell for some of my favourite smaller music shops, and I can only hope the same does not happen with the Crossword and Landmark expansion, which comes at the expense of personal attachment.

Franchising may be big in the US, but there's an admirable 'support local businesses' drive here in Austin (and other places, I'm sure) that makes me wish more of the same happened in Bangalore. More than the traffic, pollution and insider-outsider wars, it is the compromising of local flavour (the 'homegrown' factor) and this inexplicable need to keep up with other cities which is my major bone with Bangalore of late. When a branch of Copper Chimney opened in Bangalore, critics were quick to point out that the food and quality of service were nowhere near that of the Mumbai branch. I can well imagine regulars to the Chennai Landmark feeling similarly about the Bangalore one, and yet we have branches sprouting in all corners of the city now. Why, you must ask, do we go ahead and try to emulate everyone else and be someone we're not? There were enough good homegrown establishments to begin with, but today apparently the Landmarks and PVRs have to be accommodated wherever possible so that every big city gets streamlined and devoid of uniqueness. This will allow the Bangalore haters to get stuck in and feel further vindicated, but at least some local businesses continue to lend the city some charm.

Another blogger had written a similar sort of post when the Forum Landmark had first come up, and suggested it was a similar situation to the one portrayed in You've Got Mail. I suppose this gives me a reason to watch that rather lightweight film again and perhaps see it in a new light. Apart from the fact that my weekends have become excruciatingly empty.

Not-so-random musings

This opening paragraph business has been reduced to a space for convenient and banal explanation as to why I can't seem to post more regularly. Has blogging become such an indulgence that I have to save as much material as possible for a monthly post, as if to justify the bloody exercise? A more appropriate term for 'writer's block' would be 'laziness'.

So I turned 25 a couple of weeks ago, my face smeared in cake and my body soundly kicked from all sides, as if to make up for the relatively sedate celebrations of the last two years in Austin. I barely escaped being flung into the apartment pool, despite actually playing along and protesting. A year ago, I woke up the day after my birthday feeling strangely miserable and empty, and decided the solution to all my problems was to get a haircut. In twelve months, nothing's changed. The long hair remains (with a lousy haircut looming large), the sleeping through classroom lectures (with date and topic neatly scribbled in my notebook) continues, and I am still oblivious to the happenings of the world outside. The problem then, with 25, is expectation. It may be a mere number but it gives people (including myself) a license to ask questions about my life to which 'I don't know' or 'we'll see' are not acceptable answers. In that regard, maybe I do feel old. But then age is just a state of mind right? Whatever.

Another occasion which made me feel old (or shall we say, 'dated') was, strangely enough, a heavy metal concert I attended a couple of months back. It was one of those 'Metal Masters Tour' sort of things, with an all star lineup of Testament, Motorhead, Black Sabbath and Judas Priest. With stalls outside selling beer on tap (a blessing in the oppressive summer heat) and food, which you were allowed to bring in to the arena, this was the sort of concert experience I could only dream of having earlier seen live acts only at the comparatively repressive Palace Grounds in Bangalore. But the crowd was an eye-opener. If the same lineup were to be playing at Palace Grounds, your entire Engineering/ St.Josephs Commerce College metal contingent would have shown up in all their black finery (making sure their t-shirt featured a band other than the ones on show), and suitably wasted to the point of being at their savage and anti-social best). Here, apart from the precious few at the half-full mosh pit right in front, the place was packed with forty-somethings, presumably wallowing in nostalgia and ready to put away their band t-shirts for a Halloween party. Nevertheless, the show was a great one, and a gentleman named Ruben Palomo was nice enough to send us a few snaps like the one above (we had forgotten to bring our cameras).

It sometimes concerns me that after coming here I haven't expanded my musical tastes as much as I used to during my earlier college days, and it's difficult to stay contemporary when you don't own a TV and your friends listen to mostly retro stuff too. But then again, one of the things I've come to like about the college crowd in this country is their attitude towards musical tastes; everybody listens to a wide range and nobody really tries to typecast themselves or anyone else because of it. I mean, on a typical Indian campus you find people using musical leanings to make a connection, and even friendships. Whether it's your guy-girl gangs who spend endless hours playing Antakshari and Guess the Shayari, or your guys-only Metal 'til Death groups, music seemed to polarise people. I'm not saying that sort of thing doesn't happen here, but (having gotten to know and work with a few American undergrads), it's just far less noticeable. Although I've always been something of a classic rock loyalist, I no longer cringe when hip-hop is played on the radio, I sing along when the desi junta blast out Himesh and mindless Punju ditties, and I've come to appreciate (thanks to a few people I've met at the music department) that DJing is an art, and a difficult one at that. I don't know whether this gradual attitude shift is due to evolving of my musical senses, or simply growing up. But I'm happier for it.

Mentally, I feel exactly the same as I did four years ago, circa final year of undergrad. But the crucial difference then was I already had a job to walk into as soon as I graduated. I wonder if that was a good thing, after all. If I was forced to actually hunt for a job and make myself *ahem* marketable, I would have probably learned a good deal about job hunting (and myself). That particular challenge has finally come up (given that I don't feel as if I've learnt a thing in the last four years), what with an economic slowdown here and all. Depending on how it pans out, I will probably get a small taste of what Will Smith's character must have felt like in his pursuit of happyness.

Passing the Baton

I could have updated the blog much earlier over the last thirty-two days. I haven't been particularly busy, but then free time has never really lent itself to substantial blogging has it? I did consider putting up a post about the Olympics, about how merely watching Usain bolt, Michael Phelps and Dara Torres scale their respective peaks of excellence was uplifting in itself. About my earliest memories, of Greg Louganis, Ben Johnson and showjumping during Seoul '88. And the relay. No event captures the spirit of from you to me as visibly as the relay. I'm currently mining the web for Doordarshan's old National Integration ad, featuring all those sportspersons (Gavaskar, Usha, Padukone and others) running the length and breadth of the country, passing on the blazing torch. Truly magical, that was. Find it and you'll make my day.

In the meantime, thanks to Swaroop I get to pass on a baton of sorts myself. Since I probably won't be buying him a beer anytime soon, I'll try to comply with the other terms and conditions on Swaroop's post and urge all of you to read his blog. Filled with satire, spice and other things nice, I can't recommend it nearly enough.

Choosing seven blogs to pass on is not quite the no-brainer it seems. I read a great many of them at random, sometimes without letting the writer know of my presence and each one has proved to be interesting in its own way. So finally, among the dozens of friends, family and arbits who have provided me generous hours of timepass with their writings, I've narrowed the list down to the following:

1. Ashanka: Hers was the first blog I used to read on a regular basis. Filled with quirky and witty accounts of life in the big city, and consistently solid writing.

2. Atulya: The Monkee is a seasoned traveller, and he sprinkles his blog with several tidbits about the places he visits. A highly readable blog I discovered belatedly.

3. Shom: His sports blog is the kind I aspired this blog to be back in the CTS days of 2006. No regrets because I have a great time reading his posts anyway. He earlier blogged here and a very good blog it was.

4. Prabha: This is the blog of a true junkie. Named food for thought, it is filled with food and just about everything else. She claims the blog is "mainly here for my entertainment", but behind all the timepass lies much love and effort.


The remaining three blogs are each owned by a senior of mine from RV. For various reasons, they seem to have been on a hiatus for a while and I hope this might compel them to write more frequently.

5. Soup: He always calls it as he sees it. Mostly forthright accounts about life while he was in France, now that he has returned there to study the updates might come in more regularly.

6. Nitish: A fun blog full of rants and raves. One of the earlier blogs I used to read during my CTS days.

7. Raghuray: Another one from the old days, when my blog never existed. Every time I go here, it's as if he throws the old Monty Python line at me "And now for something completely different".

I'm not imposing the fine print on anyone, but I'll do a quick copy-paste-edit job on the points from Swaroop's blog. Awardees may:
1. Award seven other people. (Or zero, or one, or two depending on how seriously you decide to take this).
2. Write a post about this award, and link to our blog in that post.(Optional)
3. Buy me any food or drink for this award, not necessarily a pitcher of beer.

Pass it on.

On Blogging

This is my fiftieth post. I've noticed a few bloggers using the same landmark as an opportunity to look back at how it all started for them and how their blog evolved, and I think I'll do the same. I've always liked milestones, even if most of my milestones have been small ones. Fifty posts in just over two years may not seem like a big deal; most of my favourite bloggers would be able to put out twice that number in the same time, and still exercise great quality control. On the other hand, a lot of people I know have let their blogs fall by the wayside so all things considered, I'm happy I've kept this going.

As with most things, I have an ambivalent attitude towards it. The name was taken from a cassette I have at home, featuring some highly entertaining discussions among BBC radio's cricket commentary team members. In June 2006, when the Bangalore monsoons were bringing about stop-start passages to my routine, blogging seemed to hold this 'rainy day and a cup of tea' sort of appeal, something to kill time with. I eventually found this picture to be very wrong; these days, all my posts inevitably get keyed in when I'm supposed to be working. A look through the posts from the beginning is actually a pretty good indicator of my lack of focus and general direction. I started off intending it to be a simple diary and a way of killing time at the workplace. I next wanted it to be an all-sports blog. I then went back to writing some general everyday crap, till I left Bangalore for Austin. When I was well and truly into the gradschool routine, there was a paucity of things to write about. I now took to posting cricket match reports and reviews involving the only institution I care about, the New Zealand team. This somehow didn't work out, so I shifted all that to another blog, Paint it Black which has been rather in a state of neglect. I've continued to blog ever since, but only occasionally. There's been the odd satisfying post, but most of the time I've been torn between writing a post that feels forced(for the sake of keeping the blog alive), or letting things drift.

I often wanted to rant, but instead ended up discovering that I don't overflow with enough bile. I wanted to review endlessly, but often couldn't summon up the attention to detail. I've tried writing about day-to-day life here, but it's hard because nothing ever happens in boring ol' Grad school(and I mean that in the nicest possible way. I like dormancy and the relative lack of blog-worthy happenings around me). Of course, there's also the issue of everyone in my family from my parents to my zillionth grand-aunt having discovered the blog and wanting to mention the same every time they meet me. That was quite weird to deal with in the beginning, and seemed to take some of the fun out of the whole exercise. I mean, I started becoming rather conscious of the material I was putting up because feedback from a lot of corners is guaranteed. On the other hand I seem to have earned something of a regular readership, not a bad thing at all. It's good to know that people care about how I'm getting along.

I suppose one starts to appreciate blogging for what it is when it gets likened to say, watching Dravid build a long innings, or Grad school life; a series of mostly mundane events with the occasional moments of brilliance that actually make the whole thing seem strangely worthwhile. For example, it was quite heartening to see the response to my critique of Mukul Kesavan's article last year, including a comment from Mukul himself. I really enjoyed coming up with the Beatles spoof, the lines of which occurred to me in a dream and that's as close as I'll get to feeling like Lennon on LSD. So overall it's been a satisfying exercise in timepass; no more, no less.