Madras Bashai

(Warning: The post contains many Tamil statements typed with English alphabets sans any translations. So, please do not proceed further if you have no prior knowledge of Tamil or Madras Bashai)

I wanted to type up this post for 2 main reasons. One, Madras (the film). The other, a very short yet very memorable encounter with a flower-seller on the morning I reached Chennai (I had gone home for my study-holidays).

Madras fascinated me for various reasons. The fact that a director had had the guts to make an immobile, non-living thing – a wall – as a character as important as the protagonist, the fact that Santhosh Narayanan seemed to be growing with every film (especially his background scores), the fact that Karthi, after a slew of headaches, had finally acted in a film with a story worth boasting were some of them. But the one main element that really gladdened me was that every single character in the film spoke Madras Bashai. I tried to recall a recent Tamil film that had its female lead speaking all the lines in Madras Bashai and except for Aishwarya (she was actually not the female lead but the closest to one) in Aaru, I couldn’t come up with any.

But then, this post is not an analysis as to why Tamil film female leads are always made to utter the dumbest of lines and wear even more dumb designer clothes. No. This post is a tribute of sorts to my tryst with Madras Bashai.

Studying in one of Chennai’s premier schools has a lot of pros. But of the few cons that it has, everyone around you expecting only (posh) English to come out of your mouth is an important and a terrible one.

“Machi! Ethuna panniye aavunum da. Kandukka kuda maatraa!”, “Sappa matter da! Onniya problem illa! Nee free’aa voodu!”, “Inna thaan da prachna intha Chemistry vaathiyaanuku? Varra gaandu la book eduthu padichiralaam nu thonuthu!” were dialogues often heard in my school-gang circle. And when a friend repented because of a girl, the pain was expressed in its entirety, not by ‘It hurts me a lot’ or ‘She is slowly killing me’ but through a poetic “Novuthu machaan, novuthu! Avalukaandi evlo senjiruppen?Ippa mattum innavaan da?!”

The slow march as we crossed another premier school, on our way to the bus-stand, in order to catch a glimpse of the girls there during when most of my friends would have their mouths wide-opened and would require a comment like “Aiee chiii! Moodu vaaiya! Nallaa aaaa’nu Anna Arch maari!” to close it still lingers clearly on my mind. Certain passers-by would wonder among themselves, quite loudly, as to how ‘local-language’ guys like us were given admission into premier schools like ours. And a quick “Dho daa! Soltaaru Shakespeare maama paiyan!” would fly from our side. Those slow marches and retorts, when thought about now, tend to abase me a bit but they also do infuse me with laughter when I realize that none of it was intentional.

The Madras Bashai that I practised stopped with my school and school gang. But its existence was/is always felt and cherished with certain unforgettable characters I came across/come about in my Chennai life.

How could I forget the tall and rude conductor with the totally worn out leather-pouch inserted under the armpit shouting at a deaf old man:
"Aie perusu! 5'ovaa vechikinnu laam T. Nagar pova mudiyaathu! Aerri varra sollave paaka maatiyaa nee thuttu keetha illaya nu? Pee pee uthikinnu ilichavaayan irupaan nu nenappa unukku?!"

(For which the old man would very politely reply, “Aama aama. T Nagar thaan! Oru ticket pothum.”)

How could I forget the old vegetable vendor at the marketplace near my home who would jump into a fit of rage at the sight of a customer breaking the tips of ladies-fingers:
"Yamma! Nee un paatuku udaichikinnu poiruvae. Naan bonee panna venaan? Venun na vaangikinnu vootla poi udaichi paaru ma!"  

How could I forget the fat barber at my regular hair-saloon who would welcome me with a huge smile and would spread the same old white cloth (the same one for the past 5 years!) over my body and tying it tightly around my neck would sprinkle water all over my head and begin speaking, looking at my image in the mirror:

“Regular cutting thane?! Appalika bossuu.. 2 maasama aalaye kaanum?! Vera ethuna A.C. kadai paathukiniya? Unnakaandi speshaal cutting laam paanikuraen. Maranthuraathe bossuu..”

And of course, how could I forget the old maid servant, at my home, whose face would give birth to a very strange expression if I roamed about while she was sweeping the floor:

“Kannu! Kootinu irukka solla thaan 4 thabbaa ippidikaa appidikaa poviya? Anga engana poi orama kunthu.. Kooti mudicha apaala suthiko!”

Apart from these lines and these characters, Madras Bashai also has to its glory two main features – first, the way it mixes English words amidst local Tamil words giving them completely new dimensions and second, the curse words. I wanted to dedicate an entire paragraph to the curse words since the beauty of Madras Bashai cannot be fully described without the curse words. But I guessed that it might accidentally offend anyone kind enough to give this post a glance and decided against it.

Anyways, coming to the giving-new-dimensions-to-English-words part, I guess there wouldn’t be a word that would have assumed more meanings possible than matter. One of my most favorite English words – more so in scientific terminology (especially with the words dark or anti preceding it) – when thought of in Madras Bashai terms sure does invoke uncontrollable laughter. And so do scene, film, show, party and many more.

Moreover, among the various dialects that exist in Tamil Nadu like the Thirunelveli dialect with its elai, enna la nee’u and makka, the Coimbatore dialect with its endra, undra and aenunga, the Madurai dialect with its vanthaainga, ponaainga and vechu senjitaainga maapla that apply slight modifications to the regular norms, Madras Bashai stands tall with its very own gaandu, bejaru, meiyaalama, takkaru, galeeju, attu, mokka, kasmalam, apeetu, sokku and of course, the now popular mersal. 
(And by "its very own", I only point to the immense popularity and the stronghold of the Madras Bashai terms and not to the words' roots because it seems, after all, kasmalam is derived from a Sanskrit word and mokka from a Burmese one. )

And I guess I would probably go on but the rumination already seems to have become quite lengthy and I guess it would be better to conclude with the second reason behind this post.

It was about 5:30 am as I got down at my stop from the bus I had boarded at CMBT. I had to walk for about 10 minutes to reach my home from the bus stop. And I started walking towards my home, earphones inserted and “Yun hi chala chal rahi” from Swades playing. Being one of my favorite songs, I kept swaying my head to and fro as I walked and for a moment, I got so immersed in it that I forgot to look around before crossing a junction that a few seconds later, I stood dead on my track, my eyes widened, heart in shock and the front tyre of an auto-rickshaw about 2 centimeters from my left leg.

As I slowly retreated a few steps, removing the earphones, the auto-rickshaw moved forward and shouted a voice from inside:

“Yov saavugraahi! Nee vulunthu tholaikka en vandi thaan kadchithaa?”

I stared at the driver blankly when a voice from behind me, to my utter surprise, shouted:

"Aan aan..Ivaru vandi thorai vootu vandi! Ivaru vandi la vula'kaandi thaan thavam kedakuraanunga! Mappu la nee vanthukinnu antha pullaiya aegurriyaa nee? Moothevi! Moodikinnu poda!"

The auto-rickshaw driver gave a nasty look at the lady who had shouted and drove away. I looked at the lady, a flower-seller, and not knowing what to say, I mumbled feebly, “Romba thanks aunty!”

She looked at me and looking at the earphones in my hand, she said:

"Atha maatikinnu innathuku naina roat'la varra? Onnu kedakka onnu aana inna pannuve? Kanda kanda bemaani kaila laam pechu vaanganuma ippidi? Vootla poi atha maatikinnu kelu, mandaiya aatu - inna venaa pannu. Roat'la venaa naina. Inime kaandi paathu iru!"

And she started sprinkling water over the flowers arranged before her. I thanked her again and started walking, now very careful of the vehicular movement on the road with the earphones deep inside my pocket.

As I neared my home, those statements of the flower-seller still kept ringing in my ears and as the statements kept playing continually, I couldn’t help smiling.

Anger and affection couldn’t have been expressed more beautifully in any other dialect/language than it had been, by the lady, in the Madras Bashai.

Madras Bashai meiyaalamave top-takkaru maamu!!