Auto varuma?

One of the things that really puts me off is when people land in Chennai and launch into a litany of the problems they faced at the hands of insensitive, racist rogues who also masquerade as auto drivers. They invariably blame their inability to speak Tamil as the chief reason for being taken for a ride (ha ha. What a pun) and crib endlessly about the non-existence of auto meters in this city. I say ‘Nay, my friend, that is not true’. The reason you assume your linguistic limitation as an excuse is because you are under the merry picture that the minute you start talking in Tamil, auto drivers queue up to take you to your destination at cut throat prices. Not true. There are only two ways in which you can ensure you get a fair price

1. You are already familiar with the acceptable fare from point A to point B

2. You are around 6 ft and 90 kgs and have a steely glint in your eye

Point no. 2 is based on strict empirical evidence. One late night when I was trying to unsuccessfully find an auto using my local language skills, my bulky non-Tamil friend stopped an auto guy, fixed his eye on him and then informed him that he would be taking me to point B at XYZ fare. In less than two seconds I was seated in the auto.

Wow. Does this mean this write up is about how to do one of the two above?, you ask. Fear not. I do not for a moment suggest the futile and mindless method of mastering the knowledge of fares on all possible routes. I also assume that if the good Lord has not endowed you with the appropriate physiology, you do not plan to go for surgery or try the Jessica-Lange-in-Kingkong route of having a giant monkey following you around so that you can use intimidation as a tactic. This piece is to build a deeper understanding of the environment as I see it.

Firstly, appreciate the situation. Everybody raves about the efficient auto system in Mumbai where there is a fixed meter to tell you how much to pay. Grow up people. Chennai auto guys are much more advanced in economics than what you give them credit for. I cannot think of anyone who salutes the spirit of free enterprise more than they do. When you want liberalistion and free markets in the rest of the world, why do you shudder at the thought of your auto guy fixing his fare based on the current demand-supply situation! Mark my words when I say this is an indication of which city is likely to be the next financial capital of India, if not the world (A Big Ha to you Mumbaikars)

Secondly, the fare situation is a fairly simple Game Theory problem. Here are the situations you can possibly be faced with

a. Plenty of autos. You are the only customer around. If all these autos are parked together in a stand, leave. They are obviously a cartel and no one is going to step out of the line. Go to the main road where you can get more autos.

On the other hand, if you are on the main road and there are a lot of empty autos slowly wandering on the road, you start negotiating. Show me an auto guy who is wandering on the road and I will show you a guy who is ready to close a business deal. The first auto guy sidles up to you and quotes a fare enough to buy his vehicle. You ask him 30% of the price. If he rolls his eyes upwards and leaves, you know you quoted too low. If he sidles some more and begins to negotiate, you know you are nearer to the fair price mark. In case he has left, you can face the second auto guy armed with the knowledge of the upper and lower price bands. You will probably be on your way home by the third or fourth auto.

b. Plenty of customers One auto. Face it. The auto guy has choice. Unless he is really naïve or really wants to go to the area you are headed, it is unlikely you can get away without paying a premium

c. Plenty of customers. Plenty of autos. Shop around a bit. You usually can find a guy who is naïve or headed towards where you are going. At any rate, you discover the market price.

d. No customers. No auto. Hey, this one does not need a solution since you are already at your destination

There are of two key factors that make a difference to the situation, namely

a. time of the day – if it is pretty early or pretty late, you both need each other. Peak hours offer more choice to both of you. Anytime in between means you are down and out

b. place – if you are standing in a remote street of Madipakkam, then let us get this clear. It is a miracle there is an auto there and not a cycle rickshaw. Take it or take the bus

All clear with Economics 101? So we move on to behavioural fundas now. Remember that emotional blackmail is a key and a grossly underutilized skill that can tackle any situation. A usual one is where neither you nor your auto driver knows the way. Having fixed the price upfront, he hates having to wander around aimlessly while you get your bearings right. A uniformed customer will of course feel so guilty that by the time the third wrong turn has been taken, he/she is ready to bequeath his/her property to the auto guy as fare. The informed customer will however, at the first sign of the auto guy getting restless, glare at him and point out that being an auto guy it is assumed he will know all routes in Chennai. No auto man can handle this affront. Hell, you are practically declaring him unworthy of his trade. It is like asking your mom if she knows exactly what the word salt means (My mom knows by the way. Hi Mommy). All you need to do is to think how you can move from the defensive to the offensive at any point in time.

So with this we come to the end of fundamental principles driving (ha ha another pun) the auto fare market in Chennai. As you can see, it is economics and not Tamil that is required to take an auto in Chennai. So, next time you crib about taking an auto in Chennai, remember people think you are stupid not unfortunate.

Chennai alumni meets

I love this city. I love the fact that I have found brilliant coffee places offering privacy and good food. I like Salsa club meets on Wednesdays at Havana. I enjoy the hash runs that let me discover more about the local topography. Infact if there one thing that really sucks in this place, it must be the alumni reunions. Before anyone accuses me of disloyalty to the hallowed portals of one of India ’s top B-Schools, let me admit that I have been to alumni meets in Mumbai and it takes all you can do to drag me off the dance floor. The only time I left voluntarily was when two of my friends decided to spin in the middle of the floor holding onto each other. It removed even the really strong and really drunk people from the vicinity.

Chennai’s biggest problem has always been its tendency to display its prudish, conservative and traditional side whenever (a) the gathering comprises about 20 strangers or more and (b) none of these strangers have been told in advance that the plan is to have fun. The average Chennaite has a morbid fear of being found promiscuous and depraved in case anyone caught him partying. This rule applies even to alumni parties where the de rigueur is you re-live your wild days of dancing at Lincoln Square (the traditional hostel dance area).

The first time I attended an alumni party in Chennai was in 1999. I was doing my summers and was fairly sure that alumni parties must be serious affairs targeted at networking your way into a better job. I dressed like a candidate that said ‘looks 21 (which she is) but capable of being a management consultant at Mckinsey’. I reached the venue. The room was full of other people dressed similarly or atleast acting like they worked as a management consultant with Mckinsey. I smiled and bonded. I was slightly confused when a couple of the senior guys became a bit disoriented after one too many drinks but recovered and continued smiling and bonding.

Cut to 2000. It was in hot and happening Mumbai. Pretty much half my batch was there, attending the do. Even before one of my super seniors replaced the live band’s drum player, the action had picked up and did not stop for a longish time. It struck me that this is how alumni parties were meant to be and it was definitely much more fun than the boring affair I had attended the past year. Especially after the E-Blockers began an inspired dance-with-gay-abandon routine. 2001 – repeat, 2002 – repeat, 2003 – repeat.

I came back to Chennai having completely erased my earlier memories of alumni parties here. And, was I disappointed! Things had gone from bad to worse. For one, the only batchmates of mine who were in Chennai were all married and had procreated. Looking at the number of 2 year olds running about the hall you could have easily mistaken the place for a rabbit farm. Kids are cute when seen singly for a span of 1 hour. But have you ever been in a place where kids are running about wildly, kids are throwing up after too much Pepsi and parents of the kids are standing in the mayhem and discussing diapers and baby sitter problems?

For some reason there was also a MC who was organizing games. The poor man had probably been told about the wild crowd he could expect and had organized a beer drinking competition. He announced this game with barely suppressed glee in his voice and shielding himself lest the excited participants swamped him off stage. Five minutes later there were exactly two people standing sheepishly standing under the glare of lights. Both were freshers who had clearly been told by some responsible Alumni secretary to keep up the spirits. The MC then began urging two tipsy looking elderly gentlemen from the 70s batch to join the competition so there would atleast be a quorum. After the men’s round finally got over, he figured out that the women’s round would be a non-starter. Accordingly, passing the parcel or some such harmless thing was organized. The one silver lining was when the kids wanted to dance. I was more than happy to give them company. After fifteen minutes of gently swaying and tapping, I called it a day.

This of course does not mean that I detest my batchmates (not all of them at any rate). I love playing with some of their kids and talking to their spouses. And frankly given that the Chennai parties are stiff and staid to begin with, I must admit that the kids provided the max coolness quotient with some inspired Bollywood steps. But I do protest against Lincoln Square being turned into Shiamak Davar’s summer camp.

So perhaps, this year, I will give probably just curl up with a book. Think I am getting too old to handle the excitement of losing in passing the parcel.

Review - Life in a Metro

I love Bombay in the monsoons. I don’t mean the traditional eating-corn-in-marine-drive aspect of it. Has anyone noticed how the city’s noise and confusion disappear in the thudding of raindrops? Dull trees spring to life. Duller buildings look pleasantly old instead of dilapidated. The story of ‘Life in a Metro’ unfolds on one such rainy morning. Which is perhaps why I gave it my approval even before the cast made its way to the screen. But a good beginning is half the battle won as this movie proves.

Shilpa Shetty, a housewife and mother dodges puddles to go through the set routine of her unexciting life. Her sister, Konkana Sen is checking out yet another matrimonial prospect from Shaadi.com to see if he is loving, caring, likes to travel and loves books. Irffan Khan, meeting her, is everything a financially stable, approaching thirty, urban single woman would despise – slightly lecherous, culture is a far shot in his vocabulary and thinks the irresistible qualification for an eligible groom would be to be a non-drinker and non-smoker. Sharman Joshi, an ambitious BPO employee still grappling with his value system, finds yet another way to grab a two-minute conversation with his unrequited ladylove Kangana Rauat. As the movie progresses their stories unfold. Caught in the bustle of Mumbai’s daily grind, they learn lessons about life and love and eventually make choices about both.

The movie is clearly inspired from myriad sources. However, despite the lack of originality director Anurag Basu needs to be given full credit for tackling two key challenges well. The first one is have woven his web of characters in a wonderful and credible manner. Given the large selection of characters he has picked up – couple with a dissolving marriage, ambitious youngster, looking-for-love single woman, slimy boss, self destructive girl, old people racing against time, failing theatre actor – he could have easily degenerated into portraying caricatures. Fortunately he manages largely not to and gives each character a voice that speaks not so much as the stereotype that they represent but as a living and thinking individual. The second one is to keep your interest going even though you can guess how each story-stream would end. Perhaps the fact that you have already started getting under each character’s skin by the first thirty minutes keeps you hooked.

The music is yet another glorious aspect of the movie. Fitted into the correct sequences, it captures the mood of the moment aptly. The composer trio appearing on screen and actually shown singing was a trifle shocking initially and a trifle annoying later on. Notwithstanding, you were happy to set the story aside for a while, sit and listen at these interludes.

Irffan simply rocks as the frustrated, aging singleton who is desperate to embrace the love and lust he can get in a marriage. Kay Kay Menon turns in a good performance as an insensitive, two-timing husband and manipulative boss. The rest are pretty decent. Give me Shilpa Shetty any day over Ash Rai to be premiering movies in the UK. While having her as India’s cultural ambassador may not be my first choice, it cannot be denied that she can atleast be made to act. Konkana and Kangana are both expectedly accurate in their portrayals.

The one thread that did not make much sense to me was the romance of yester year’s hero, Dharmendra, with Nafisa Ali. The idea of finding love at that age seemed sweet and realistic but do old people really act and talk like that?

The movie is by no means perfect and falters here and there. It will however rank as one of the best efforts at capturing the challenges of urbanites in the current generation.

Chickamagalur - Factsheet

Getting there

1. From Chennai to Bangalore: plenty of trains and flights

2. From Bangalore to Chickamagalur and back:

(a) By train: Option 1 - take a train to Birur/Kadur. 40 Km road journey from there. Roads are average. Option 2 – take a train to Hassan. 65 km road journey from there. Roads are good. Train journey takes 3 – 3.5 hours. Sumos available for hire at both stations. We had pre-booked a Sumo through the resort.

(b) By road: Option 1 – take a KSRTC bus. Can be booked online. Airavath, Meghdoot and Mayura are the a/c options. Choose the route through Hassan not Tumkur. Roads are good. Option 2 – drive down. Road journey takes 6 hours

Stay

We stayed at Nature nirvana (www.naturenirvana.com). There are other options if you do a google.

To do

Treks. Popular one is to Mullayanagiri

Visit Mullayanagiri, Bababadungiri, Hebbe falls

Drive to Kemmangundi, a hill station about an hour from Chickamagalur

If you drive down to Chickamagalur you can break the journey at Belur – Halebid. There are also other lesser known Hoysala temples on the way.

Best time to go

Post rains, winter. Summer is too hot to trek. Rains will make the trek difficult

Chickamagalur - Homestay

Chickamagalur is one of those nice, cozy places tucked away in the hills northwest of Bangalore – tough to reach but once you get there, certainly gives you your money’s worth. Its claim to fame is the coffee estates located in the hills surrounding the town. Uma and I were headed for a home stay in one such coffee estate.

The journey did not start on a great note. With multiple changes from Chennai to Bangalore to Bidur, Uma finally threw up on the last legs of the hot and bumpy ride. She brooded the rest of the journey and I wondered if a trip in the summer was such a great idea. All these doubts however disappeared when we reached the estate.

The home stay, aptly titled ‘Nature Nirvana’ was located in the heart of the coffee estate and as such was very far away from city noise and pollution. Magnificent hills with rows upon rows of coffee plants and tall trees met your eyes wherever you looked. The place we were to stay in was an old house. There were five moderately sized rooms. The erstwhile porch was converted into an open-air dining room serving scrumptious meals every day. There was a common room on the first floor with a library, fireplace, stacks of board games and comfortable armchairs. There was also a large cemented ground where you could play outdoor games or just sit and enjoy the barbecue. It definitely looked promising.

Chickamagalur was a dusty little town till the 1600s when a Muslim Saint, Baba Budan planted coffee seeds smuggled from the Middle East and changed the local economy. There is a temple in his honour even today at Baba Budanagiri hills. The temple also has a statue of the Hindu god Dattatreya and is held as an example of communal harmony where both communities go and pray. Except for this remarkable background, the temple per se is nothing but a claustrophobic cave. Chickamagalur’s second shot at fame came in 1978 when Indira Gandhi successfully contested from this Congress stronghold in the elections held following the National Emergency.

I spent sometime recovering from the long ride and then began to explore the estate. The first stop was down a path that said ‘Waterfall’. An endless row of uneven steps cut into the mud track led to a quiet brown pool. There was a small but gushing waterfall nearby. After landing from a concrete jungle, the site of the 2 feet deep muddy water was strangely scary. Eventually it was only when Uma came down with me that we both managed to cross the little segments of water and find comfortable places to dip our feet. Bathing in the waterfall had been advertised as a major highlight of the estate. However given the number of spiders spinning their webs across the waterfall that did not sound like a good idea unless I was serious about an alternative career as Spiderwoman.

The next day we were supposed to go on our big trek, the ostensible reason for the trip. The preferred trek in this area is to Mullayanagiri hills but that is best tackled in cooler months. The estate’s caretaker, Mr Kutty, told us we could do a three-hour trek on a barren hill littered with glowing embers from the previous week’s forest fires. Or we could do a one-hour trek through the cool coffee estate. Mr Kutty’s preference was obvious and we allowed him to go ahead. Enthusiastic, he began to lead us through short cuts. We would plunge into a path among the coffee bushes and after a good ten minutes of non-stop climbing upwards, we would emerge onto the main route. Only to plunge into the next path. I was scrambling up quickly if only in an effort to have more time and leisure to pant. Uma trudged behind with Mr Kutty following up in the rear. The third time, I had gone ahead as usual and after a longish time, the bushes finally parted. The short, balding and bespectaled Mr Kutty was dragging a perspiring and panting Uma uphill. Uma got on to the road and with a quiet finality announced that from now on there would be no short cuts. We would take the road well traveled even if it meant extra time. With the pace set, we all relaxed and slowly made our way uphill. The trees were prettier in close up and we could make out that the place was packed with birds. We got to the ‘sunset point’ on the top and rested.

Mr Kutty turned out to be very talkative and kept up a continuous narrative of his tale of woes. Uma and I tuned out but we both agreed that the place deserved another visit when it would be quieter. We went up again in the evening, examining the traces of iron ore in the soil, keeping an eye out for the gnarled roots exposed on the eroding slopes, photographing the blossoming coffee flowers from various angles and managing to distinguish atleast three bird calls. When we finally reached the top, the clouds were beginning to descend upon the mountains nearby. We lay on the benches there and quietly watched nature at work. After a long time, we walked back down, feeling light hearted.

On the way back we decided to check out the ‘lake’. After a pleasant walk through pretty shrubbery, my heart was thumping with anticipation. I was planning to try out my newly acquired swimming skills, not to mention indulge in my favourite water activity of boating. We finally emerged into a clearing. There was no lake. There was however a pond of water about 5 feet deep, thirty feet wide and half a kilometer long. Clearly great imagination had gone into coining this place a lake and even worse, placing two coracles for boat rides. The only way boat rides were possible was if you decided to do a straight half a km dash across the length of the pond sticking to the middle. Any other variations and the oars would bang into the sides of the ‘lake’. All is not lost; I told myself and began contemplating swimming there when a crab the size of my hand crawled out of the water. Without further ado, Uma and I rushed back and spent the rest of the evening wading through the nearby stream, sitting on various rocks, peering at all the insects building homes in the water and listening to the mesmerizing sound of water on rocks. By the time we got back to our seven p.m. barbecue, both of us were starving and tired and had just enough energy left to fantasize about owning an estate.

Uma slept in the next day and I explored the remaining parts of the estate. There was a signboard saying ‘gorge’ and wondering if this would be another disappointment like the ‘lake’, I went down the path. The route had thicker foliage and was darker. Raindrops from the previous night still occasionally fell when I brushed away the branches. I finally reached the gorge which was a dark and cool place. On one side was a huge flat rock extending till the eye could see. The stream was in the middle, hardly ten feet wide. On the other side was the tiny bank. There were tall trees full of singing birds blocking out most of the sunlight. Gingerly searching for signs of leeches after the rains, I sat on the bank till the dark and chill finally snapped me out of my reverie. Stepping into brighter regions, I walked around the estate for a long time basking in the sun and chasing the sound of an elusive woodpecker till it was time to pack and leave.

Uma managed not to throw up on the journey to the bus stand. Surprisingly she also showed no signs of her usual road sicknesses in the bus journey to Bangalore. The air conditioned Airavath bus began to show a promised Rajkumar movie. I watched fascinated as the heroine’s journey from a village belle to a revolutionary was marked by a costume change from skirt, blouse and saree to trendy leather pants and jacket. Sadly the video player conked off after the promising start and I had to plug into my IPod.

The trip had given me plenty of time to read, breathe in fresh air, walk and introspect. As I looked out onto the approaching bright lights of the city the last cobwebs lifted from my thoughts. Life was clearer and calmer.