From: Veeramany.Sthanumurthy@launchpad.unc.edu (Veeramany Sthanumurthy)
Subject: From Mulund: Platform #5 (was: "Southie or Northie?")
Organization: University of North Carolina Extended Bulletin Board Service
Date: Wed, 18 Nov 1992 17:04:53 GMT

[My postnews is acting up, so I am following up to the second eye-catching
thread I found on SCI. The rest of them are quite lost on me since they
involve tussles involving either Doki or Crick.]

>In article <83415@ut-emx.uucp> aoab314@ut-emx.uucp (Srinivas Bettadpur) writes:
In article <Nov13.202537.56326@yuma.ACNS.ColoState.EDU> kannan@lamar.ColoState.EDU (Kannan Subramanian) writes:
>>   Not that I considered being called Southie an insult, but the 
>>necessity for it seemed so utterly pointless.  The folks down south were
>>oh-so condescending, explaining everything to the poor stranger from up
>>North, and folks up North do the same for this poor migrant from down 
>
>For example, Diwali falls on different dates depending on the calendar you
>follow and what part of the country you come from. Tamizh Diwali was different

Quite so. Having traveled from Madras to Bombay on the eve of this confusing
period I took the easy way out of celebrating Deepawali on the last day (a
good 2 days before anyone else's north or south) before I left. On reaching
Bombay I proceeded to celebrate (no ascii pictures of sweets for Raghavan,
sorry) the official Diwalis.

>>South.  I haven't had a chance at East or West, though I suspect it 
>>won't be much different.  It is much like being complemented in this 
>>country on the ability to speak English.  

It is quite difficult to take umbrage (if that is the issue here, forgive
me if I am confused) at someone trying to be charitable to an outsider(!).

>>   Bzzzzzzzzzzttt !!   Deduct two points there...   The best 
>>"Mysore-paak" I ever had came from a male chef.
>
>Ah well. There are philistines, and then there are philistines! 

??
-------------------- Now to the view from platform number 5. ------------

Quite breathtaking though often labored, what with all the auto-rickshaws
contributing their mite to the particulate matter already in abundance
in the air thick with noise. Some BJP speaker had a group of people 
clustered around him with a loudspeaker spewing words I vaguely recognized
as being Hindi though I couldn't make head or tail of it. I was waiting
outside the latest indicator of the communications revolution to overtake
India (well, at least Bombay and Madras): a PCO with STD/ISD facilities. I
could reach Madras or Washington DC faster and more surely than my home 1
Km away. And, all from AC comfort - once I get past the queue of course. The 
phone system is not half as bad as it used to be; one just needs to be
patient. In fact, I had to wait exactly a month to reach a friend barely 15
KM away as the crow flies - at Indira Gandhi Institute - after 20 attempts
by the phone operator had reached the wrong number, this in spite of all
efforts to ask the operator to stay on the line to ascertain this persistent
outcome, all to no avail - all because the exchange number had changed. It
must be some mental block which prevented me from using the sure-fire postal
medium to inform my friend asking to be contacted.

Similar lapses of concentration afflicted my entire six weeks' stay in
Bombay. It was almost as if I was in some other plane watching all these
people scurrying past rushing in response to some hidden master. Of course,
once they on board that lifeline of Bombay - the local train - somehow, they
became quite calm. Groups were formed with a briefcase acting as a card table,
a rubber band(!) to restrain the cards on the table and hold the folded hands.
Even groups not fortunate enough to corner seats the ritual was carried on
with casual ease - minus the briefcase. In most cases, there were six players
with maybe a couple of kibitzers ostensibly familiar with the group.
Occasionally, I was lucky enough to see the ritual come to a conclusion -
with actual money exchanging hands. Even though I should have been familiar
enough with all these events to have paid scant attention, I found myself
riveted to the proceeding to the point of forgetting where it was that I
was headed.

I was headed of course to that joint where p-b lovers' ghosts hover
if Kannan's words are to be believed, namely, Cannon. On the first couple
of instances I approached this venerable place, I was accompanied by an
overprotective host who wouldn't think of letting me partake of the
pav-bhaji nonpareil. So, I ended up consuming some second-rate offering
served by Vitthal Bhelpuri - minus a queue, which should have told us
of their declining quality. The next time I ended up chickening out
at the last minute and asking for less 'hotness' at some other joint
near Opera House. Finally, I gathered up the courage - after 4 weeks
in Bombay I thought I could afford to take a chance although armed 
with my water-bottle, being under strict orders from my doctor
about not drinking anything but boiled water - to head towards VT
on my own and attempt the famous Cannon pav-bhaji.

[to be continued, hopefully.]

Sthan.
--
   The opinions expressed are not necessarily those of the University of
     North Carolina at Chapel Hill, the Campus Office for Information
        Technology, or the Experimental Bulletin Board Service.
           internet:  laUNChpad.unc.edu or 152.2.22.80
Newsgroups: soc.culture.indian