Short ‘N’ Snappy

The white man’s burden

Those who know The Man from Madras Musings are aware that he is something of a sociable man – he flits through several social organisations in the city – ranging from mouldy old literary societies filled with books, a musical Mecca, a club dedicated to sports, another whose staff is perpetually on strike and a third that is most upmarket where the crème de la crème of Madras society congregate on the verandah after a hard day’s work.

The last named, a throwback to the crusty old days of the British raj, has several dress regulations for its members and guests. MMM has long lost track of what is to be worn in which part of this Club, but he generally conforms to them all by the simple expedient of wearing as many clothes as possible when he visits, with a couple more add-ons tucked away in the car, just in case. In this context he would also like to add that women are not subject to as many restrictions – they are merely expected to be decorously attired.

Unlike several in authority, MMM is all for dress regulations. He feels that they bring a certain standard to institutions and need to be kept up. He therefore makes sure that all guests are kept informed well in advance about what they are expected to wear at this club.

Recently, MMM was away travelling and his good lady, also known as She Who Must Be Obeyed, received a call from a friend. A group of visitors had come from the UK, said the caller, and being rather keen on seeing restored heritage buildings, would like to visit the Club. Could MMM take them to tea there? The good lady offered to stand in and then having read out chapter and verse about dress regulations asked the friend to inform the guests. What the caller told the visitors is not known to MMM and good lady, but when the group landed at the club it was shockingly underdressed. According to MMM’s good lady, beachwear would have been the most appropriate term to describe what they were clad in.

When she informed the friend and the visitors that there was no way she was going to get them entry into the club premises, she was astounded to see that the group’s escort, an Indian, was of the view that these being Englishmen were above such regulations and if any of the staff raised an objection, the colour of the skin would definitely ensure that they were let off. MMM’s good lady who thought otherwise decided that the best option would be to summon the club’s major domo, who despite his slight frame packs enough authority to quell a pride of lions. The official duly arrived and having given the visitors the once over sterally said that they would simply not do and had best make themselves scarce. And that was that. The group beat a retreat, but not before MMM’s good lady had reflected to herself that it was indeed ironic that a set of Britishers were stopped in Tracks by the laws they had themselves once laid down.

But the love for heritage was evidently too powerful a pull. A couple of days later the request was renewed and, this time, MMM being around, he agreed to play host. The team arrived sans escort, dressed as though they were off to a Buckingham Palace garden party. The major domo beamed approvingly and MMM’s good lady officiated at the teapot. Roast lamb sandwiches were had by the visitors and, if MMM recol­lectscorrectly, scones and muffins.

Museum misery

The Chief is forever asking The Man from Madras Musings to visit local museums to broaden his (MMM’s and not the Chief’s) mind. As many of you know, MMM lives by the mantra of Obey – when it comes to the Chief and MMM’s good lady. And, so, finding time hanging heavy when he was travelling down south, MMM decided to visit the local museum.

Arriving at the place it became clear to MMM that this museum would have been better off not being built. The brainchild of a late lamented minister to whom the local language and its furtherance were the only goals in life, it was a single storeyed structure of unsurpassed ugliness, the kind that no creator other than the Public Works Department can come up with. An irregular flight of steps led up to the door and on entering after much tripping and stubbing of toes owing to the non-uniform rises and treads, MMM found himself in pitch darkness. A genie or apparition then made itself manifest and asked MMM rather lugubriously if he would like to see the exhibits. When MMM replied in the affirmative, it sighed and reluctantly switched on the lights to reveal a set of display cabinets with the most humdrum collection possible – stamps of recent vintage, a cupboard ostensibly showcasing history of recorded music by means of a 78 rpm disc and a CD sitting side by side, another bureau with prints (not originals) of Indian currency notes, and, rather curiously, a box that was stuffed with shredded rupees. A recent print of Thomas Munro hung from a wall and next to it was an earlier print of the same.

The apparition that man­ned the place moaned that not many visitors come to the place and so it preferred to keep the lights switched off. To while away its time, this spook filed documents into folders, of which quite a collection was spread on the floor. On the wall was a map showing ‘impotent’ places in what MMM had originally thought was a fertile neigh­bour­hood.

Having wandered hither and thither, MMM came to what appeared to be a hole in the ground. The genie informed him that there was a basement section and asked if MMM would like to see it. Of course MMM said he would, whereupon the ghost said MMM could navigate under his own steam, switch on the lights and see whatever there was to see. And so MMM went. There was more of the usual rubbish and then finally there stood a glass shelf with publications from the museums department of Madras. Among these were several that MMM would have loved to possess and so he called out to the resident ghost if these were for sale. The answer rather reluctantly given out was a ‘yes’ and when MMM said he would like to buy them, the voice declared that MMM would have to tender exact change. To this MMM agreed where upon there was dead ­silence. After a while the voice was back, declaring rather cheerfully that the deal was off as the museum had no receipt books for make out an invoice. MMM said he did not need one.

That dished the ghost. Or so MMM thought. Ten minutes later, the attendant duly arrived with an enormous bag of keys. These were emptied on the floor. There were no tags to identify which key opened which cupboard said the man and, so, he would have to try them all one by one. In the meantime, said the attendant, MMM could feast his eyes on the exhibits. MMM, as Lady Macbeth would have said, stood not upon the order of his going, but went. In short, he fled.

-MMM

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