Category: Chennai

Down Memory Lane #4: First Interaction in New School

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“Are you a new student?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Which section?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s your name?”

“Yogesh. And what’s your name?”

“Vinci Raj. N.C. Vinci Raj.”

“Can you repeat the name once again?”

“Vinci Raj. N.C. Vinci Raj.”

I had a hard time getting the name. For a moment I thought it was Linci Raj. But one of the other boys called him as, “Vinci.” So, it’s Vinci Rraj. Very different name compared to the Raja, Ram, Ramesh, etc. that were very common in those days.

This was my interaction on the first day at my new school standing in the assembly area in June 1994. My family had recently relocated back to Chennai. And I had joined Boston Matriculation School in Nandanam, Chennai or Madras as it was called then.

The ground where we had assembled was rectangular in shape with two buildings on either side (I would get to know in a few minutes that the one on the left is primary block and the one on the right is secondary block). The ground was covered in sand, resembled a football field but neither had the length or breadth to be a proper football field.   

One the far side, there was a room (P T Room) and there was a shed for school bus adjoining the room. Beyond them there was garden spanning the entire breadth covering the ground and both the buildings. The grass in the garden was patchy, almost like hair on a bald guy’s head. But there were a number of coconut trees and a few neem trees providing ample shade. On the far side of the garden, there was a huge compound wall protecting the ground and the school from the Adyar River.

Smack in the middle of the ground floor of the secondary block I was able to see a mike. A bunch of students with a Shruthi box and a couple of teachers had gathered around the mike. The entire school assembled in the ground standing as per classes facing the mike.

“Is he a new student?” one of the boys asked Vinci Raj pointing to me.

“Yes. His name is Yogesh,” He replied.

The voice of the PT master started the prayer session in earnest. In this school they didn’t call it prayer session, it was called Bhajan session. After a few announcements, the P T master handed over the mike to the principal. After a few instructions, the principal handed over the mike to students standing with the Shruthi box.

They started singing and everyone started singing along with them. Probably, I was the only one who was not singing. The Bhajans were sung in three languages – Tamil, Sanskrit and English. The English songs were sung by an Anglo-Indian teacher. I would take me a few weeks to learn those songs.

Post the assembly, the students had to go to their classes. It was the first day of school. But the students were walking towards their classes with the same enthusiasm of Goat that were being taken on a Bakrid procession. It took forever for the turn of 9th standard students to march towards our classrooms.

We marched or rather strolled to reach the 2nd floor. I was surprised when all of us were made to sit outside our classrooms. Mrs. Chithra, one of the senior-most teachers was in charge of allocating sections. When it was my turn, she asked for my admission card.

“What’s your second language?” she asked as she was looking at my admission card.

‘Tamil Miss,” I replied.

She turned to the teacher standing next to her and said, “Let’s put him in 9B. There are already too many students in 9A.” The teacher noted down my name on the students list that she was holding. Within a few minutes the students allocation process was over. There were a couple of others who joined the school that year like me.

Once the process was over, the teachers asked us to go to our respective classes. Without much commotion the students were entering the classrooms. I was the last to enter. I looked around as I entered the room.

In a room full of strangers, I could recognize one person. Vinci Raj, N.C. Vinci Raj.

Note: True to the name that he shares with Leonardo Da Vinci, Vinci Raj went on to embrace his artistic side. He is creative director, has made a number of short films and has even given a TEDx talk. He has won a number of awards for his creations. You can check his portfolio here.

This is the fourth post in the series, ‘From Chennai to Madras Down the Memory Lane’

1st post in the series: A Friend’s House

2nd post in the series: Sharing Slivers of Joy

3rd post in the series: The Audience Laughed when Jacked Died of Hypothermia

Down Memory Lane #3 – The Audience Laughed when Jacked Died of Hypothermia

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I was in high school when the movie Titanic was released. A bunch of us in school decided to go and watch the movie as the movie had a sensational hit across the world and Kate Winslet became a sensational hit amongst us.

In those pre-internet days, to reserve a movie ticket one had to go in-person to the theatre a few days before the day of the show, wait in queue and book the ticket. Then the person has to come back on the day of the movie show and watch the movie. So, two trips to make sure that you get to watch the movie.

My friend Venkat, his brother, a classmate of ours and I went to went to Devi Theatre complex on Mount Road to watch the movie. Since the movie had been theatre for a few weeks by then, we thought we should be able to get the tickets at the counter itself if we go a couple of hours prior to the show.

Turned out that our collective instinct was wrong. We saw houseful board at the counter when we reached the theatre. But we managed to buy tickets from one of the guys who was selling the tickets with a markup. Only two of tickets were for seats adjacent to each other. The other two were scattered in random corners in the theatre. Too bad. But in those days, it was considered better than going home without watching the movie.

Devi Complex had four theatres: Devi, Devi Bala, Devi Kala and Devi Paradise. We got tickets for the Titanic movie at Devi, the biggest and grandest of the four theatres. Incidentally the movie Titanic ran for 365 days in Devi theatre.     

Devi theatre was one of India’s first theatres to install Dolby audio. In those days Devi Complex competed with Satyam Cinemas for the best multiplex in Chennai. Alas, Satyam won the battle in subsequent years because of tasty popcorn!

Devi theatre is a large movie hall by today’s multiplex movie hall standards. All the movie classes in the theatre were in the same level. It was one large movie hall – end to end.

We settled down in our seats right on time for the movie to start. The grandeur of the onscreen Titanic ship mesmerized me. The beauty and charm of Kate Winslet as Rose eclipsed even the grandeur of the Titanic. And Leonardo Di Caprio as Jack unnecessarily tagged along with Rose throughout the movie.     

The plot moved seamlessly towards the tragedy of the sinking of the Titanic due to the collision with an iceberg. Everyone in the theatre was hooked to the screen. Then the heart wrenching scene slowly unfolded. To save Rose from drowning, Jack decides to stay in the cold Atlantic waters. As a result, Jack dies of Hypothermia. Rose if heartbroken on realizing that Jack is dead.

You could sense the collective sadness in the movie hall. At this very juncture, I heard the voice of my classmate saying, ‘Jack Illana Yenna Ma, Naan Iruken Unaku.’ (Translation: What if Jack is no more; I am there for you). A tsunami of laughter swept through the entire movie hall! Even after the laughter died down, the humor vibe still lingered in the air.

And so, an off-the-cuff remark by a mischievous teenager evoked an anti-climatic response from the audience for the most iconic scene from a movie that went on to win 11 Oscars and made more than $1 Billion in box-office collections. In that moment, my classmate became the David who vanquished James Cameroon, the Goliath with a verbal pebble.

This is the third post in the series, ‘From Chennai to Madras Down the Memory Lane’

1st post in the series: A Friend’s House

2nd post in the series: Sharing Slivers of Joy

4th post in the series: First Interaction in New School

Down Memory Lane #2 – Sharing Slivers of Joy

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“You can say hi. I am not going to grab your cream bun and run away,” my classmate from French class uttered these words as she was walking past our group on Chamiers Road.

No sooner than she finished this sentence, all my friends started laughing boisterously. As if taking their cue, the guy who was manning the bakery counter also started laughing out loudly.

I did not know how to react. There was no place for me to hide. The only thought that came to my mind was, “Three of her Computer Science classmates are also here. Why on earth did she target me?”

Every group of friends would have a place where they would assemble after school, college, gym session, etc. to chit chat, make fun of each other and simply while away time.

For my group at Boston Matriculation School, it was a bakery on Chamiers Road just beside the bus stand, at a couple of minutes walking distance from our school. There was also a pharmacy adjacent to the bakery.

My friends Pramod, Vishnu & Nambi from Computer Science group as well as Venkat, Palani and myself from Biology group would assemble at the bakery after school with amazing regularity. There were days in which a couple of other batchmates would also join us. Since we went there so often the person manning the counter at bakery, who was in his mid-twenties, also became a part of our gang.

We would turn any conversation into an opportunity to laugh at each other. We would tease each other, pass comments about the incidents from the day and so on.

Those were the days of limited means. We would pool the money that we had and buy one or two cream buns depending upon the group size on that particular day. The guy in the bakery would usually cut a cream bun into three pieces. But, for us he would accommodate as many pieces necessary so that all of us would get a piece each.

On most of the days each of us would get a piece of cream bun hardly the size of a thumb. But that did not stop us from having a good time. Going to the bakery after school became a ritual for us. The day would be incomplete without going to that bakery and teasing each other.

Apart from cutting the cream bun into ever smaller pieces, the other skill the bakery guy had was to add fuel to the fire for whatever conversation that we were having. Mostly he would hang around us with an innocent look on his face; it would look like he was attending to other customers and was hardly paying any attention to our conversations.

But he had an amazing knack for eavesdropping and even more amazing knack for timing. He would join our conversations at any crucial juncture and pass a comment, hardly a sentence or two, or a question. And that would make the bad situation worse for whoever was the butt of the joke at that moment. With his mission accomplished he would laugh out louder than any of us and then go back to attending the bakery.

Even though all of us used to talk with girls in our batch, those conversations would begin and end inside our school campus. That being the 90s, people would roll their eyes or even offer a look of contempt if they spot a boy and girl having conversation. People had a very severe hangover of Tamil cinemas and had erected an invisible social wall between boys and girls.

On that particular day, we were at the bakery. We were facing the road while eating and chatting. We spotted our classmate walking towards us. Wanting to avoid any awkward question or comment from our baker friend we decided to avoid any conversation with her and turned towards the bakery counter in unison. But I guess I was a little slow in turning and that probably would have made it very obvious to her that I was trying to avoid looking at her. So, she shot back with her critical observation/ comment. Thankfully that episode ended with just laughter and no follow-up questions from our baker friend.       

During our entire 11th & 12th standards we regularly assembled at the bakery after school. Strangely today, I neither remember the name of the bakery or the name of the person who used to be an extended part of our gang. We hardly saw him after completing our school. The bakery closed down a few months after we left school and the pharmacy closed down a couple of years later.

Today the bus stand still exists almost at the same spot where it used to be. The place where the bakery stood and where we used to stand and chat still remains dilapidated nearly 25 years later. It’s so strange to think that the place which used to be our chit-chat spot for more than two years has vanished without a trace. All I am left with are the memories of the good times that we, a bunch of carefree teens had there.

This is the second post in the series, ‘From Chennai to Madras Down the Memory Lane’

1st post in the series: A Friend’s House

3rd post in the series: The Audience Laughed when Jacked Died of Hypothermia

4th post in the series: First Interaction in New School

Agonizing over a cast – painting our own rainbow

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The first day my son saw me with the cast on my leg, he asked me if he could draw on it. I said he can do it later. I was not sure if I was going to have the cast, so I did not allow him to draw.

But on the evening of the penultimate day on which I was supposed to have the cast removed, I asked my son, “Do you want to draw on my cast?”

“Yes,” he ran out of the room as he was replying. He came back with his sketch pen set, sat near my leg, and started drawing on the cast. The first one he drew was a skull similar to the ones we see in danger symbols.

I looked at him. “Dei, I have a fracture, and you are drawing a skull on the cast.”

In response he looked at me with the most mischievous smile that an eight-year-old could come up with.

He continued to draw—a crescent, a star, a candy, and a two-tiered birthday cake with a candle on top of it. Then he looked at me and said, “I am done.”

“Go and call your sister.”

When she came in, I asked her, “Do you want to draw?”

With a smile she started drawing cute Japanese doodles. In between she asked if I had a wish list. I asked her to bring the book ‘How to Draw Almost Every Day’ from the bookshelf.

I flipped through the book and pointed to doodles one after another. She drew for about an hour. I ended up with 24 doodles on my cast. I even published a blog post with a photo of my cast with the doodles as well as a haiku about it.

When I was listening to my wife convey the doctor’s message about a week ago, it was a hopeless situation. If anyone had told me that day that I would manage to retain the cast for the entire duration of eight days, I would have mocked them. But I did manage to retain the cast for the eight days that the doctor had advised.

This stage is only the first and most important phase in the six-plus weeks required for recovery. There are still so many ifs and buts. But I am hopeful of the best outcome.

So, what are the lessons that I learned from my inner battle?

  • Our long-term mental resolve is much better than what we assume it to be in the immediate aftermath of an adversity.
  • The mind is like a parachute. If we want to make a situation work, we will be able to gather the resolve to make it work.
  • More than the physical ailment, it is the lack of control over one’s own situation that hurts the most. So, always focus on what is under our control and take solace from it.
  • Seek out inspiration from a source appropriate for the situation, even if it is someone much younger than you.
  • Do not let a good crisis go to waste. Use it as an opportunity for self-discovery. You will be in for a surprise.
  • Lean into your bonds. Laugh or smile at whatever sliver of the situation that deserves a laugh or smile.
  • Tap into the collective wisdom of humanity for help.
    • I heard about the story about God Murugan and the Tamil sayings from my grandmother when I was a toddler nearly forty years ago.
    • I heard the “mind is like a parachute” quote from my B-school professor nearly twenty years ago.
    • Nearly ten years ago I came to know about a) the Marshmallow Test conducted on American children by b) an Austrian-born psychologist from c) an Irish professor working in a B-school in Spain, d) from his talk at TED Talks, a forum started by an American and a Britisher via e) YouTube, a technology platform started by an American, a German, and a Taiwanese.

This essay is part 5 of the 5-part personal essay series – Agonizing over a cast

Part 1: https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/05/agonizing-over-a-cast-the-crybaby/

Part 2: https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/21/agonizing-over-a-cast-the-bad-news/

Part 3: https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/22/agonizing-over-a-cast-conjuring-up-scenarios/

Part 4: https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/23/agonizing-over-a-cast-the-zen-master-in-the-house/

Agonizing over a cast – the Zen Master in the house

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There is an episode in Hindu mythology in which God Murugan, being a cosmic child, would teach Pranava Mandhiram to his dad, God Shiva—one of the trinity of gods in Hinduism. Because he taught his dad, God Murugan got the title of ‘Thanthaiku Mandhiram Sonnavan’ (translation: The one who taught the sacred hymn to his dad).

With every passing hour of my battle with the itching sensations, I had a profound sense of respect for my son, similar to the reverence that a disciple would have for a Zen master. Maybe kids have an inherent optimism and chirpiness that guard them against such adversaries. That’s something that could not be matched by worn-out souls of forty-somethings. Nonetheless, I decided to use my son’s resolve as an inspiration. If he can manage to have a cast for seven weeks, I can at least try and manage for a week.

Somewhere in between all my ruminations, an insight hit me—I am facing my own version of the Marshmallow Test with a twist. Do I want to endure a lesser pain (cast) in the short term, or do I want to endure more severe pain (two possible surgeries and casts) in the long run?

I first heard about the Marshmallow Test in the TED talk ‘The Discipline of Finishing’ by Conor Neill. ‘The Marshmallow Study,’ or ‘The Marshmallow Test,’ is one of the most famous psychological studies of the second half of the twentieth century. This study was carried out between the late 1960s and early 1970s at Stanford University and was headed by a distinguished professor by the name of Walter Mischel. The key finding of the study is that the ability to delay gratification (self-discipline) in kids, more than intelligence, is a much better predictor of future success.

Once I realized that my situation was a version of the Marshmallow Test, which pain I needed to endure became clear to me. It’s relatively easy to have a moment of realization but very difficult to consistently act based on that insight. The short-term pains, like the real or imagined itching sensation on my left leg, are very concrete. They are effective in drawing our attention towards them. In contrast, long-term pains or gains are very vague, like a daydream. So, I used a combination of insights to come up with my coping mechanism.

In his TED talk, Conor Neil spoke about endurance high-performance athletes. They only worry about the immediate challenge in front of them—sometimes just about one step at a time. I decided not to think about the remaining five days before my next visit to the doctor. I decided not to think about an entire day, not an hour, not even a minute ahead. I decided that I will focus on what I will do when the itching sensation hits.

One of the key insights from the Marshmallow Test is that distraction is an effective strategy when faced with an immediate temptation. Kids who were able to succeed in the Marshmallow Test were able to come up with multiple ways to distract themselves from looking at the short-term temptation or prize in front of them. Whenever the itching sensation hit, I tried to distract my mind. I was mostly successful. We usually consider distraction to be a bane. But, without the ability to get distracted from adversities and bad luck, we would be constantly ruminating about them and pretty soon end up as a nervous wreck.

The human mind is very resilient and tends to cope very well with adversities. After a couple of days, there were only fewer instances of itching sensations and the urge to scratch. I also noticed that mostly the itching sensation subsided after a few seconds even if I didn’t scratch.

In addition, the grip of the cast also loosened in a couple of days. This reduced the episodes of itching sensations further. In fact, the grip loosened so much that I had to see the doctor a couple of days ahead of schedule, as I was worried that the cast was no more effective. The doctor mentioned that it was normal for the cast to become loose with each passing day. He tightened the cast by tying a gauze cloth around it. I felt uncomfortable for the rest of the day but was pretty much unbothered from the next day. I am reminded about a comment by one of my professors during MBA days: “The mind is like a parachute. It works only when it is open.” Once I decided that I wanted to have the cast for the entire duration that the doctor prescribed it, I was able to come up with coping mechanisms against the discomfort of the cast. I did not stand in the way of my well-being.

This essay is part 4 of the 5-part personal essay series – Agonizing over a cast

Part 1: https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/05/agonizing-over-a-cast-the-crybaby/

Part 2: https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/21/agonizing-over-a-cast-the-bad-news/

Part 3: https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/22/agonizing-over-a-cast-conjuring-up-scenarios/

Part 5:  https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/24/agonizing-over-a-cast-painting-our-own-rainbow/

Agonizing over a cast – conjuring up scenarios

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There are a couple of Tamil sayings that I’ve got to implement over the next few days:

  • Vallavanukku Pullum Ayudham

Translations: A capable man will turn even a grass into a weapon.

  • Siru Thurumbu Pal Kutha Udhavum

Translation: Even a small splinter can be useful as a toothpick.  

I became a samurai warrior fighting against the itching sensations that my mind started throwing at me. My armory consisted of two plastic scales (one flexible and another non-flexible) and a comb. The comb was part of a gift set given to my daughter by one of my sisters a couple of months ago. When I had a first glimpse of this comb, I thought to myself, ‘What a weird-looking comb. Which idiot has designed it?”

After the usefulness of its pointed tip in getting through my cast and helping me to scratch the itches, I would say he or she is a genius. My soul wants to stand on top of the Eiffel Tower and declare to the world, “The designer of the comb deserves an iF Design Award and a Red Dot Design Award.”  If I came across the designer today, I would even kiss his or her hand with the same reverence that underlings had for Don Corleone in The Godfather.

Once I heard a comment in a documentary, “The best of our dreams and the worst of our nightmares never come true.”

After getting the cast on my feet, there was one scenario that I used to ruminate endlessly. What if a mosquito enters into my cast with the precision of a Japanese Kamikaze pilot conducting his bombing sorties? Once inside the cast, what if the mosquito sips my blood with the sophisticated pleasure of James Bond sipping his martini? And in response I would be agonizing over the unfairness of life like an indentured laborer in one of the 19th-century British colonies. Luckily for me, this phantom of my imagination did not come true.

And whenever I would reach out inside the cast with a scale or comb to scratch, the Shastri and Manjrekar in my house would come uninvited for a pitch report, sans the mikes.

One of them: “You are ruining the structural integrity of the cast.”

My mind voice: “This is a cast. Not the RMS Titanic.”

One of them: “The doctor is going to scold you for messing with his creation.” My mind voice: “He is not my father-in-law, and this cast is not his daughter.”

This essay is part 3 of the 5-part personal essay series – Agonizing over a cast

Part 1: https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/05/agonizing-over-a-cast-the-crybaby/

Part 2: https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/21/agonizing-over-a-cast-the-bad-news/

Part 4: https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/23/agonizing-over-a-cast-the-zen-master-in-the-house/

Part 5:  https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/24/agonizing-over-a-cast-painting-our-own-rainbow/

Agonizing over a cast – the bad news

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So how did this start?

Tuesday – 23, September:

Around 8 PM, I was taking the washed and dried clothes lying on the bed to the sofa in the living room. I had placed one bunch of clothes on the sofa and was coming back for the remaining clothes.

I was walking into the bedroom in an absent-minded way that only middle-aged Indian uncles can do when they reluctantly do household chores. I have a tendency to walk fast from time to time. This time I was walking fast in an absent-minded way towards the narrow passage between the steel bero (almirah) and wooden cot in our bedroom. As I was taking the first step into the passage, my left foot hit one of the two large wooden blocks supporting the weight of the cot. The edge of the smallest toe and the one immediately preceding it on my left foot.  

Within a split second, the impact transmitted a shooting pain to my brain. My vocal cords involuntarily made an acoustic projection of a painful scream. I managed to sit down on the bed with tightly clenched fists and my upper and lower rows of teeth in airtight formation.

On hearing me scream, my wife, who was on a call, cut the call and asked me, ‘Are you ok?’ I did not answer her immediately. My mind was quickly scanning through its database of painful memories. Being housed within a body that had endured 45 years of life of falling down, getting hit with cricket balls, more falling, bumping against walls, furniture, etc., it could quickly recognize that this one didn’t have an equivalent entry.

“I think I have fractured my toe,” I blurted out.

Once the pain receded a little bit, I placed both my feet side by side. The smaller toe on the left foot had moved outward compared to the little toe on my right foot.

“Not good… not good,” I said to myself. 

I tried to lift all the toes on my left foot. I was able to lift them despite the pain.

“Ah, good,” with a sigh of relief.

As we started discussing if we needed to see a doctor, the little toe on my left foot started swelling like a thin sheet of damp maida dropped into boiling oil.

“Oh no… oh no… oh no, no, no.”

We decided to go to the Ortho clinic in Mandaveli. It was around 8:30 PM, but the clinic was not far from our house. When we reached the clinic, they were already closing it for the day. The assistant opened the door to the doctor’s room. He was about to leave, but we caught him in the nick of time.

The doctor made me sit on a long wooden bench. He asked me to lift all my toes. Then he pressed the injured too. There was so much pain, I started to shout.

“The toe is fractured. But it’s swollen, and there are so many blood clots around it. It’s not a good idea to put a plaster around the toe or a cast around the leg now. I will prescribe you some tablets. Come back on Thursday evening with an X-ray of the left foot. I will put a plaster around the toe and a cast for the left foot,” the doctor delivered the bad news in an ambivalent manner.

As he was busy prescribing medicine, I tried to indulge in oodles of self-pity.

“Be thankful that the toe did not get dislocated. Otherwise, you would need a surgery right away. This will heal in about six to eight weeks,” the doctor tried to console me with his expert advice. Yes, it was comforting to hear his opinion, but in a very darkly comic way.

After buying the medicines, we got into an auto to go home. On the way we spotted a lab still open. We went in to get the X-ray taken. One look at the X-ray, the technician said, “It’s a hairline fracture. But it should heal in six to eight weeks.” 

I looked at the X-ray. The crack looked deeper and much more visible compared to the one on my son’s X-ray from January.

On reaching home, we decided to cheer up the damp evening with burrito bowls for us. The thought of my fractured toe and the possibility of a cast around my left foot made the Barbeque Paneer Burrito bowl taste like Rava Upma.

This essay is part 2 of the 5-part personal essay series – Agonizing over a cast

Part 1: https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/05/agonizing-over-a-cast-the-crybaby/

Part 3: https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/22/agonizing-over-a-cast-conjuring-up-scenarios/

Part 4: https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/23/agonizing-over-a-cast-the-zen-master-in-the-house/

Part 5:  https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/24/agonizing-over-a-cast-painting-our-own-rainbow/

Agonizing over a cast – the crybaby

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Friday – 26, September 2025:

“I don’t think I will be able to have it for eight days. Can you go and ask him if he can remove the cast and just put a plaster around the toe?” I asked my wife while sitting on a metal chair in the waiting area of the ortho clinic.

“It’s not a good idea. You need to have it for the broken bone to heal,” my wife replied.

“I don’t think I will be able to have it. Can you please go and ask him?” I asked in a tone that combined both desperation and frustration.

Reluctantly my wife went into the doctor’s room to check with him.

It started raining heavily as I waited for my wife to come out. I could hardly think about anything apart from the multitude of sensations originating from beneath the wet cast on my left leg.

There were three other groups of people in the waiting area besides me. There was a college student who had come along with his mother. He had a pink-colored bandage wrapped around one of his feet.

There was an elderly woman who struggled very hard to even climb the two steps leading up to the clinic. A younger woman was with her.

There was a third group of several people. It was hard to tell who was the patient in that group. The group were very animated, talking among themselves as well as moving from one part of the waiting area to another.

After a few minutes a middle-aged woman and her adolescent son, who were completely drenched, came into the waiting area and sat in the chairs facing me.

The door to the doctor’s room opened, and my wife came out. She came and sat next to me and started, “He said that the crack is slightly deeper. If you don’t have the cast, the toe won’t heal. And then you might need two surgeries—one to keep the wire for the fracture to heal and one to remove the wire after it has healed. He has prescribed a tablet to reduce the itching sensation. I think you will have to retain the cast for eight days. It is for your good only.” My wife had the look of a Nazi general delivering the terrible news to Adolf Hitler.

A sense of defeat clouded over my mind. The rain was still in full swing. The college student was getting restless. He wanted to go home. His mom pointed out that it was still raining heavily and they could not go on their two-wheeler in that downpour.

In a few minutes, the downpour reduced to a slight drizzle. My wife and his mom went to the nearby pharmacy to buy medicines. He got lost with his phone.

‘What happened?” I asked him.

“I broke my foot while playing football in college,” he replied cooly.

“How long did you have your cast?”

“I had two casts for a total of thirty days,” he responded with a triumphant tone of an adolescent who had just completed his rites to passage into adulthood.

I looked at him but did not follow-up with another question. He continued to look at me briefly and then retreated into his digital world. I went back to languishing in mental agony.

After a few minutes his mom came back with the medicines. He started walking towards the gate. In a few minutes I heard the retreating sound of a scooter.

My wife came back in an auto. She came back and wrapped a carry bag around the cast. We got into the auto to go home.

That night I could not think of anything else other than the discomfort caused by the dampness from the cast seeping onto my skin. I watched stand-up comedy on YouTube for a long time. But none of the jokes were as effective as the dampness from the cast.

Sunday – 28, September 2025:

I asked my wife to check if the ortho clinic is open so that we can go and remove the cast. She called the three numbers printed on the prescription sheet multiple times. No answer.

I then asked her to call her former physiotherapist. She dialled and started, “Hello, Mam…” The conversation continued back and forth for nearly twenty minutes. The conversation sounded more like their catch-up call.

When my wife finally placed her mobile down, I looked at her.

“She said that she won’t come and remove the cast.”

“Did you ask her if I can remove the cast myself?”

“She mentioned that if you don’t plan to go to that doctor again, then you can remove it on your own.”

“So, what should we do now?”

“Why don’t you try and manage until tomorrow? We can go to the clinic tomorrow and get the cast removed.”

As we were talking, my mom walked into our room to inquire about the conversation with the physiotherapist. My wife went on repeat mode. She explained the situation to her.

“A small child had a cast for so many weeks. He can’t even manage for two days,” my mom commented with the disgusted tone of a math teacher reprimanding her student who can’t recall Pythagoras’ theorem.

My mind voice: “Thanks, Mom. That was so helpful.”

She was referring to my son. In January my son fell from his cycle and incurred a hairline fracture in his right elbow. He had a cast for SEVEN LONG WEEKS.

They both looked at me with the same disappointed look of Sanjay Manjrekar and Ravi Shastri reviewing the dismal performance of Indian batsmen in the fourth innings of a WACA test match.

As I did not respond, they decided to entertain themselves with their own mother-in-law versus daughter-in-law verbal volleys.

My mom lobbed first, “I took care of my son without any major injury for so many years. See what has happened under your able reign.”

My wife smashed a backhanded return, “My son had a cast on his hand for seven weeks without any complaints. Your son can’t handle the cast for two days. Your son is such a crybaby.”

They both argued with the same animosity of an elderly couple reluctantly working out a schedule of taking their pet dog for morning walks.

My mind voice: “Enna vachu comedy kemady pannalaye?” (Rough translation: Are you guys using me as a prop for your comedy show?)

This essay is part 1 of the 5-part personal essay series – Agonizing over a cast

Part 2: https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/21/agonizing-over-a-cast-the-bad-news/

Part 3: https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/22/agonizing-over-a-cast-conjuring-up-scenarios/

Part 4: https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/23/agonizing-over-a-cast-the-zen-master-in-the-house/

Part 5:  https://yogesvr.xyz/2025/10/24/agonizing-over-a-cast-painting-our-own-rainbow/

The Crow, The Fox and Grandma’s Vadai

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A mural on the outer wall of Kaylir Canteen depicted “Paati Vadai Sutta Kadhai” – a classic short story for the kids. This is probably one of the first stories that I had heard as a kid apart from stories from Ramayana & Mahabharata.

Apparently, this story is adapted from the Aesop’s fables. You can read the story here. Looks like this is a popular kid’s story (with minor variations) in multiple countries including India, Afghanistan, Iran and Greece.

The mural depicts a slight variation of the story with the grandma feeding her vadai to a crow and the fox having an excess vadai problem. Wonder what advise Dr. Pal Manickam would offer the fox.

One of the blogs that I landed on while searching for this story, made the following observation: “Whenever they say a single old women in a story, they make sure that she looks like a widow!!! Most of the animations / illustrations depict single old women in white saree without pottu (red dot on the forehead) and without flowers on her hair. In olden days widows were not allowed to wear colorful cloths, nor allowed to wear pottu, bangles and flowers! Even though am not exactly encouraging to wear pottu, bangles, flowers…etc! Here, as a feminist it is important for me to address this!“

After reading this observation, I went and looked at the photo of the mural once again. Sure enough, the woman is of a slightly older age, she is wearing a white saree, doesn’t have pottu in her forehead and doesn’t have flowers on her hair. It’s amazing to note that even a story meant for kids could end up passing along stereotypes through it. With all the jewels that the woman is wearing, could it be that it’s a woman from Kerala (women in Kerala wear half-white sarees in golden zari border for festive occasions)?

Wonder what changes this story would undergo in the years to come. Would it be a granddad or a dad making vadais? And if such a change is incorporated would some sections of the population find the story too woke?

As for me, I was happy to find one of the beloved stories from my childhood depicted as a mural.

Location: CIT Colony, Chennai

Date: 12th September 2025