Of latex chudidhars and flailing hands...

Some guy just moved the high court to ban medical college students from wearing Chudidhars.
And he wasn't talking about the guys.

Welcome to Chennai.

Now, before speculating what insanity prompted a media-person to cover an event of such intangibly minuscule magnitude, led me proceed to reason the reasons behind this waste of a citizen's F evening. Besides, the insanity in question isn't really surprising. After all, he was a Sun TV media-person. They tend to be a bit off in summer. Must be the weather. Usually they're off by a mile.

The first thing that struck my flailing hands was my Dad's nose. But having assured him that I was flailing them for a reason, rather, the reason, and stepping a few arms lengths away, the second thing that struck me was that I was an idiot. Not only to have tuned into a channel tat reminded me why people called TV the idiot box, but to actually recall my 8th std lessons and read the strip that scrolls at a rather brisk pace at the bottom of the screen. Predictably, it required 4 cycles of the strip for me to read the entire thing. An absolute waste of ten minutes that could have been spent counting sheep, whistling or taking a bathroom break, twice.

The third thing that struck me was that the noble citizen in question was probably a miffed cinema-goer. Trisha, a terribly attractive pediatrician (in the movie Sarvam), makes a fashion statement with asphyxiatingly tight chudidhars thro' the entirety of her screen time. A pretty clever comment by your's truly that she was liable to cause more deaths than prevent got more applause than the entire second half and half the first combined. Not too random a comment, considering the Geriatric wing is pretty close to the Toddler area, and an old man's heart cant bear watching a lissome lass like herself walk past in latex chudidhars every now and then.

T'was when I was grappling with this thoroughly confusing problem that another snuck up and got me right on the head. That of course, was Sleep, desirous of my merry company, (But equally could equally likely have been my Mom, sick of the same) and while I seemed to have given him the slip for now, I'd rather not risk him restoring the symmetry of my cranium. It is thus, with some slight difficulty of balance, and tottering like an alchoholic in an earthquake, that I grant you freedom. Ciao!