As you enter Besant Avenue from the Aavin circle in Adyar, a few hundred metres down the road is a sign painted on the side of a building that simply says “Hedonistic High”.
In a city where most signs tend towards the conventional, due to most business owners playing it safe and naming their establishments “Murugan Stores” or “Saravana Juice Centre” or “Balaji Medicals”, a sign that says “Hedonistic High” immediately merits further investigation.
So I excitedly dialled the phone number (which the painter was kind enough to supply on the sign itself) to enquire about the nature of the institution that proudly carried such an excellent and tantalising name. I had already conjured up pictures of an English-medium school where students, staff and owners received rigorous training in the single-minded pursuit of worldly pleasures. I was taken with the idea of an academic institution so dedicated to the values of Hedonism, while most of their contemporaries foolishly chased ideals like academic rigour, frivolous sporting excellence, or thoroughly misplaced approaches to discipline. If I had had children of schoolgoing age, I would have instantly sent them here. Since I don’t, I considered applying for a job — maybe they were looking for a front-office receptionist or admin manager or perhaps an in-house game designer for combat balancing.
Sadly, all this dissolved pretty quickly when my phone call was answered with the dreaded “This number does not exist” in the voice of that airtel lady who sternly admonishes me when my bills are overdue and excitedly announces new plans and features.
Left with nothing to do (I had budgeted some time for an invigorating conversation, perhaps followed by a visit to this potential haven of pleasure-seeking), I wondered about other places with unusual names in my city.
There is, of course, the world-renowned Saddam Hussein bedding mart in R.A. Puram, which I used to regularly drive past in the late 90s, often idly wondering if the proprietor named it after the former Iraqi dictator, or after himself (since he shared his name with the former Iraqi dictator), or, improbably, after some other completely unrelated person named Saddam Hussein. The question “Why would anyone name something after a dictator known for his brutal regime?” never once crossed my mind, possibly because the lock to the front gate in my home proudly bears the trademark “HITLER”, and I personally have friends named Lenin and Stalin.
Then there’s the apartment building with the impossibly charming and elaborate name N.M. Ramachandran’s Golden Primrose. I want to move in there just so I can have that as my address, and feed the envy of friends who live in places unimaginatively called KRN Apartments or Akshaya Adora or Casagrand White Oak.
I’ve also spent decades wondering about what on earth an “SMV Radium’s Ixm” is (I still don’t know, though I subsequently did find out what Ixm is); been delighted by the air-conditioning and fridge service centre called “Re-Jillers” (Not making this up); and mildly shuddering every time I drive past “Pedo Planet” (shouldn’t somebody tell them?).
There are people who think names don’t make much difference. Shakespeare might have tried saying “An N.M.Ramachandran’s Golden Primrose by any other name would be just as centrally located, with access to shopping, public transport and medical facilities”, but even he would have to admit that this doesn’t quite ring true. I’m quite sure Tovino Thomas would not be nearly as alluring if he was called Anil Kumar or G.R. Suresh or R. Anand.
To the untrained eye, a walk through Chennai’s streets can appear boring, thanks to the previously mentioned Murugan-Balaji-Saravana hegemony. But for those who care to look a little carefully, there’s always a hedonistic high around the corner.
The Chennai-based writer and game designer likes playing games with his writing.
